Dear Christian
On December 20, 1978, an alien vessel landed in some rice paddies on the outskirts of Jakarta, Indonesia. Inside the vessel was a little baby boy — the sole survivor of a faraway planet torn by war, famine, pestilence and death. On Earth, the boy was adopted into a loving Catholic family who raised him, out of the public eye, to become a mild-mannered reporter, and then later a blog writer and try-hard designer, after briefly flirting with psychology. On his 24th birthday, the boy will develop incredible superpowers — flight, super-strength etc.
Or maybe that’ll come with your 25th birthday.
Or maybe even your 26th.
Well, it’ll come eventually. Just keep waiting…
Happy birthday dude!
Your imaginary imaginary friend,
Sleepwalker
PS. I got a picture sms this morning and I must confess that I accidently deleted it without finding out who it was from... well whoever that was... thanks :)
Friday, December 20, 2002
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
Birthday blues
There’s an alarm clock by my bed that no longer tells me the right time. It just goes tick tick tick and the monotony of it probably helps put me to sleep every night. And it’s been like this for the past two years. Last year, my Swatch watch that I had been wearing since I was in year 11 died on me. I loved that watch. And so I bought myself a new watch. But I lost that. And to be honest, I haven’t really bothered to look for it. Or buy a new one.
I guess I’ve been trying to tell myself that I don’t really want to know the time anymore.
A week before my 24th birthday, and I’m in teenybopper heaven watching four gay dancing boys wiggling their butts to Liberty X. It tells me that I got back to my seat way too early. I should’ve stayed outside and had the rest of my scalp sprayed blue.
But I am at Rumba. So I guess I might as well take everything in… and all the unearthly delights it has to offer.
The line-up isn’t as impressive as last year. Bachelor Girl headlines a mostly pre-recorded first half that features IIO, DJ Sammy, Sophie Monk and Abs, who plays a magical keyboard that continues to play itself even after he stops playing. Sophie, at least, had other things to offer.
Selwyn’s actually OK. Australia’s little king of try-hard RnB comes on with his posse of other ‘I’ve-never-lived-in-American-ghettos-but-I-act-like-I-do’ boys and actually does a decent job of working the crowd with lines like ‘When I say SEL, you say WYN! SEL-WYN! SEL-WYN!’
Ironically, the acts which I end up enjoying the most are the ones that didn’t even make it to the main stage. Brooke McClymont and David Franj are two names that I will no doubt be looking out for at the record shops in the near future.
But back to the main stage, the latter half of the program improves a lot in terms of quality of performance and crowd atmosphere. While Taxiride is only so-so and looks like they wish they were headlining the Big Day Out instead of Teenyfest, Pink, Bon Jovi and Shaggy (and to a lesser extent, Natalie Imbruglia) all manage to get the crowd going and put on great shows. But I think it still says something when the only songs I find myself singing along to are Bon Jovi’s old stuff. Like Livin’on a prayer and Bad medicine.
Don’t get me wrong. I had a fun time. But I don’t feel like writing any more about it for the time being. And maybe my time for these things are coming to a close… unless of course Mandy or Avril decide to come next year.
But until then… maybe I’ll buy myself a new watch for my birthday.
There’s an alarm clock by my bed that no longer tells me the right time. It just goes tick tick tick and the monotony of it probably helps put me to sleep every night. And it’s been like this for the past two years. Last year, my Swatch watch that I had been wearing since I was in year 11 died on me. I loved that watch. And so I bought myself a new watch. But I lost that. And to be honest, I haven’t really bothered to look for it. Or buy a new one.
I guess I’ve been trying to tell myself that I don’t really want to know the time anymore.
A week before my 24th birthday, and I’m in teenybopper heaven watching four gay dancing boys wiggling their butts to Liberty X. It tells me that I got back to my seat way too early. I should’ve stayed outside and had the rest of my scalp sprayed blue.
But I am at Rumba. So I guess I might as well take everything in… and all the unearthly delights it has to offer.
The line-up isn’t as impressive as last year. Bachelor Girl headlines a mostly pre-recorded first half that features IIO, DJ Sammy, Sophie Monk and Abs, who plays a magical keyboard that continues to play itself even after he stops playing. Sophie, at least, had other things to offer.
Selwyn’s actually OK. Australia’s little king of try-hard RnB comes on with his posse of other ‘I’ve-never-lived-in-American-ghettos-but-I-act-like-I-do’ boys and actually does a decent job of working the crowd with lines like ‘When I say SEL, you say WYN! SEL-WYN! SEL-WYN!’
Ironically, the acts which I end up enjoying the most are the ones that didn’t even make it to the main stage. Brooke McClymont and David Franj are two names that I will no doubt be looking out for at the record shops in the near future.
But back to the main stage, the latter half of the program improves a lot in terms of quality of performance and crowd atmosphere. While Taxiride is only so-so and looks like they wish they were headlining the Big Day Out instead of Teenyfest, Pink, Bon Jovi and Shaggy (and to a lesser extent, Natalie Imbruglia) all manage to get the crowd going and put on great shows. But I think it still says something when the only songs I find myself singing along to are Bon Jovi’s old stuff. Like Livin’on a prayer and Bad medicine.
Don’t get me wrong. I had a fun time. But I don’t feel like writing any more about it for the time being. And maybe my time for these things are coming to a close… unless of course Mandy or Avril decide to come next year.
But until then… maybe I’ll buy myself a new watch for my birthday.
Friday, December 06, 2002
The day the Earth stood still
It kinda felt like it didn’t it? The lights flickering. The computers rebooting themselves at random intervals and the server making weird cicada-like noises. And now the air conditioning is down. You thought maybe it was because you were screwing around on the internet when you should’ve been working.
Oh my God! What did I do? What did I do?!
Or it may have been the beginnings of an alien invasion. Just like in the movie.
But no. It was the fires. And while they were blazing, and homes were getting destroyed, you were sitting at your desk complaining that your email wasn’t working. I’m sure there’s something in that to ponder about. But it’s totally escaped you.
The train ride to the city was slow but thankfully the air conditioning was working. It stopped for about ten minutes at every station. So long was the ride that a middle-aged Chinese man started doing exercises to prevent deep vein thrombosis — something that he had no doubt learnt on a flight from Taipei, Shanghai or wherever the guy came from. I doubt that he was ever really in risk of dying while in the hands Cityrail’s finest though. I would’ve been more worried about the vegetables that he had bought from Chinatown that day. But then again, the air conditioning was working.
When stopped in the middle of a tunnel, to your right were two people standing in the space in between the carriages to have a smoke. It bothered you to think just how bad it must be to not even be able to wait a few minutes to have a smoke. But then it was the actual smell that bothered you more wasn’t it?
At Wynyard, people bustled about as usual but traffic was at a standstill and the escalators weren’t working. And when you got to class, the elevators weren’t working there either and you had to go up seven extra floors and then come back all the way down where you had to wait for Miss Buffy to come get you. You felt like there was something that people weren’t telling you. Something a little eerie to the senses. Just like in the movie.
Going home wasn’t any better either. All the trains were out of whack and the one that was supposed to take you home ended up going first stop Glenfield. There weren’t even meant to be any trains going to Glenfield that night! The man standing beside you kept saying ‘Good on them, they deserve that train.’ And the first time he said it, it kinda amused and the next couple of times was overkill but the next few times after that and you were thinking ‘Dude, you’re weird!’
Although I doubt the word ‘dude’ was actually used. You wouldn’t use the word ‘dude’ would you?
But there was a consolation to waiting so long to get home wasn’t there? There was a girl. One of the most beautiful women you’ve ever laid eyes on. And she was waiting for the same train. She reminded you a little of Chloe Maxwell, but with the charming effervescence of Audrey Hepburn’s Holly Golightly and the impressive bustline of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s… well… every character she plays, I guess. She’s the kind of girl that almost makes you thankful that it’s taking you so long to get home.
Almost.
But the train chugged along and eventually the long stops weren’t so long anymore and past the airport, the train ride became pretty smooth. And then, more than two hours after you left class, it’s your stop and you got off and walked up the stairs. And when you’re up there, the traffic lights seemed to be acting a little funny and you half-expected the flying saucer to come down in front of you, didn’t you? And then the spaceman in the robot suit would walk out of the saucer and explain everything to you. Just like in the movie.
It would be fitting, don’t you think? Your state battling the terrible annual fires. Your government backing another government to start another kind of fire. And the spaceman in the robot suit would walk out of the saucer and explain everything to you.
But there was nothing. There’s just you walking on home, happy that you’ll make it back in time for FreakyLinks, and singing ‘Your body is a wonderland’ in your head. I guess that was for the girl. It always seems to end up being about a girl, doesn’t it?
It kinda felt like it didn’t it? The lights flickering. The computers rebooting themselves at random intervals and the server making weird cicada-like noises. And now the air conditioning is down. You thought maybe it was because you were screwing around on the internet when you should’ve been working.
Oh my God! What did I do? What did I do?!
Or it may have been the beginnings of an alien invasion. Just like in the movie.
But no. It was the fires. And while they were blazing, and homes were getting destroyed, you were sitting at your desk complaining that your email wasn’t working. I’m sure there’s something in that to ponder about. But it’s totally escaped you.
The train ride to the city was slow but thankfully the air conditioning was working. It stopped for about ten minutes at every station. So long was the ride that a middle-aged Chinese man started doing exercises to prevent deep vein thrombosis — something that he had no doubt learnt on a flight from Taipei, Shanghai or wherever the guy came from. I doubt that he was ever really in risk of dying while in the hands Cityrail’s finest though. I would’ve been more worried about the vegetables that he had bought from Chinatown that day. But then again, the air conditioning was working.
When stopped in the middle of a tunnel, to your right were two people standing in the space in between the carriages to have a smoke. It bothered you to think just how bad it must be to not even be able to wait a few minutes to have a smoke. But then it was the actual smell that bothered you more wasn’t it?
At Wynyard, people bustled about as usual but traffic was at a standstill and the escalators weren’t working. And when you got to class, the elevators weren’t working there either and you had to go up seven extra floors and then come back all the way down where you had to wait for Miss Buffy to come get you. You felt like there was something that people weren’t telling you. Something a little eerie to the senses. Just like in the movie.
Going home wasn’t any better either. All the trains were out of whack and the one that was supposed to take you home ended up going first stop Glenfield. There weren’t even meant to be any trains going to Glenfield that night! The man standing beside you kept saying ‘Good on them, they deserve that train.’ And the first time he said it, it kinda amused and the next couple of times was overkill but the next few times after that and you were thinking ‘Dude, you’re weird!’
Although I doubt the word ‘dude’ was actually used. You wouldn’t use the word ‘dude’ would you?
But there was a consolation to waiting so long to get home wasn’t there? There was a girl. One of the most beautiful women you’ve ever laid eyes on. And she was waiting for the same train. She reminded you a little of Chloe Maxwell, but with the charming effervescence of Audrey Hepburn’s Holly Golightly and the impressive bustline of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s… well… every character she plays, I guess. She’s the kind of girl that almost makes you thankful that it’s taking you so long to get home.
Almost.
But the train chugged along and eventually the long stops weren’t so long anymore and past the airport, the train ride became pretty smooth. And then, more than two hours after you left class, it’s your stop and you got off and walked up the stairs. And when you’re up there, the traffic lights seemed to be acting a little funny and you half-expected the flying saucer to come down in front of you, didn’t you? And then the spaceman in the robot suit would walk out of the saucer and explain everything to you. Just like in the movie.
It would be fitting, don’t you think? Your state battling the terrible annual fires. Your government backing another government to start another kind of fire. And the spaceman in the robot suit would walk out of the saucer and explain everything to you.
But there was nothing. There’s just you walking on home, happy that you’ll make it back in time for FreakyLinks, and singing ‘Your body is a wonderland’ in your head. I guess that was for the girl. It always seems to end up being about a girl, doesn’t it?
Monday, December 02, 2002
Weekend
Episode 1: Uncommon sense … or The Fabio moment
A defining moment in television during the late 90s is when Fabio, after eating a piece of bread with a delicious yellow low-calorie spread, says: ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter.’
On the weekend, I had one of those Fabio moments. Except I was saying: ‘I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.’ And I still can’t. The situation was something like this:
I stated a simple proposition that I had always assumed to be a commonly known fact, completely unworthy of any lengthy discussion. But the people who were with me disputed this through the use of illogical tangents and lines of thought that I can’t describe in any way other than to make them look moronic.
So I stopped the discussion at some point and just smiled. Sometimes it’s the only way to deal with these kinds of situations. What bothered me even more is the fact that the people I was talking to were all rather bright individuals who are not, in any way, moronic.
And this leads me to think the following:
Some people assume that the ability for logical thinking is innate. I have often assumed that some thought processes that I possess are ones which I can just pile under: ‘just use your common sense.’ It’s taken me this long to realise that logical thinking isn’t just something you either have or you don’t. It’s also a trained skill. There are certain thought processes that I find easy to deal with and yet I have a lot of trouble conveying the same ideas to other people. I’m not saying I’m intellectually superior to these people. I’m simply saying that they’ve never been exposed to certain ways of thinking that I may have. As De Bono would say, people don’t spend enough time thinking about thinking.
I think I’ll stop here. I’ve been thinking of ways to continue this discussion without being condescending, but I can’t find any.
__________
Episode 2: Scaring myself
OK, so I saw The Ring. Yes it has some scary bits but it’s not as scary as Mark and Riss say it is! It was a good movie though. Very enjoyable. Naomi Watts is divine. The ending begs for a sequel. I liked it.
But in terms of being frightening, it didn’t do that much for me. During the movie, it was scary but afterwards, it didn’t creep me out at all thinking about it. Not the way that thinking about the Sixth Sense (especially that vomiting girl in the tent scene) or the Exorcist (spider-walk anyone?) still scares me even now. Actually I think if I saw just the video (the video in the movie) without watching the movie itself, I’d be far more creeped out. There’s something really frightening about disjointed random images that don’t make sense.
So the next day, I decided to borrow the Omen trilogy to see if that scares me. Nah. Again, good films, but I slept soundly.
But I think I know now where they got idea for The Ring: Forwarded emails! I can’t explain this any more without giving the ending away but I think those who have seen it might know what I’m talking about.
Episode 1: Uncommon sense … or The Fabio moment
A defining moment in television during the late 90s is when Fabio, after eating a piece of bread with a delicious yellow low-calorie spread, says: ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter.’
On the weekend, I had one of those Fabio moments. Except I was saying: ‘I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.’ And I still can’t. The situation was something like this:
I stated a simple proposition that I had always assumed to be a commonly known fact, completely unworthy of any lengthy discussion. But the people who were with me disputed this through the use of illogical tangents and lines of thought that I can’t describe in any way other than to make them look moronic.
So I stopped the discussion at some point and just smiled. Sometimes it’s the only way to deal with these kinds of situations. What bothered me even more is the fact that the people I was talking to were all rather bright individuals who are not, in any way, moronic.
And this leads me to think the following:
Some people assume that the ability for logical thinking is innate. I have often assumed that some thought processes that I possess are ones which I can just pile under: ‘just use your common sense.’ It’s taken me this long to realise that logical thinking isn’t just something you either have or you don’t. It’s also a trained skill. There are certain thought processes that I find easy to deal with and yet I have a lot of trouble conveying the same ideas to other people. I’m not saying I’m intellectually superior to these people. I’m simply saying that they’ve never been exposed to certain ways of thinking that I may have. As De Bono would say, people don’t spend enough time thinking about thinking.
I think I’ll stop here. I’ve been thinking of ways to continue this discussion without being condescending, but I can’t find any.
__________
Episode 2: Scaring myself
OK, so I saw The Ring. Yes it has some scary bits but it’s not as scary as Mark and Riss say it is! It was a good movie though. Very enjoyable. Naomi Watts is divine. The ending begs for a sequel. I liked it.
But in terms of being frightening, it didn’t do that much for me. During the movie, it was scary but afterwards, it didn’t creep me out at all thinking about it. Not the way that thinking about the Sixth Sense (especially that vomiting girl in the tent scene) or the Exorcist (spider-walk anyone?) still scares me even now. Actually I think if I saw just the video (the video in the movie) without watching the movie itself, I’d be far more creeped out. There’s something really frightening about disjointed random images that don’t make sense.
So the next day, I decided to borrow the Omen trilogy to see if that scares me. Nah. Again, good films, but I slept soundly.
But I think I know now where they got idea for The Ring: Forwarded emails! I can’t explain this any more without giving the ending away but I think those who have seen it might know what I’m talking about.
Monday, November 25, 2002
Stop selling us crap!
Is it just me or does it seem ridiculous that Big W is bragging about donating $1 to the RSPCA drought relief appeal for every 36-pack of Pepsi sold? I mean, who the hell buys a 36-pack of Pepsi?! How many of these packs would get sold in a day? It’s almost like me saying that I’d donate $1 for every supermodel that walks up to me on the street and offers to sleep with me. OK. So maybe I do exaggerate a little, but if they donated $1 for every 36 cans of Pepsi sold, that’d be great. Or even every 100 cans sold. But as it stands, it all seems just a little ‘all talk and no action’ for me. Or maybe I just really underestimate Australia’s love of Pepsi. But I doubt it.
Speaking of Pepsi, with Coke doing alright with their Vanilla Coke thing (I actually quite like it), Pepsi have come up with Pepsi Blue! What is it (I hear you ask!)?! Well it tastes pretty much like Pepsi except it’s… um… blue. This is almost like me saying… um… actually, I don’t have a supermodel analogy for this one.
Now, speaking of special promotions and such, I bought the Spiderman DVD for $29. Then I see next to it a super-duper special boxed set for $59 or $69 or something. Now my DVD already has a second disc with interviews, behind the scenes, outtakes and such. What more could possibly be in this $69 shiny box that I would pay an extra $40 for?! What more could the Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring: Special Edition possibly have besides an extra long title? Extra footage? Do we really need extra footage?! Well do we at least get an extra hobbit?! My pirated copy from Thailand includes an additional hobbit… or wait… maybe it’s just some guy in the cinema getting up to go to the toilet in the middle of the movie.
Recent CD purchases:
Machine Gun Fellatio (***), Ben Lee (***1/2), Wallflowers (***1/2). The Ben Lee CD also comes with a free T-shirt. It’s red, and pretty much looks like the kind of t-shirt that you get free with a CD.
Is it just me or does it seem ridiculous that Big W is bragging about donating $1 to the RSPCA drought relief appeal for every 36-pack of Pepsi sold? I mean, who the hell buys a 36-pack of Pepsi?! How many of these packs would get sold in a day? It’s almost like me saying that I’d donate $1 for every supermodel that walks up to me on the street and offers to sleep with me. OK. So maybe I do exaggerate a little, but if they donated $1 for every 36 cans of Pepsi sold, that’d be great. Or even every 100 cans sold. But as it stands, it all seems just a little ‘all talk and no action’ for me. Or maybe I just really underestimate Australia’s love of Pepsi. But I doubt it.
Speaking of Pepsi, with Coke doing alright with their Vanilla Coke thing (I actually quite like it), Pepsi have come up with Pepsi Blue! What is it (I hear you ask!)?! Well it tastes pretty much like Pepsi except it’s… um… blue. This is almost like me saying… um… actually, I don’t have a supermodel analogy for this one.
Now, speaking of special promotions and such, I bought the Spiderman DVD for $29. Then I see next to it a super-duper special boxed set for $59 or $69 or something. Now my DVD already has a second disc with interviews, behind the scenes, outtakes and such. What more could possibly be in this $69 shiny box that I would pay an extra $40 for?! What more could the Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring: Special Edition possibly have besides an extra long title? Extra footage? Do we really need extra footage?! Well do we at least get an extra hobbit?! My pirated copy from Thailand includes an additional hobbit… or wait… maybe it’s just some guy in the cinema getting up to go to the toilet in the middle of the movie.
Recent CD purchases:
Machine Gun Fellatio (***), Ben Lee (***1/2), Wallflowers (***1/2). The Ben Lee CD also comes with a free T-shirt. It’s red, and pretty much looks like the kind of t-shirt that you get free with a CD.
Monday, November 18, 2002
Not knowing which way the wind blows
It feels OK but something just isn’t right.
There’s nothing uglier than the displeasure you get at the sight of your own reflection.
And perhaps by tomorrow it will all be fine. Perhaps by tomorrow, I’ll stop babbling like a moron over… what exactly? I don’t know.
‘Well at least you can see yourself in the mirror’, says Sleepwalker. ‘At least you’re not a vampire.’
I need to be pitied for pitying myself. Not for that which I pity myself about.
But at least I’m not a vampire.
It feels OK but something just isn’t right.
There’s nothing uglier than the displeasure you get at the sight of your own reflection.
And perhaps by tomorrow it will all be fine. Perhaps by tomorrow, I’ll stop babbling like a moron over… what exactly? I don’t know.
‘Well at least you can see yourself in the mirror’, says Sleepwalker. ‘At least you’re not a vampire.’
I need to be pitied for pitying myself. Not for that which I pity myself about.
But at least I’m not a vampire.
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
Greater Expectations
The flames have been rekindled and my love for theatre burns brightly once more (did I just write that?!). It was originally money (or lack thereof) that pulled me away. Tickets just got too expensive and STC subscriptions weren’t worth it because STC just isn’t consistent enough with their quality. A lot of their productions are rather dry and uninspired affairs written by over-the-hill writers (e.g. David Williamson) who’ve lost their edge. There are a lot of smaller theatres now that are winning people over with smaller but more original efforts, but when STC does something properly, they’re still damn hard to beat.
And there’s something about drama theatre that you just can’t get on TV or the big screen or even big Broadway-style musicals. It could be the rawness of it. Or the melodrama. Or simply the fact that real people are standing in front of you and you are so damn close to them. It’s voyeurism on multiple levels. Whatever.
Lately, I’ve seen a couple of pretty good ones. Thanks to Lil who’s suddenly gotten into it all (it used to be me dragging her along!) and organised the last two. Here are my thoughts on both.
The Glass Menagerie — This is the second Tennessee Williams play I’ve seen and I’ve become a fan. The guy’s a genius. He reminds me why I liked theatre in the first place: great writing, great dialogue. And although not quite as polished as the West End production of Cat on a hot tin roof I saw last year (Marcus Graham just can’t compare to Brendan Fraser), this was still pretty damn good. The acting was solid and any bad points (some scenes just seemed awkward) didn’t detract enough from the fact that it’s a bloody well-written play. Although Aussies doing Southern American accents just doesn’t do it for me. Marcus Graham sounded Irish when he got angry!
Great Expectations — Last night. Four hours long! But I stayed through it. And relished it, faults and all. It’s brave of them to try to put Dickens on the stage and they succeeded to some degree. They were certainly creative in their interpretation (using wheeled chairs to simulate a boat worked better than you’d think) but as anyone else who have tried to re-interpret this story must know, there’s just too much there. Even four hours wasn’t enough to tell the whole story. They shouldn’t have tried to cram so much into it. Three things for me came out of watching this play last night: (1) Great Expectations is one of the greatest stories ever written, (2) They made a good attempt at putting it on stage, but (3) the story just isn’t meant for the stage. For one thing, the city of London is a character all it’s own in the story. But it’s very hard to simulate a city on stage (lots of people walking up and down the stage just isn’t good enough) and the filth of poverty and the eerie Satis House are also very hard to reproduce on stage. And these are all very important images in the novel. Finally, Estella just wasn’t alluring enough. She was just plain unlikeable. She’s literature’s ultimate femme fatale! You’re supposed to love her and hate her at the same time.
These aren’t the two greatest productions I’ve seen. But they're even further from being the worst that I've seen. And it’s brought back a little… or a lot… of the passion that I once had for watching a bunch of men and women shouting to each other on an unnatural stage.
The flames have been rekindled and my love for theatre burns brightly once more (did I just write that?!). It was originally money (or lack thereof) that pulled me away. Tickets just got too expensive and STC subscriptions weren’t worth it because STC just isn’t consistent enough with their quality. A lot of their productions are rather dry and uninspired affairs written by over-the-hill writers (e.g. David Williamson) who’ve lost their edge. There are a lot of smaller theatres now that are winning people over with smaller but more original efforts, but when STC does something properly, they’re still damn hard to beat.
And there’s something about drama theatre that you just can’t get on TV or the big screen or even big Broadway-style musicals. It could be the rawness of it. Or the melodrama. Or simply the fact that real people are standing in front of you and you are so damn close to them. It’s voyeurism on multiple levels. Whatever.
Lately, I’ve seen a couple of pretty good ones. Thanks to Lil who’s suddenly gotten into it all (it used to be me dragging her along!) and organised the last two. Here are my thoughts on both.
The Glass Menagerie — This is the second Tennessee Williams play I’ve seen and I’ve become a fan. The guy’s a genius. He reminds me why I liked theatre in the first place: great writing, great dialogue. And although not quite as polished as the West End production of Cat on a hot tin roof I saw last year (Marcus Graham just can’t compare to Brendan Fraser), this was still pretty damn good. The acting was solid and any bad points (some scenes just seemed awkward) didn’t detract enough from the fact that it’s a bloody well-written play. Although Aussies doing Southern American accents just doesn’t do it for me. Marcus Graham sounded Irish when he got angry!
Great Expectations — Last night. Four hours long! But I stayed through it. And relished it, faults and all. It’s brave of them to try to put Dickens on the stage and they succeeded to some degree. They were certainly creative in their interpretation (using wheeled chairs to simulate a boat worked better than you’d think) but as anyone else who have tried to re-interpret this story must know, there’s just too much there. Even four hours wasn’t enough to tell the whole story. They shouldn’t have tried to cram so much into it. Three things for me came out of watching this play last night: (1) Great Expectations is one of the greatest stories ever written, (2) They made a good attempt at putting it on stage, but (3) the story just isn’t meant for the stage. For one thing, the city of London is a character all it’s own in the story. But it’s very hard to simulate a city on stage (lots of people walking up and down the stage just isn’t good enough) and the filth of poverty and the eerie Satis House are also very hard to reproduce on stage. And these are all very important images in the novel. Finally, Estella just wasn’t alluring enough. She was just plain unlikeable. She’s literature’s ultimate femme fatale! You’re supposed to love her and hate her at the same time.
These aren’t the two greatest productions I’ve seen. But they're even further from being the worst that I've seen. And it’s brought back a little… or a lot… of the passion that I once had for watching a bunch of men and women shouting to each other on an unnatural stage.
Thursday, November 07, 2002
Your ideas are not your own
Is it just me or does Dylan Lewis look more like Monkey Magic than is normally possible for a man without make-up?
What?
Ugliness is a very ugly thing.
Is that meant to be wise?
Whatever.
__________
Question: Are we sick of nubile Britney-pop starlets yet?
Well I’m not! So here’s yet another cute little 18-year-old to marvel in all her splendour! My prediction (with a 68.7% level of accuracy) is that Alizee here will be the next big import to these shores. She’s already huge in her homeland (France), the rest of Europe and recently the UK. Her stuff should make it here and to the US as soon as she… um… learns English.
OK so there’s probably something not quite right about a teenage girl singing ‘Moi… Lolita’ but hey, it’s catchy so just soak up the goodness!
__________
I saw this Honkie movie over the weekend called Fall for you, with one of my favourite Honkie stars in it, Francis Ng. Anyway, it was another shallow romantic comedy in typical Honkie fashion where love can develop within a single meeting and life-altering decisions are made are based on a smiling glance from a beautiful stranger. But this particular film didn’t end the way I expected it to. Not the way these films usually end — which is either a happy ending or somebody dies. And I was really disturbed by it. I don’t know whether it was the actual story end that bothered me or just the fact that it didn’t fit the usual template. But I can’t believe I was emotionally moved and disturbed by a B-grade romantic comedy!
__________
My friend turned 24 last Sunday and my day is coming up real soon. I’m feeling old again. I haven’t done enough. I felt so down about it on Tuesday that I had to buy myself an Oreo Bash just to calm me down (or maybe I just wanted one and needed an excuse).
Oh and I also bought myself the Spider-man DVD (for some reason, the Oreo Bash seems more important). It’s still a fantastic movie the second time around. Wilhem Dafoe and Toby Maguire’s is-he-really-such-a-little-boy-or-is-he-on-drugs flat, wide-eyed acting really pushes the film beyond just a special effects spectacular. But is it just me or is Kirsten Dunst completely unspectacular?
Maybe it’s just me.
Is it just me or does Dylan Lewis look more like Monkey Magic than is normally possible for a man without make-up?
What?
Ugliness is a very ugly thing.
Is that meant to be wise?
Whatever.
__________
Question: Are we sick of nubile Britney-pop starlets yet?
Well I’m not! So here’s yet another cute little 18-year-old to marvel in all her splendour! My prediction (with a 68.7% level of accuracy) is that Alizee here will be the next big import to these shores. She’s already huge in her homeland (France), the rest of Europe and recently the UK. Her stuff should make it here and to the US as soon as she… um… learns English.
OK so there’s probably something not quite right about a teenage girl singing ‘Moi… Lolita’ but hey, it’s catchy so just soak up the goodness!
__________
I saw this Honkie movie over the weekend called Fall for you, with one of my favourite Honkie stars in it, Francis Ng. Anyway, it was another shallow romantic comedy in typical Honkie fashion where love can develop within a single meeting and life-altering decisions are made are based on a smiling glance from a beautiful stranger. But this particular film didn’t end the way I expected it to. Not the way these films usually end — which is either a happy ending or somebody dies. And I was really disturbed by it. I don’t know whether it was the actual story end that bothered me or just the fact that it didn’t fit the usual template. But I can’t believe I was emotionally moved and disturbed by a B-grade romantic comedy!
__________
My friend turned 24 last Sunday and my day is coming up real soon. I’m feeling old again. I haven’t done enough. I felt so down about it on Tuesday that I had to buy myself an Oreo Bash just to calm me down (or maybe I just wanted one and needed an excuse).
Oh and I also bought myself the Spider-man DVD (for some reason, the Oreo Bash seems more important). It’s still a fantastic movie the second time around. Wilhem Dafoe and Toby Maguire’s is-he-really-such-a-little-boy-or-is-he-on-drugs flat, wide-eyed acting really pushes the film beyond just a special effects spectacular. But is it just me or is Kirsten Dunst completely unspectacular?
Maybe it’s just me.
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
Slow burn
Imagine me wheeling the garbage bin across the road to the park and then transferring all the garbage bags from my bin into the park bin and then wheeling it back to my house. Then I go over to the car and check the scratch that I just put there a few minutes ago.
This is what my last weekend amounts to. Two days into the next week. A wild and whacky ordeal that, thankfully, only I know the details of. I’m starting to question just how much I can trust myself on my own…
__________
Subtlety in storytelling is a very difficult thing. And watching In the mood for love again yesterday made me appreciate just how effective subtlety is when you actually get what it’s all saying. There are few characters. The action is sparse. Very little actually happens on the screen and the conclusion rather dubious at best. But the resonance that such movies leave me with is often more powerful and longer lasting than any in-your-face material ever is. It’s cinema like only cinema can do. Movies where there is no way that the book can be better. So here are my five all-time favourite subtle films (because I can only remember five at the moment). A lot of people probably won’t even like these films due to the fact that they’re just too slow but they come highly recommended by me and other intellectual snobs like me. Just think of them as focused as opposed to panoramic. A slow burn as opposed to fireworks.
In the mood for love (2001)
Directed by Wong Kar-Wai
Starring Maggie Cheung, Tony Leung Chiu-Wai
You can count on me (2000)
Directed by Kenneth Lonergan
Starring Laura Linney, Mark Ruffalo, Matthew Broderick
Monster’s ball (2001)
Directed by Mark Forster
Starring Billy Bob Thornton, Halle Berry, Heath Ledger
Hana-Bi [aka Fireworks] (1997)
Directed by Takeshi Kitano
Starring Beat Takeshi
Le Samourai (1967)
Directed by Jean-Pierre Melville
Starring Alain Delon
The fact that four out of these five movies were made in the last five years leads me to believe that there are a lot more out there that I’ve just forgotten about. Maybe I’ll add to the list as I remember them. Anyone else think of any more?
Imagine me wheeling the garbage bin across the road to the park and then transferring all the garbage bags from my bin into the park bin and then wheeling it back to my house. Then I go over to the car and check the scratch that I just put there a few minutes ago.
This is what my last weekend amounts to. Two days into the next week. A wild and whacky ordeal that, thankfully, only I know the details of. I’m starting to question just how much I can trust myself on my own…
__________
Subtlety in storytelling is a very difficult thing. And watching In the mood for love again yesterday made me appreciate just how effective subtlety is when you actually get what it’s all saying. There are few characters. The action is sparse. Very little actually happens on the screen and the conclusion rather dubious at best. But the resonance that such movies leave me with is often more powerful and longer lasting than any in-your-face material ever is. It’s cinema like only cinema can do. Movies where there is no way that the book can be better. So here are my five all-time favourite subtle films (because I can only remember five at the moment). A lot of people probably won’t even like these films due to the fact that they’re just too slow but they come highly recommended by me and other intellectual snobs like me. Just think of them as focused as opposed to panoramic. A slow burn as opposed to fireworks.
In the mood for love (2001)
Directed by Wong Kar-Wai
Starring Maggie Cheung, Tony Leung Chiu-Wai
You can count on me (2000)
Directed by Kenneth Lonergan
Starring Laura Linney, Mark Ruffalo, Matthew Broderick
Monster’s ball (2001)
Directed by Mark Forster
Starring Billy Bob Thornton, Halle Berry, Heath Ledger
Hana-Bi [aka Fireworks] (1997)
Directed by Takeshi Kitano
Starring Beat Takeshi
Le Samourai (1967)
Directed by Jean-Pierre Melville
Starring Alain Delon
The fact that four out of these five movies were made in the last five years leads me to believe that there are a lot more out there that I’ve just forgotten about. Maybe I’ll add to the list as I remember them. Anyone else think of any more?
Friday, October 25, 2002
Stand clear, doors closing
This is what I do during my lunch breaks. I write stuff.
Me good mate Mark has a nice little site which he uses for posting up song lyrics that he's written. Well so far, he's posted a grand total of one song... but you just know the rest is coming. Right Mark?
Anyway, his site and the upcoming John Mayer concert (which, I might add, I won't be able to attend) have inspired me to write my own 'quarter-life crisis' song. It's some of the lamest poetry I've ever come up with but it is just a pop song and I did only have half an hour or so. Well that's my excuse anyway. Actually, I kinda like it. So I don't even know what I'm talking about! As for the tune, I got no idea. Maybe someone else would wanna help. To start off though, I think any song to do with trains probably should have a country twang to it...
Time's a train
School’s out!
Oh God, that was six years ago.
Never mind the time in between.
But where the hell am I now?
Look out!
A new girl walks into my life.
Nah, it’s the same one, just a new face.
Well, maybe tenth time’s the charm eh?
Am I living a life or am I just stalling?
Am I doing it right or am I falling?
I say time’s a train that I haven’t yet got off
They say life’s insane but mine hasn’t lifted off
For now I’ll just enjoy the view
Til the champagne pops
Cos I don’t even know my stop.
Wake up!
It’s Groundhog Day. I look the same.
The hair. Some extra weight perhaps.
Maybe changed my clothes a couple times.
New papers, a new job
New shoes, a new car
New stories, a new friend
But the same old, same old life.
Am I living a life or am I just stalling?
Am I doing it right or am I falling?
I say time’s a train that I haven’t yet got off
They say life’s insane but mine hasn’t lifted off
For now I’ll just enjoy the view
Til the champagne pops
Cos I don’t even know my stop.
I say time’s a train that I haven’t yet got off
They say life’s insane but mine hasn’t lifted off
For now I’ll just enjoy the view
Til the champagne pops
Cos I don’t even know my stop.
Cos I don’t even know my stop.
Maybe I just won’t stop.
This is what I do during my lunch breaks. I write stuff.
Me good mate Mark has a nice little site which he uses for posting up song lyrics that he's written. Well so far, he's posted a grand total of one song... but you just know the rest is coming. Right Mark?
Anyway, his site and the upcoming John Mayer concert (which, I might add, I won't be able to attend) have inspired me to write my own 'quarter-life crisis' song. It's some of the lamest poetry I've ever come up with but it is just a pop song and I did only have half an hour or so. Well that's my excuse anyway. Actually, I kinda like it. So I don't even know what I'm talking about! As for the tune, I got no idea. Maybe someone else would wanna help. To start off though, I think any song to do with trains probably should have a country twang to it...
Time's a train
School’s out!
Oh God, that was six years ago.
Never mind the time in between.
But where the hell am I now?
Look out!
A new girl walks into my life.
Nah, it’s the same one, just a new face.
Well, maybe tenth time’s the charm eh?
Am I living a life or am I just stalling?
Am I doing it right or am I falling?
I say time’s a train that I haven’t yet got off
They say life’s insane but mine hasn’t lifted off
For now I’ll just enjoy the view
Til the champagne pops
Cos I don’t even know my stop.
Wake up!
It’s Groundhog Day. I look the same.
The hair. Some extra weight perhaps.
Maybe changed my clothes a couple times.
New papers, a new job
New shoes, a new car
New stories, a new friend
But the same old, same old life.
Am I living a life or am I just stalling?
Am I doing it right or am I falling?
I say time’s a train that I haven’t yet got off
They say life’s insane but mine hasn’t lifted off
For now I’ll just enjoy the view
Til the champagne pops
Cos I don’t even know my stop.
I say time’s a train that I haven’t yet got off
They say life’s insane but mine hasn’t lifted off
For now I’ll just enjoy the view
Til the champagne pops
Cos I don’t even know my stop.
Cos I don’t even know my stop.
Maybe I just won’t stop.
Wednesday, October 23, 2002
Who are you?!
– Hello?
– Hi xtn, do you know who this is?
– Er… no.
– Guess.
– No. Don’t make me guess. I hate guessing.
– Come on!
– No. I don’t wanna guess.
– If you don’t guess, I’m gonna hang up.
– OK. Bye.
That’ll teach her not to mess with me.
It was a few years ago and I can’t remember whether I ever found out who that was or not.
I don’t know what goes on in my head sometimes.
I mean, I can’t say that I’ll never do it again and I’m not saying they’d even remember this incident but for what it’s worth, to whoever it was that called me that day a few years back, I’m really sorry.
– Hello?
– Hi xtn, do you know who this is?
– Er… no.
– Guess.
– No. Don’t make me guess. I hate guessing.
– Come on!
– No. I don’t wanna guess.
– If you don’t guess, I’m gonna hang up.
– OK. Bye.
That’ll teach her not to mess with me.
It was a few years ago and I can’t remember whether I ever found out who that was or not.
I don’t know what goes on in my head sometimes.
I mean, I can’t say that I’ll never do it again and I’m not saying they’d even remember this incident but for what it’s worth, to whoever it was that called me that day a few years back, I’m really sorry.
Tuesday, October 15, 2002
One day after
Ready for some melodrama?
I wanted to post something from the play but it’s kinda hard cos there’s not many solid chunks of text. Most of the dialogue consists of short one-liners (I guess as opposed to long one-liners?) and would just look funny on a blog. So I’ve picked out one of the few solid chunks I could find. It’s a (not so) little speech spoken by the main character (called Andy). Obviously this means that the following excerpt won’t be too indicative of the play’s overall tone but it should give a decent idea about the themes and writing style. This is the first edit. I think it’s even been changed already. I’m not sure. Can’t remember. Anyway, here it is.
...You know that part where you hug. You've hugged her a million times before but for some reason, this feels like the first time — like it's the only time. Well there was none of that. And the kiss. That first magical kiss. The longing. The expectations. And then the moment when all the longing and all the expectations just go out the window and there's just... well there was none of that either. Looking into each other's eyes and forgetting that the rest of the world exists. There was none of that. We were never so engrossed in each other that we don't even notice ourselves getting rained on. We weren't even getting rained on at all. We were in the library for God's sakes — an air-conditioned room. It wasn't even raining outside. I mean, not that it was a bright sunny day with cheerful chirping birds either. It was just a normal day. There was a little bit of wind. The sun was slightly covered by the clouds. It was just a normal day.
The problem is... the problem is that we live... wanting... and maybe even expecting it to be like it is in the movies. We toss the coin wanting it to fall one way. If it does, we act surprised but think that it was always meant to be that way. If it doesn't, then we suddenly act as if the gods were against us, even though we know full well that the chances of it falling one way was always gonna be just as likely as it falling the other way. It's like closing your eyes and actually expecting and even preparing yourself to be surprised when you open them. But sometimes... sometimes the biggest surprise is that there is no surprise. The biggest surprise is that when you open your eyes there is nothing in front of you that wasn't already there before you closed them.
I mean, when people say: "things will all turn out well in the end", what the hell does that mean? When does it end? If everything turns out well in the end, what happens one day after the end? Of course the end could mean when you die. But how well could everything possibly be when in the end, you’re dead?
Things just go on. Things happen. There are highs. There are lows. But they just go on. It all ends when you do die. And in the meantime, life just is.
Ready for some melodrama?
I wanted to post something from the play but it’s kinda hard cos there’s not many solid chunks of text. Most of the dialogue consists of short one-liners (I guess as opposed to long one-liners?) and would just look funny on a blog. So I’ve picked out one of the few solid chunks I could find. It’s a (not so) little speech spoken by the main character (called Andy). Obviously this means that the following excerpt won’t be too indicative of the play’s overall tone but it should give a decent idea about the themes and writing style. This is the first edit. I think it’s even been changed already. I’m not sure. Can’t remember. Anyway, here it is.
...You know that part where you hug. You've hugged her a million times before but for some reason, this feels like the first time — like it's the only time. Well there was none of that. And the kiss. That first magical kiss. The longing. The expectations. And then the moment when all the longing and all the expectations just go out the window and there's just... well there was none of that either. Looking into each other's eyes and forgetting that the rest of the world exists. There was none of that. We were never so engrossed in each other that we don't even notice ourselves getting rained on. We weren't even getting rained on at all. We were in the library for God's sakes — an air-conditioned room. It wasn't even raining outside. I mean, not that it was a bright sunny day with cheerful chirping birds either. It was just a normal day. There was a little bit of wind. The sun was slightly covered by the clouds. It was just a normal day.
The problem is... the problem is that we live... wanting... and maybe even expecting it to be like it is in the movies. We toss the coin wanting it to fall one way. If it does, we act surprised but think that it was always meant to be that way. If it doesn't, then we suddenly act as if the gods were against us, even though we know full well that the chances of it falling one way was always gonna be just as likely as it falling the other way. It's like closing your eyes and actually expecting and even preparing yourself to be surprised when you open them. But sometimes... sometimes the biggest surprise is that there is no surprise. The biggest surprise is that when you open your eyes there is nothing in front of you that wasn't already there before you closed them.
I mean, when people say: "things will all turn out well in the end", what the hell does that mean? When does it end? If everything turns out well in the end, what happens one day after the end? Of course the end could mean when you die. But how well could everything possibly be when in the end, you’re dead?
Things just go on. Things happen. There are highs. There are lows. But they just go on. It all ends when you do die. And in the meantime, life just is.
Monday, October 14, 2002
Mundy Blog
I’m in a weird mood at the moment so I’m gonna write about really mundane stuff to balance it out.
Gluttony
I’ve been bad when it comes to my consumption habits. Last Saturday, I went to Lowenbrau and had a piece of crackling pork belly. Now if you haven’t had one of these, let me tell you, each bite is like eating a piece of meat and a spoonful of fat. It tastes wonderful but I suspect it may have shaved a couple of years off my life! This meal was washed down with a litre of the house mango beer. Following that, we trekked our way to Passionflower where I had waffles and two scoops of ice cream with maple syrup. The night ended with a couple more pints of beer (Guinness). Then it was game over. I had to wake up the next morning at 8am to play two games of basketball. Ahhh. The Life…
Basketball
My fitness is slowly coming back. I’d say its at about 80% at the moment. My skill level however is at about 60% at most. I don’t feel comfortable at all on the court. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’ve ever been a dominant player, but I used to be able to do a few things — run a break, penetrate down the middle etc. Still we won one and lost one. I did jack all though.
Risk
I will never become a good general cos I do dumb things, like feel sorry for people. We played the board game Risk on Friday and I won the first game, but I didn’t win the second cos I waited too long to attack and when I did, I got a run of bad luck and lost. But still, we didn’t manage to finish the second game so I guess I won one more game than everyone else. Which also means I won infinitely more times than everyone else did. I can always rely on mathematics to cheer me up…
Play
We’re doing a marketing proposal now for the play. I’m still determined to not let this project die. I can tolerate having it postponed a couple of million times but I won’t tolerate its demise. I believe too much that what I wrote is something my target audience would devour quite readily. It’s a pretty good script. Even if I do say so myself. And I do!
Music
Until I learn the piano and become a rock star in the mould of Ben Folds, I’m just gonna have to indulge in other people’s music. Motor Ace is wasting away in Australia. They should be doing their all to get themselves over to America. Here, they’re not much more than a second string band. Over there, I think they could be big. Their kind of music thrives over there. Personally, they’re my favourite Aussie band and that’s saying a lot cos Aussie bands are at a very high standard at the moment. They remind me of the Gin Blossoms cos they sound so damn nice and even show glimmers of optimism. Which is a welcome change in a rock industry so saturated with angst. But as much as I like Motor Ace, I’ve realised that I’ve made up in my mind the list of my all-time favourite bands and no one new is ever likely to break in there (I watched High Fidelity quite later than everyone else so this list is only recently been compiled). My Holy Five are: del Amitri, Gin Blossoms, Counting Crows, Hootie and the Blowfish, and the Wallflowers. Only the Wallflowers have a chance to get replaced in the five.
More music
I went to buy Lifehouse’s new album but ended up walking home with Ryan Adams’ (not Bryan Adams) new one called ‘Demolition’. It’s basically a set of demos that he recorded while producing his critically acclaimed album ‘Gold’. This was meant to be a 60-song 3-CD set that he boasts he was able to write and record all within a year! Yikes! Luckily, it just ended up being an 11-song CD. Adams is a rude, arrogant bastard who gets away with all the crap because he makes fantastic music and gets to date Wynona Rider. He says stupid things like ‘my music is not influenced by country music at all’ when the country influences are probably one of the selling points of his music! But I love his stuff. He’s got that ‘mad genius’ thing going. I don’t know if any of you know what I’m talking about but I get the same vibes when I listen to guys like Ben Folds and Jeff Buckley. With these guys, even their bad songs are in a way special because they are infused with so much personality and passion. The only thing bad that I can say about his music is that structurally, he’s not all that adventurous. All his songs follow the same verse/chorus formula, which in a way doesn’t really make him any more sophisticated than any of the new teeny guitar poppers like Michelle Branch and co. But that may be a small matter.
Yikes! I didn’t realise I’d crapped on for so long. Oh well. Time to be weird again.
I’m in a weird mood at the moment so I’m gonna write about really mundane stuff to balance it out.
Gluttony
I’ve been bad when it comes to my consumption habits. Last Saturday, I went to Lowenbrau and had a piece of crackling pork belly. Now if you haven’t had one of these, let me tell you, each bite is like eating a piece of meat and a spoonful of fat. It tastes wonderful but I suspect it may have shaved a couple of years off my life! This meal was washed down with a litre of the house mango beer. Following that, we trekked our way to Passionflower where I had waffles and two scoops of ice cream with maple syrup. The night ended with a couple more pints of beer (Guinness). Then it was game over. I had to wake up the next morning at 8am to play two games of basketball. Ahhh. The Life…
Basketball
My fitness is slowly coming back. I’d say its at about 80% at the moment. My skill level however is at about 60% at most. I don’t feel comfortable at all on the court. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’ve ever been a dominant player, but I used to be able to do a few things — run a break, penetrate down the middle etc. Still we won one and lost one. I did jack all though.
Risk
I will never become a good general cos I do dumb things, like feel sorry for people. We played the board game Risk on Friday and I won the first game, but I didn’t win the second cos I waited too long to attack and when I did, I got a run of bad luck and lost. But still, we didn’t manage to finish the second game so I guess I won one more game than everyone else. Which also means I won infinitely more times than everyone else did. I can always rely on mathematics to cheer me up…
Play
We’re doing a marketing proposal now for the play. I’m still determined to not let this project die. I can tolerate having it postponed a couple of million times but I won’t tolerate its demise. I believe too much that what I wrote is something my target audience would devour quite readily. It’s a pretty good script. Even if I do say so myself. And I do!
Music
Until I learn the piano and become a rock star in the mould of Ben Folds, I’m just gonna have to indulge in other people’s music. Motor Ace is wasting away in Australia. They should be doing their all to get themselves over to America. Here, they’re not much more than a second string band. Over there, I think they could be big. Their kind of music thrives over there. Personally, they’re my favourite Aussie band and that’s saying a lot cos Aussie bands are at a very high standard at the moment. They remind me of the Gin Blossoms cos they sound so damn nice and even show glimmers of optimism. Which is a welcome change in a rock industry so saturated with angst. But as much as I like Motor Ace, I’ve realised that I’ve made up in my mind the list of my all-time favourite bands and no one new is ever likely to break in there (I watched High Fidelity quite later than everyone else so this list is only recently been compiled). My Holy Five are: del Amitri, Gin Blossoms, Counting Crows, Hootie and the Blowfish, and the Wallflowers. Only the Wallflowers have a chance to get replaced in the five.
More music
I went to buy Lifehouse’s new album but ended up walking home with Ryan Adams’ (not Bryan Adams) new one called ‘Demolition’. It’s basically a set of demos that he recorded while producing his critically acclaimed album ‘Gold’. This was meant to be a 60-song 3-CD set that he boasts he was able to write and record all within a year! Yikes! Luckily, it just ended up being an 11-song CD. Adams is a rude, arrogant bastard who gets away with all the crap because he makes fantastic music and gets to date Wynona Rider. He says stupid things like ‘my music is not influenced by country music at all’ when the country influences are probably one of the selling points of his music! But I love his stuff. He’s got that ‘mad genius’ thing going. I don’t know if any of you know what I’m talking about but I get the same vibes when I listen to guys like Ben Folds and Jeff Buckley. With these guys, even their bad songs are in a way special because they are infused with so much personality and passion. The only thing bad that I can say about his music is that structurally, he’s not all that adventurous. All his songs follow the same verse/chorus formula, which in a way doesn’t really make him any more sophisticated than any of the new teeny guitar poppers like Michelle Branch and co. But that may be a small matter.
Yikes! I didn’t realise I’d crapped on for so long. Oh well. Time to be weird again.
Tuesday, October 08, 2002
Complaints
It all went downhill after I let go of my hard-earned $15 just to get in to Martin Place Bar. And the girl at the register wasn’t even that cute!
I mean, it’s not the money. I don’t really care about $15 (regardless of the fact that I could buy 37.5 soft serves at Maccas for $15). It’s the principle. We all registered on the net so we could get in for free before 11pm. We then came an hour early just in case. They didn’t even end up letting us in til after 11!
Not impressed.
As for the party itself. It was standard. RnB music. Lots of Asians. White guys here and there picking up Asian girls. It was still fun. But I’m on whinge mode at the moment.
Now to a much more serious topic…
In the tradition of Angry Asian Man and Angry Asian Woman, I’m gonna become Somewhat Miffed Catholic Boy. OK, not quite as catchy I know, but seriously, things have got to change. Where to start…
I’m so sick of hearing about priest sex-abuse stories. And what’s worst, I’m sick of hearing about people being paid off to keep silent about it. The Church shouldn’t be trying to cover these things up. It’s out there anyway! Bad priests should be weeded out. There’s no excuse for sexually abusing little kids!
Of course, the problem goes further. No one even wants to become priests in the first place. There’s a shortage worldwide. So much so that many churches around the world have a priest rotation system so that mass is only held once every two weeks or so. There’s more Catholic communities than there are priests to cater for them. So I guess they don’t wanna get rid of too many priests, plus all the bad press about sex-allegations etc. etc.
There’s a problem here. In fact, there are lots of problems here.
Ergo
We need changes.
So here’s a couple of pieces of Catholic law that I feel should be revised at this time. And to avoid a blasting from ooee, I will attempt to keep this rant from being too biased.
1. Priests must be male
Reasons for: Jesus never chose any female Apostles. And when the priest is playing the part of Jesus during the Eucharist, it’s only right that he is male since Jesus was male.
My take: Jesus never chose any female Apostles because He was smart enough to realise that no one would take Him seriously if He was with a bunch of women. Even if He had chosen six of each, they’d just look like a travelling orgy band! Jesus needed credibility in an environment where everybody was looking to bring Him down. I don’t think it had anything to do with His opinion of women’s abilities to administer the faith. This law is archaic. We need more priests now and there are women who are willing (and more than able) to fill the roles. So why not have women priests?
2. Priests must remain celibate.
Reasons for: Keeps the mind pure and focused. If priests were allowed to marry, they’d have domestic distractions that could serve as deterrents to their life’s work.
My take: If priests are molesting kids, their minds are obviously not on their life’s work anyway! Priests are human beings. With natural instincts and urges. Some people can be fine being celibate their whole lives. Some can’t. For most people, such a restriction is too much to ask. You would find so many more people willing to consider priesthood without such restrictions on their personal lives.
I’m gonna leave this discussion here cos this is all the energy I’m allowing myself to expunge on the topic at this time. I realise that I haven’t given this the proper attention it requires and I know that I’ve over-simplified everything. But this is a blog. And this is all I wanna say right now.
It all went downhill after I let go of my hard-earned $15 just to get in to Martin Place Bar. And the girl at the register wasn’t even that cute!
I mean, it’s not the money. I don’t really care about $15 (regardless of the fact that I could buy 37.5 soft serves at Maccas for $15). It’s the principle. We all registered on the net so we could get in for free before 11pm. We then came an hour early just in case. They didn’t even end up letting us in til after 11!
Not impressed.
As for the party itself. It was standard. RnB music. Lots of Asians. White guys here and there picking up Asian girls. It was still fun. But I’m on whinge mode at the moment.
Now to a much more serious topic…
In the tradition of Angry Asian Man and Angry Asian Woman, I’m gonna become Somewhat Miffed Catholic Boy. OK, not quite as catchy I know, but seriously, things have got to change. Where to start…
I’m so sick of hearing about priest sex-abuse stories. And what’s worst, I’m sick of hearing about people being paid off to keep silent about it. The Church shouldn’t be trying to cover these things up. It’s out there anyway! Bad priests should be weeded out. There’s no excuse for sexually abusing little kids!
Of course, the problem goes further. No one even wants to become priests in the first place. There’s a shortage worldwide. So much so that many churches around the world have a priest rotation system so that mass is only held once every two weeks or so. There’s more Catholic communities than there are priests to cater for them. So I guess they don’t wanna get rid of too many priests, plus all the bad press about sex-allegations etc. etc.
There’s a problem here. In fact, there are lots of problems here.
Ergo
We need changes.
So here’s a couple of pieces of Catholic law that I feel should be revised at this time. And to avoid a blasting from ooee, I will attempt to keep this rant from being too biased.
1. Priests must be male
Reasons for: Jesus never chose any female Apostles. And when the priest is playing the part of Jesus during the Eucharist, it’s only right that he is male since Jesus was male.
My take: Jesus never chose any female Apostles because He was smart enough to realise that no one would take Him seriously if He was with a bunch of women. Even if He had chosen six of each, they’d just look like a travelling orgy band! Jesus needed credibility in an environment where everybody was looking to bring Him down. I don’t think it had anything to do with His opinion of women’s abilities to administer the faith. This law is archaic. We need more priests now and there are women who are willing (and more than able) to fill the roles. So why not have women priests?
2. Priests must remain celibate.
Reasons for: Keeps the mind pure and focused. If priests were allowed to marry, they’d have domestic distractions that could serve as deterrents to their life’s work.
My take: If priests are molesting kids, their minds are obviously not on their life’s work anyway! Priests are human beings. With natural instincts and urges. Some people can be fine being celibate their whole lives. Some can’t. For most people, such a restriction is too much to ask. You would find so many more people willing to consider priesthood without such restrictions on their personal lives.
I’m gonna leave this discussion here cos this is all the energy I’m allowing myself to expunge on the topic at this time. I realise that I haven’t given this the proper attention it requires and I know that I’ve over-simplified everything. But this is a blog. And this is all I wanna say right now.
Thursday, October 03, 2002
Just like the good old days
I wake up this morning dead tired and feeling like I’d just eaten half an ox. But through the heavy eyelids and bloated stomach, I felt happy and rejuvenated!
You see, to me, there are two kinds of good nights you can have. Ones packed with significant events that you could tell people about and ones where nothing newsworthy actually happens but is good nonetheless for other reasons.
Last night was of the latter kind. Nothing significant happened but I’m gonna tell you about it anyway. Cos it’s probably the best ‘nothing’ night I’ve had since my days as an unemployed bum back in the summer of 99/00.
It begins in class where I spend almost three hours mucking around in Photoshop with zero results. And then Justin (a teacher) does something in fifteen minutes and blows me away! Wow! Now I’m inspired for tonight!
Next comes dinner. Or two dinners I should say. One at 9:30pm and another at 10:30pm. Yeah I know you’re not supposed to eat so much so late at night, but what am I supposed to do when I finish class and get a desperate urge for a Whopper with cheese (TM)? Say no?
At 10:45 I begin watching the second half of Biloxi Blues, one of my all-time favourite movies. And a bargain buy at $2.95 to boot! I’m surprised this movie never got much recognition. The dialogue (Neil Simon) is dead-on and Matthew Broderick and Christopher Walken are fantastic in it!
Anyway, the video finishes at midnight. Time for bed? I don’t think so! There’s a new series on Channel 9. It’s called FreakyLinks. Everybody go watch it! It’s fantastic! I would describe it as Press Gang meets the X-Files. It’s made by the people who produced Blair Witch and though it might be a little on the B-grade side (think script-sophistication of Charmed), it’s new, on late, has a supernatural edge and a slightly-underfed-but-attractive female lead that looks like this so I love it. A quick scan of the Net reveals that the show has already been cancelled a year ago though. Oh well. We still get one season of it to enjoy. I’ll file this under other late-night TV legends such as Dark Justice, Forever Knight, Silk Stalkings and The Nowhere man! Great shows that never got a chance.
FreakyLinks ends and I’m ready for bed. Then Dave Letterman come on and I’m like, aww, I like this show but I need to sleep. Then they announce the special guests and it’s Avril! Oh and David Schwimmer. But Avril’s gonna be there! Avril! So I stay on. This girl can do no wrong for me. She comes on, she’s like half the size of Letterman, acts like a 9-year-old kid, starts singing and sounding as bad as I do at karaoke and yet I’m still gonna love her! I’m still gonna write haikus about her!
And that is how my night ends. I then go to sleep and wake up at the top of this entry.
Life is wonderful.
Fantastic Avril
Just like Fantastic Noodles (TM)
Only not curly
*This entry has been brought to you by the word 'fantastic', the number '9' and the 'TM' sign.
I wake up this morning dead tired and feeling like I’d just eaten half an ox. But through the heavy eyelids and bloated stomach, I felt happy and rejuvenated!
You see, to me, there are two kinds of good nights you can have. Ones packed with significant events that you could tell people about and ones where nothing newsworthy actually happens but is good nonetheless for other reasons.
Last night was of the latter kind. Nothing significant happened but I’m gonna tell you about it anyway. Cos it’s probably the best ‘nothing’ night I’ve had since my days as an unemployed bum back in the summer of 99/00.
It begins in class where I spend almost three hours mucking around in Photoshop with zero results. And then Justin (a teacher) does something in fifteen minutes and blows me away! Wow! Now I’m inspired for tonight!
Next comes dinner. Or two dinners I should say. One at 9:30pm and another at 10:30pm. Yeah I know you’re not supposed to eat so much so late at night, but what am I supposed to do when I finish class and get a desperate urge for a Whopper with cheese (TM)? Say no?
At 10:45 I begin watching the second half of Biloxi Blues, one of my all-time favourite movies. And a bargain buy at $2.95 to boot! I’m surprised this movie never got much recognition. The dialogue (Neil Simon) is dead-on and Matthew Broderick and Christopher Walken are fantastic in it!
Anyway, the video finishes at midnight. Time for bed? I don’t think so! There’s a new series on Channel 9. It’s called FreakyLinks. Everybody go watch it! It’s fantastic! I would describe it as Press Gang meets the X-Files. It’s made by the people who produced Blair Witch and though it might be a little on the B-grade side (think script-sophistication of Charmed), it’s new, on late, has a supernatural edge and a slightly-underfed-but-attractive female lead that looks like this so I love it. A quick scan of the Net reveals that the show has already been cancelled a year ago though. Oh well. We still get one season of it to enjoy. I’ll file this under other late-night TV legends such as Dark Justice, Forever Knight, Silk Stalkings and The Nowhere man! Great shows that never got a chance.
FreakyLinks ends and I’m ready for bed. Then Dave Letterman come on and I’m like, aww, I like this show but I need to sleep. Then they announce the special guests and it’s Avril! Oh and David Schwimmer. But Avril’s gonna be there! Avril! So I stay on. This girl can do no wrong for me. She comes on, she’s like half the size of Letterman, acts like a 9-year-old kid, starts singing and sounding as bad as I do at karaoke and yet I’m still gonna love her! I’m still gonna write haikus about her!
And that is how my night ends. I then go to sleep and wake up at the top of this entry.
Life is wonderful.
Fantastic Avril
Just like Fantastic Noodles (TM)
Only not curly
*This entry has been brought to you by the word 'fantastic', the number '9' and the 'TM' sign.
Sunday, September 29, 2002
Thou shalt not preach on blogs!
This is that 11th commandment that was trashed from the final edit of the Bible along with the 13th apostle (who was black) and the 5th horseman of the Apocalypse (who was a suicide bomber — so he blew up his own horse).
There’s one thing I hate more than a preachy blog and that’s readers who enjoy them! Arggh! Get over it! There’s nothing in these blogs that hasn’t already been done to death in a dozen or so self-help guides, Oprah and episodes of Dawson’s Creek.
Oh boy, here’s another meaningless discourse on the meaning of life. Ooh ooh, and here’s another theory about relationships! No one’s ever done that one before! Arggh!
I don’t think I’m complaining as much as I’m crying in pain. Enough with all this pop philosophy! Go out there and read some real books!
Here’s a tip to avoid preaching on your blog. Avoid, among others, the following:
‘Life is like…’
‘…this is because guys are [insert insight] while women are [insert further insight]…’
‘Falling in love is…’
‘What is reality?’
I mean, if you wanna talk about life, then talk about your life. If you wanna talk about love, then talk about your experiences and what they do to you. But don’t bloody make sweeping generalisations as if you’re the friggin’ spirit of our generation! Or if you must do that, then at least make it funny!
*Please excuse the preachy nature of the above posting.
This is that 11th commandment that was trashed from the final edit of the Bible along with the 13th apostle (who was black) and the 5th horseman of the Apocalypse (who was a suicide bomber — so he blew up his own horse).
There’s one thing I hate more than a preachy blog and that’s readers who enjoy them! Arggh! Get over it! There’s nothing in these blogs that hasn’t already been done to death in a dozen or so self-help guides, Oprah and episodes of Dawson’s Creek.
Oh boy, here’s another meaningless discourse on the meaning of life. Ooh ooh, and here’s another theory about relationships! No one’s ever done that one before! Arggh!
I don’t think I’m complaining as much as I’m crying in pain. Enough with all this pop philosophy! Go out there and read some real books!
Here’s a tip to avoid preaching on your blog. Avoid, among others, the following:
‘Life is like…’
‘…this is because guys are [insert insight] while women are [insert further insight]…’
‘Falling in love is…’
‘What is reality?’
I mean, if you wanna talk about life, then talk about your life. If you wanna talk about love, then talk about your experiences and what they do to you. But don’t bloody make sweeping generalisations as if you’re the friggin’ spirit of our generation! Or if you must do that, then at least make it funny!
*Please excuse the preachy nature of the above posting.
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
xtn etc. spins off!
In the tradition of some of the best TV shows, xtn etc. now has a spinoff blog called automatic xtn. It’s basically got all the stuff that isn’t important enough to me to dedicate a whole entry to. I think I used to call them Shorts or something like that. So anyway, it’s probably not very readable. But if you want to check it out nonetheless, it’s here and you can tell me what you think.
UPDATE: Now with comments too! Woohoo!
In the tradition of some of the best TV shows, xtn etc. now has a spinoff blog called automatic xtn. It’s basically got all the stuff that isn’t important enough to me to dedicate a whole entry to. I think I used to call them Shorts or something like that. So anyway, it’s probably not very readable. But if you want to check it out nonetheless, it’s here and you can tell me what you think.
UPDATE: Now with comments too! Woohoo!
Tuesday, September 24, 2002
Kachingo!
– I can see a nipple.
– Where’s the nipple?
– There.
– That’s not a nipple.
– That’s a nipple.
– OK. Fine. That’s a nipple.
I thought I’d come back from my weekend away and write all about it but the thing is, I really don’t feel like it now. Cos I know it’d just be all a bunch of in-jokes, misquotes and gratuitous self-glorification on my part. That’s something everyone can do without.
So instead all I’m gonna do is a sort of rundown of the highlights. Cos from my experience, fun times are very hard to put down on paper. And I had fun times here.
*All names have been changed in order to protect the innocent.
Place of visit: Hunter Valley Region
Accommodation: Some poor farmers’ house in the town of Broke. The farmers actually had to move out of their own home and live in the shed for the weekend!
Friday:
– The drive seems longer than expected and our driver, Gillian, plays ‘Are we there yet?’ with herself while Milo and Huey make spastic hand signals in the back.
– The people in Jackson’s car suffer trauma as multiple Australian native marsupials commit suicide by running themselves into the car at night.
– Huey makes the claim that the big red mark on his neck is a ‘heat rash’.
– xtn, Huey and Milo make some tea by the side of a country road at night, while making racist jokes and speculating about Knee’s lovelife.
– We play spoons and manage to completely destroy the 6 of diamonds.
Saturday:
– Gillian wakes up first and finds purpose in cleaning everything she can see.
– We go on a wine-tasting tour and are continually mistaken for either overseas tourists or students.
– Racial jokes increase in number and intensity, while Knee still doesn’t deny our speculations about her lovelife.
– Tony has a hilarious mid-afternoon hangover and his coughs are so violent that it sounds like his lungs are gonna come straight out of his mouth.
– Marv, xtn and Gillian make plans to start a band in two years and squabble over band names while completely ignoring a more obvious problem: talent.
– After a few glasses of wine, Milo promises xtn that she’ll sleep with him.
– During dinner preparation, Marv disappears and we find him later playing with puppies.
– During dinner, Gem starts a conversation about religion. Sex gets an honorary mention. No one seems to care enough about politics though.
– After dinner, Marv inadvertently invents a new game called ‘Kachingo’ and xtn discovers that he is actually able to stick his head up his own arse. Literally.
– During games of Kachingo and Snap, five of us consume 5.5 litres of soft drink and wine. Toilet trips incur a penalty of two extra drinks.
– TV educates us about the ‘Clingon’ — a 3-headed glass dildo which is also dishwasher-safe. Handy.
– Milo turns out to be all talk.
Sunday:
– We go home.
– Knee still gives us no denial about our speculations.
So in conclusion, we had fun.
– I can see a nipple.
– Where’s the nipple?
– There.
– That’s not a nipple.
– That’s a nipple.
– OK. Fine. That’s a nipple.
I thought I’d come back from my weekend away and write all about it but the thing is, I really don’t feel like it now. Cos I know it’d just be all a bunch of in-jokes, misquotes and gratuitous self-glorification on my part. That’s something everyone can do without.
So instead all I’m gonna do is a sort of rundown of the highlights. Cos from my experience, fun times are very hard to put down on paper. And I had fun times here.
*All names have been changed in order to protect the innocent.
Place of visit: Hunter Valley Region
Accommodation: Some poor farmers’ house in the town of Broke. The farmers actually had to move out of their own home and live in the shed for the weekend!
Friday:
– The drive seems longer than expected and our driver, Gillian, plays ‘Are we there yet?’ with herself while Milo and Huey make spastic hand signals in the back.
– The people in Jackson’s car suffer trauma as multiple Australian native marsupials commit suicide by running themselves into the car at night.
– Huey makes the claim that the big red mark on his neck is a ‘heat rash’.
– xtn, Huey and Milo make some tea by the side of a country road at night, while making racist jokes and speculating about Knee’s lovelife.
– We play spoons and manage to completely destroy the 6 of diamonds.
Saturday:
– Gillian wakes up first and finds purpose in cleaning everything she can see.
– We go on a wine-tasting tour and are continually mistaken for either overseas tourists or students.
– Racial jokes increase in number and intensity, while Knee still doesn’t deny our speculations about her lovelife.
– Tony has a hilarious mid-afternoon hangover and his coughs are so violent that it sounds like his lungs are gonna come straight out of his mouth.
– Marv, xtn and Gillian make plans to start a band in two years and squabble over band names while completely ignoring a more obvious problem: talent.
– After a few glasses of wine, Milo promises xtn that she’ll sleep with him.
– During dinner preparation, Marv disappears and we find him later playing with puppies.
– During dinner, Gem starts a conversation about religion. Sex gets an honorary mention. No one seems to care enough about politics though.
– After dinner, Marv inadvertently invents a new game called ‘Kachingo’ and xtn discovers that he is actually able to stick his head up his own arse. Literally.
– During games of Kachingo and Snap, five of us consume 5.5 litres of soft drink and wine. Toilet trips incur a penalty of two extra drinks.
– TV educates us about the ‘Clingon’ — a 3-headed glass dildo which is also dishwasher-safe. Handy.
– Milo turns out to be all talk.
Sunday:
– We go home.
– Knee still gives us no denial about our speculations.
So in conclusion, we had fun.
Tuesday, September 17, 2002
A couple of things first.
Over the past couple of weeks, a couple of people have said a couple of things that have pissed me off a couple of times over. On top of that, I've kinda noticed that the quality of my blog has gone downhill somewhat. So I wrote this. It's not really a response to anything. I just felt like it. Cos I know I have to write this sometime. And it might as well be now.
And then after this I think I'll take a short break from blogging. And when I come back, I'll lighten up a bit.
__________
Bulletproof
Step back.
Slowly.
You can always ease yourself back in later.
You wait. Latz howls at the moon from his kennel. It’s the absolute last thing you’d wanna hear on this night. You can hear her outside your room telling him to shut up. Inside your head, a tune from a British mini-series you can’t even remember plays itself over and over again. Then the phone rings. Or the door opens. Which way it goes you can’t quite remember. But you know that this is how it begins.
For the next few days, for about fifteen seconds from the time you wake up each morning, you manage to convince yourself that the day that had just passed had been nothing more than a bad dream. These fifteen-second lapses will be some of the happiest moments you will ever have.
The guy sitting in the corner has his face buried in his hands as you watch him. He is no more familiar to you than the rest of the prayer group that occupy your house tonight. They recite prayers for a family they hardly know, mourning the loss of someone they’ve never met. And the guy in the corner looks like he’s praying a little harder than anyone else.
God bless him.
The food comes and the silence is broken. A party for all but the uninvited hosts. You stay in your room and try to block out the noise. You wish they’d all just go away. The whole bunch of them well-intentioned peoples. You just wanna watch TV.
When most of them begin to leave, someone is telling you that it was his time to go. She says that it is all part of God’s plan. You look like you’re taking it in. You look as if her words are easing some of the pain away. But inside, you indulge in a little fantasy where you are scooping her spleen out with a spoon. You hate those words. You don’t want to hear those words. But you put your fantasy spoon away because in the end you know it’s really not even worth the effort. All you want is for her to piss off and leave you alone.
When they leave, the silence returns. There’s just the four of you. You ease back into conversation.
– Hey, did you see that guy in the corner with his face buried in his hands?
– Yeah. He looked like he was praying harder than everyone else.
– No! The guy was just picking his nose and trying to hide it from everyone else.
– Oh.
God bless him.
At church I enter the doors and the man in the suit asks me to sign the guest book. I tell him who I am and he apologises and shows me to my seat. Walking down the aisle to the front of the church I feel, inexplicably, like laughing. But I know that it’s inappropriate to do so and I don’t really know why I feel like laughing anyway, so I just keep my mouth shut, my head down and I wonder what’s gonna happen next.
Today I am sitting cross-legged on the freshly-mowed grass at Rookwood cemetery, just two minutes down Necropolis Drive from the gates where I entered. The city of the dead. I see a bunch of dead flowers in front of the black marble headstone that someone must have left on a visit. I wonder who it was. Whoever it was, the flowers are dead now and I decide to remove them. I tell myself:
This is no place for the dead.
When I am alone, I begin to remember things. Memories. Maybe memories. Fractured memories. Then comes the guilt. The regrets. The might-have-beens. And I close my eyes and hold it all in. I tell myself:
This is no place for tears.
A 12-year-old boy sits some distance away from me. He is picking at a scab on his knee.
‘Are you gonna talk to him?’ says a bird sitting on the headstone.
– I want to tell him that he shouldn’t be doing that. He should leave it alone if he wants it to heal.
– I wasn’t talking about the boy.
– Oh.
The bird flutters a little, then walks along the top of the headstone.
– It’s different now. The intimacy is gone. The nuances are no longer there.
– And you speak English to him now.
– Yes I’ve noticed that. That never happened in life.
– But don’t you want to tell him what’s been happening with you? What you’ve done? What you’ve achieved?
– I’ve survived.
– And survived well.
– Too well.
– You’ve flourished.
– Without him.
– And?
– Well I want to suffer.
– The pain?
– The memory. I want to remember.
– And you don’t?
– Well…not exactly. Somewhere along the way, I must have moved on.
– That’s good. It was a long time ago.
I look at the bird and realise the ridiculousness of the situation.
I want to remember. I want to suffer. I want to feel the pain. I want to still miss him so much that I can’t function as a normal human being. I don’t want to survive. I don’t want to move on.
– And why is that?
Because I have to know that he meant so much that I can’t live without him. Because I don’t ever want to forget. I want to hold on to the pain. Because forgetting is easy.
The bird hops to the next headstone in the direction of the boy.
I can still remember the bloody nose-picker. But I can’t even remember his voice properly anymore.
– And what do you suppose that means?
You tell me.
– So are you going to talk to the boy?
No. Let him pick at it. I guess some wounds you just don’t want to heal.
The bird nods. And then I get up and say goodbye.
I say, til next time. And the bird chirps and flies away. And I walk back to my car and I go two minutes up Necropolis Drive to the gates where I entered and I drive on home.
Over the past couple of weeks, a couple of people have said a couple of things that have pissed me off a couple of times over. On top of that, I've kinda noticed that the quality of my blog has gone downhill somewhat. So I wrote this. It's not really a response to anything. I just felt like it. Cos I know I have to write this sometime. And it might as well be now.
And then after this I think I'll take a short break from blogging. And when I come back, I'll lighten up a bit.
__________
Bulletproof
Step back.
Slowly.
You can always ease yourself back in later.
You wait. Latz howls at the moon from his kennel. It’s the absolute last thing you’d wanna hear on this night. You can hear her outside your room telling him to shut up. Inside your head, a tune from a British mini-series you can’t even remember plays itself over and over again. Then the phone rings. Or the door opens. Which way it goes you can’t quite remember. But you know that this is how it begins.
For the next few days, for about fifteen seconds from the time you wake up each morning, you manage to convince yourself that the day that had just passed had been nothing more than a bad dream. These fifteen-second lapses will be some of the happiest moments you will ever have.
The guy sitting in the corner has his face buried in his hands as you watch him. He is no more familiar to you than the rest of the prayer group that occupy your house tonight. They recite prayers for a family they hardly know, mourning the loss of someone they’ve never met. And the guy in the corner looks like he’s praying a little harder than anyone else.
God bless him.
The food comes and the silence is broken. A party for all but the uninvited hosts. You stay in your room and try to block out the noise. You wish they’d all just go away. The whole bunch of them well-intentioned peoples. You just wanna watch TV.
When most of them begin to leave, someone is telling you that it was his time to go. She says that it is all part of God’s plan. You look like you’re taking it in. You look as if her words are easing some of the pain away. But inside, you indulge in a little fantasy where you are scooping her spleen out with a spoon. You hate those words. You don’t want to hear those words. But you put your fantasy spoon away because in the end you know it’s really not even worth the effort. All you want is for her to piss off and leave you alone.
When they leave, the silence returns. There’s just the four of you. You ease back into conversation.
– Hey, did you see that guy in the corner with his face buried in his hands?
– Yeah. He looked like he was praying harder than everyone else.
– No! The guy was just picking his nose and trying to hide it from everyone else.
– Oh.
God bless him.
At church I enter the doors and the man in the suit asks me to sign the guest book. I tell him who I am and he apologises and shows me to my seat. Walking down the aisle to the front of the church I feel, inexplicably, like laughing. But I know that it’s inappropriate to do so and I don’t really know why I feel like laughing anyway, so I just keep my mouth shut, my head down and I wonder what’s gonna happen next.
Today I am sitting cross-legged on the freshly-mowed grass at Rookwood cemetery, just two minutes down Necropolis Drive from the gates where I entered. The city of the dead. I see a bunch of dead flowers in front of the black marble headstone that someone must have left on a visit. I wonder who it was. Whoever it was, the flowers are dead now and I decide to remove them. I tell myself:
This is no place for the dead.
When I am alone, I begin to remember things. Memories. Maybe memories. Fractured memories. Then comes the guilt. The regrets. The might-have-beens. And I close my eyes and hold it all in. I tell myself:
This is no place for tears.
A 12-year-old boy sits some distance away from me. He is picking at a scab on his knee.
‘Are you gonna talk to him?’ says a bird sitting on the headstone.
– I want to tell him that he shouldn’t be doing that. He should leave it alone if he wants it to heal.
– I wasn’t talking about the boy.
– Oh.
The bird flutters a little, then walks along the top of the headstone.
– It’s different now. The intimacy is gone. The nuances are no longer there.
– And you speak English to him now.
– Yes I’ve noticed that. That never happened in life.
– But don’t you want to tell him what’s been happening with you? What you’ve done? What you’ve achieved?
– I’ve survived.
– And survived well.
– Too well.
– You’ve flourished.
– Without him.
– And?
– Well I want to suffer.
– The pain?
– The memory. I want to remember.
– And you don’t?
– Well…not exactly. Somewhere along the way, I must have moved on.
– That’s good. It was a long time ago.
I look at the bird and realise the ridiculousness of the situation.
I want to remember. I want to suffer. I want to feel the pain. I want to still miss him so much that I can’t function as a normal human being. I don’t want to survive. I don’t want to move on.
– And why is that?
Because I have to know that he meant so much that I can’t live without him. Because I don’t ever want to forget. I want to hold on to the pain. Because forgetting is easy.
The bird hops to the next headstone in the direction of the boy.
I can still remember the bloody nose-picker. But I can’t even remember his voice properly anymore.
– And what do you suppose that means?
You tell me.
– So are you going to talk to the boy?
No. Let him pick at it. I guess some wounds you just don’t want to heal.
The bird nods. And then I get up and say goodbye.
I say, til next time. And the bird chirps and flies away. And I walk back to my car and I go two minutes up Necropolis Drive to the gates where I entered and I drive on home.
Monday, September 16, 2002
My weekend
Or… I’m an idiot, you idiot!
For the past few weeks I’ve been making a real doofus of myself. Especially in hindsight. I’m like this bungling fool in a dazed stupor from too much anaesthetics.
The latest episode being just this weekend past. It all started on Friday which was normal enough. I was tired and I made the point of coming home early so that I could sleep and wake up early the next morning to play basketball. But I ended up on the phone til late. The next day I paid for it. Urggh.
I hadn’t played for months and initially I thought, ‘hey, I still gotz skillz’ (or words to that effect) but once we started playing full-court, I realised that my fitness level was somewhere closer to Michael Jackson than Michael Jordan (although I didn’t need to be escorted off the court from exhaustion). Basketball was followed by super-greasy yum cha and by the time I saw the movie (Insomnia) I had reached my stupor stage. There was one scene where a couple of the characters were having a conversation and I swear, all they were saying were ‘Blah blah blah blah. Blah bleh.’ I snapped myself out of it and enjoyed the rest of the movie. There must be some irony in watching a movie called ‘Insomnia’ when you yourself haven’t had any sleep. But I guess it’s been lost on me…
It gets worse. At night I drove to my friend Cath’s house which is about 2 minutes from my house and I’ve been there millions of times (exaggeration has been used for effect). But somehow I managed to get lost. Even when I eventually found her street I couldn’t find her house for a while! Yes!
That which was supposed to be an Arnold Schwarzenegger video night turned out to be just Kindergarten Cop, kebabs and me learning majhong. Kinda tough for me since I can’t speak or write Chinese and none of the yum cha foods are featured in the game.
Sunday brought two more basketball games. I thought I’d be playing better but a mix of the kebabs the night before (and I ate what felt like half a tub of garlic sauce), no breakfast in the morning and then a suspicious-looking sausage sizzle, plus my aforementioned poor level of fitness, made me feel like I was gonna throw up and/or collapse on the court (you should’ve seen the state of my toilet that night! Oh boy!).
So my basketball comeback was not to be, this weekend, and now I’m back at work and feeling pretty crappy.
I think I’m gonna grab some food now. Don’t have much left of my lunch break.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.4 I would like one of the following:
to play again on a basketball team where they don’t automatically look at me and say ‘You’re playing centre’ (I’m not that tall damn it!)
or
to play centre on a team of hobbits and playing against other teams of hobbits. At least then I’d have a real size advantage.
__________
At which point did this blog become so crappy?
Er… don’t answer that.
Or… I’m an idiot, you idiot!
For the past few weeks I’ve been making a real doofus of myself. Especially in hindsight. I’m like this bungling fool in a dazed stupor from too much anaesthetics.
The latest episode being just this weekend past. It all started on Friday which was normal enough. I was tired and I made the point of coming home early so that I could sleep and wake up early the next morning to play basketball. But I ended up on the phone til late. The next day I paid for it. Urggh.
I hadn’t played for months and initially I thought, ‘hey, I still gotz skillz’ (or words to that effect) but once we started playing full-court, I realised that my fitness level was somewhere closer to Michael Jackson than Michael Jordan (although I didn’t need to be escorted off the court from exhaustion). Basketball was followed by super-greasy yum cha and by the time I saw the movie (Insomnia) I had reached my stupor stage. There was one scene where a couple of the characters were having a conversation and I swear, all they were saying were ‘Blah blah blah blah. Blah bleh.’ I snapped myself out of it and enjoyed the rest of the movie. There must be some irony in watching a movie called ‘Insomnia’ when you yourself haven’t had any sleep. But I guess it’s been lost on me…
It gets worse. At night I drove to my friend Cath’s house which is about 2 minutes from my house and I’ve been there millions of times (exaggeration has been used for effect). But somehow I managed to get lost. Even when I eventually found her street I couldn’t find her house for a while! Yes!
That which was supposed to be an Arnold Schwarzenegger video night turned out to be just Kindergarten Cop, kebabs and me learning majhong. Kinda tough for me since I can’t speak or write Chinese and none of the yum cha foods are featured in the game.
Sunday brought two more basketball games. I thought I’d be playing better but a mix of the kebabs the night before (and I ate what felt like half a tub of garlic sauce), no breakfast in the morning and then a suspicious-looking sausage sizzle, plus my aforementioned poor level of fitness, made me feel like I was gonna throw up and/or collapse on the court (you should’ve seen the state of my toilet that night! Oh boy!).
So my basketball comeback was not to be, this weekend, and now I’m back at work and feeling pretty crappy.
I think I’m gonna grab some food now. Don’t have much left of my lunch break.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.4 I would like one of the following:
to play again on a basketball team where they don’t automatically look at me and say ‘You’re playing centre’ (I’m not that tall damn it!)
or
to play centre on a team of hobbits and playing against other teams of hobbits. At least then I’d have a real size advantage.
__________
At which point did this blog become so crappy?
Er… don’t answer that.
Wednesday, September 11, 2002
Just push play
The view from my desk, veiled by a set of thirty-year-old curtains, is the Bohemia Crystal warehouse. It might be a factory. I don’t know. But I figured that they’re made in Bohemia. Wherever that is. On a good day you can actually see the sky behind the smog. And the smell? It no longer bothers me. Hell, a few hours of clean air without the factory smoke and truck fumes, and I’d probably need my puffer just to calm me down.
It is September 11 today. For the uneducated, that’s the day last year that Ian Thorpe might have died had he been still in New York and decided to do some sightseeing at the World Trade Center. Instead he was already somewhere else and telling us via satellite how close he came to dying. This is of course totally unrelated to October 15. That’s the date last year that Ian Thorpe might have gotten hit by a truck had he decided to take a walk in front of a speeding truck. Thankfully, he didn’t.
God bless Ian Thorpe.
I feel like talking about a certain person but I won’t because they might be reading this. So instead, I’m tiptoeing around them. I look like a big pansy doing this.
I feel like painting myself with various prime colours and running around naked in the forest shouting meaningless phrases like ‘The one to watch!’ or ‘And that is why I love George Double-ya!’
I’m awakened. Maybe I’ve never been asleep. I’m feeling good but distressed that I’m having a hard time understanding why. I’m free. Like a bird out of his cage. Like a prisoner given a pardon. Like Kylie freed from Stock, Aitken and Waterman. I want to come up to animals and sing:
Doe, a deer. A female deer…
I want bluebirds sitting on my shoulder and reciting John Donne to my ears.
Peel me a grape.
I’m Pinocchio shouting ‘I’m a real boy!’
The notes come at me with mathematical precision. But it sounds little like music. My hands are too big for these keys methinks.
Wooooooo!
I am a ball of delirium trapped inside a completely coherent and composed shell of a person, only betrayed by the constant trips to the water dispenser and the toilet.
It all just flows right out.
I am a non-intelligent being today. Take your bag. Leave your brain at the door. My paycheque comes today.
That’s money in the bank.
La la la la la la la…
The view from my desk, veiled by a set of thirty-year-old curtains, is the Bohemia Crystal warehouse. It might be a factory. I don’t know. But I figured that they’re made in Bohemia. Wherever that is. On a good day you can actually see the sky behind the smog. And the smell? It no longer bothers me. Hell, a few hours of clean air without the factory smoke and truck fumes, and I’d probably need my puffer just to calm me down.
It is September 11 today. For the uneducated, that’s the day last year that Ian Thorpe might have died had he been still in New York and decided to do some sightseeing at the World Trade Center. Instead he was already somewhere else and telling us via satellite how close he came to dying. This is of course totally unrelated to October 15. That’s the date last year that Ian Thorpe might have gotten hit by a truck had he decided to take a walk in front of a speeding truck. Thankfully, he didn’t.
God bless Ian Thorpe.
I feel like talking about a certain person but I won’t because they might be reading this. So instead, I’m tiptoeing around them. I look like a big pansy doing this.
I feel like painting myself with various prime colours and running around naked in the forest shouting meaningless phrases like ‘The one to watch!’ or ‘And that is why I love George Double-ya!’
I’m awakened. Maybe I’ve never been asleep. I’m feeling good but distressed that I’m having a hard time understanding why. I’m free. Like a bird out of his cage. Like a prisoner given a pardon. Like Kylie freed from Stock, Aitken and Waterman. I want to come up to animals and sing:
Doe, a deer. A female deer…
I want bluebirds sitting on my shoulder and reciting John Donne to my ears.
Peel me a grape.
I’m Pinocchio shouting ‘I’m a real boy!’
The notes come at me with mathematical precision. But it sounds little like music. My hands are too big for these keys methinks.
Wooooooo!
I am a ball of delirium trapped inside a completely coherent and composed shell of a person, only betrayed by the constant trips to the water dispenser and the toilet.
It all just flows right out.
I am a non-intelligent being today. Take your bag. Leave your brain at the door. My paycheque comes today.
That’s money in the bank.
La la la la la la la…
Monday, September 09, 2002
Footnotes
It only very recently (like, on Saturday) began to frighten me how just about everyone ends up reduced to a footnote at the end of someone else’s interesting or not so interesting story.
You meet someone and you talk to them and you exchange stories. These stories are full of other people. ‘This guy’, ‘that guy’, ‘this other girl’, etc. The thing is, once upon a time, these other people probably meant the world to them. Now they are reduced to ‘that guy’ or ‘this girl’ or whatever.
Being completely egocentric, it never really bothered me until the thought crossed my mind that I myself am also falling victim to this common practice of identity reduction. Somewhere out there, someone may be referring to me as ‘this other guy’. I know I do it myself. I often recall emotional events in my life in ways that completely trivialise the matter and the persons involved. It’s not nice but it happens all the time. But now I realise that it also happens to me! Me! And I can’t hack that!
But do we have enough memory and emotional resources to maintain the integrity of events and people in our lives, and not reduce everything and everyone to a bunch of interesting anecdotes?
It only very recently (like, on Saturday) began to frighten me how just about everyone ends up reduced to a footnote at the end of someone else’s interesting or not so interesting story.
You meet someone and you talk to them and you exchange stories. These stories are full of other people. ‘This guy’, ‘that guy’, ‘this other girl’, etc. The thing is, once upon a time, these other people probably meant the world to them. Now they are reduced to ‘that guy’ or ‘this girl’ or whatever.
Being completely egocentric, it never really bothered me until the thought crossed my mind that I myself am also falling victim to this common practice of identity reduction. Somewhere out there, someone may be referring to me as ‘this other guy’. I know I do it myself. I often recall emotional events in my life in ways that completely trivialise the matter and the persons involved. It’s not nice but it happens all the time. But now I realise that it also happens to me! Me! And I can’t hack that!
But do we have enough memory and emotional resources to maintain the integrity of events and people in our lives, and not reduce everything and everyone to a bunch of interesting anecdotes?
Thursday, September 05, 2002
Endings…
Two endings. Possible beginnings. Whatever.
The almighty Team USA basketball has finally fallen. Since USA started sending professionals to compete in international competition, they had held a 59-game winning streak. The streak ends now. 87-80. Losers to Argentina. Some might say this is sad. Others will say this is promising. I say it’s just time for USA to send their best players — like they haven’t done since the 1992 Dream team of Barcelona.
In sadder news, Sarah Michelle Gellar is married. She’s married! Buffy is married!
DANGER! DANGER! WORLD IN CRISIS!
What little hope single men all over the world may have held onto has now been crushed. But hey, this is Hollywood. She’ll be single again in a year!
Woohoo!
Two endings. Possible beginnings. Whatever.
The almighty Team USA basketball has finally fallen. Since USA started sending professionals to compete in international competition, they had held a 59-game winning streak. The streak ends now. 87-80. Losers to Argentina. Some might say this is sad. Others will say this is promising. I say it’s just time for USA to send their best players — like they haven’t done since the 1992 Dream team of Barcelona.
In sadder news, Sarah Michelle Gellar is married. She’s married! Buffy is married!
DANGER! DANGER! WORLD IN CRISIS!
What little hope single men all over the world may have held onto has now been crushed. But hey, this is Hollywood. She’ll be single again in a year!
Woohoo!
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
I, security liaison
Jeffery calls on Friday afternoon and tells me I’m doing bloody security. On Sunday, I come late to the meeting. Jeffery introduces me to everyone.
– Everybody, this is Christian. He’ll be in charge of security.
Everybody laughs. I guess it is obvious to all that the extent of my martial arts expertise only goes as far as a 12-hit combo on X-Men vs. Street Fighter.
Hadokken!
Saturday and it’s game on. I am late again. I’m given a plan of the Roundhouse and suddenly, the resemblance of the venue’s floorplan to that of the Starship Enterprise prompts me to pretend for a few minutes that I am Lieutenant Worf, Senior security officer. I put on my badge and the power surges through me like adrenaline. The rush fills my head in an awesome way.
– George, you take the stairs and the green room. Andy, take the other stairs. Derrick, you have the bar. I’ll take the front. Leo will be drifting. And Ben… er… thanks for coming. Let’s lock and load gentleman. The Asian invasion is upon us!
At about 5:50pm, the Asians have already lined up all the way to the other side of the Squarehouse. The doors open and KUTD 2002 is officially on.
By this stage, the real security had arrived and our jobs become obsolete. I, security liaison, am reduced to a combination of stamp boy and stairway boy. Five guys try to get up the stairs and I say, sorry. VIPs only.
– Yeah, we’re Viets.
Er… that’s nice. Now move along.
Leo, sporting a pin-stripe shirt and suit has the Yakuza look down pat. No one is gonna wanna mess with him. But all that hardness is wasted as he is reduced to VIP sticker checker. I tell him to relax and enjoy the show.
The rest of the night, I wander between my stairway post and the cloakroom (manned by a couple of twenty-something-year-olds who both look, at most, 15) and the judges’ area upstairs (manned by Wendy who can't seem to decide whether she's feeling really cold or really hot) and my four friends in the audience (I tell them if they hate the show, I’ll buy them all a drink). From time to time I pass Jeffery who, in his suit, almost prompts me to call him Jeffery Gor (Note to self: I watch too many John Woo movies). I tell him to relax too.
As far as the show goes, Asians are good dancers, but they got a long ways to go as rock bands… sorry.
By 1:30am I am having Maccas with the MC Mr Dre. We had just lugged up a whole bunch of audio equipment in and out of a van.
2:30 and I am in bed replying to an sms. Then I sleep briefly before a bout of insomnia takes me outside to witness Hewitt dismantling James Blake in five spectacular sets.
It was a good night on the whole.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.3 I would love to see John Woo direct a movie about Moses with Arnold Schwartzenegger playing the lead role and Alan Rickman playing the Pharaoh. "Let my peepull go!"
Jeffery calls on Friday afternoon and tells me I’m doing bloody security. On Sunday, I come late to the meeting. Jeffery introduces me to everyone.
– Everybody, this is Christian. He’ll be in charge of security.
Everybody laughs. I guess it is obvious to all that the extent of my martial arts expertise only goes as far as a 12-hit combo on X-Men vs. Street Fighter.
Hadokken!
Saturday and it’s game on. I am late again. I’m given a plan of the Roundhouse and suddenly, the resemblance of the venue’s floorplan to that of the Starship Enterprise prompts me to pretend for a few minutes that I am Lieutenant Worf, Senior security officer. I put on my badge and the power surges through me like adrenaline. The rush fills my head in an awesome way.
– George, you take the stairs and the green room. Andy, take the other stairs. Derrick, you have the bar. I’ll take the front. Leo will be drifting. And Ben… er… thanks for coming. Let’s lock and load gentleman. The Asian invasion is upon us!
At about 5:50pm, the Asians have already lined up all the way to the other side of the Squarehouse. The doors open and KUTD 2002 is officially on.
By this stage, the real security had arrived and our jobs become obsolete. I, security liaison, am reduced to a combination of stamp boy and stairway boy. Five guys try to get up the stairs and I say, sorry. VIPs only.
– Yeah, we’re Viets.
Er… that’s nice. Now move along.
Leo, sporting a pin-stripe shirt and suit has the Yakuza look down pat. No one is gonna wanna mess with him. But all that hardness is wasted as he is reduced to VIP sticker checker. I tell him to relax and enjoy the show.
The rest of the night, I wander between my stairway post and the cloakroom (manned by a couple of twenty-something-year-olds who both look, at most, 15) and the judges’ area upstairs (manned by Wendy who can't seem to decide whether she's feeling really cold or really hot) and my four friends in the audience (I tell them if they hate the show, I’ll buy them all a drink). From time to time I pass Jeffery who, in his suit, almost prompts me to call him Jeffery Gor (Note to self: I watch too many John Woo movies). I tell him to relax too.
As far as the show goes, Asians are good dancers, but they got a long ways to go as rock bands… sorry.
By 1:30am I am having Maccas with the MC Mr Dre. We had just lugged up a whole bunch of audio equipment in and out of a van.
2:30 and I am in bed replying to an sms. Then I sleep briefly before a bout of insomnia takes me outside to witness Hewitt dismantling James Blake in five spectacular sets.
It was a good night on the whole.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.3 I would love to see John Woo direct a movie about Moses with Arnold Schwartzenegger playing the lead role and Alan Rickman playing the Pharaoh. "Let my peepull go!"
Wednesday, August 28, 2002
Cinnamon and sugar
So there we were. The two of us sitting at a table with a third of a pretzel left looking less and less appetising by the second. The pretzels that is. Not us. We, as usual, were looking quite appetising.
I wasn’t sitting with an imaginary friend for once. She was real this friend. We were at a real place. And we really weren’t talking.
We were at a stalemate. I had just told her something I had never told anyone before and she had just asked me a question to which I could not see myself giving a reply that she wanted to hear.
It wasn’t that it was an uncomfortable silence. At least to me it wasn’t. Although I don’t really believe in comfortable silences. And she was sort of waiting for an answer from me and I was sort of stalling with it. So maybe it was rather uncomfortable after all but…
– Oh my God! Did you see how hard that guy was clenching her arse?!
Or words to that effect.
I turned around but could only vaguely see the couple she was referring to. I supposed that the girl might have had such a skinny arse that he had no choice but to grab on as tight as he could.
– I’m holding on to dear life here!
On the table next to us sat a group of barely-pubescent boys in basketball singlets and assorted gold-plated chains and looking all hardcore and ghetto-like.
Gee, I said, just fill up the juvenile detention centres now and save everyone the hassle for later on.
– You are so un-PC.
We should put half the population in jails and just leave all the nice people so everyone can be nice and happy and be frolicking in the fields, chasing butterflies and petting fluffy bunnies.
– Well you’re not exactly nice.
Fine! Then I guess I’d be put in jail too and I won’t get to pet any bunnies.
– I think you’d get tired of petting bunnies pretty quickly anyway. Bunnies are so overrated.
I finished my pretzel and she packed what was left of hers. I drove her home then with the thoughts of bunnies and a tightly-clenched arse having lifted the generally somber cloud that had been hanging over us for most of the day.
And so we hugged the hug that said “everything is OK”. You know, the one you usually reserve for when everything isn’t OK. And she said thanks for lunch and see you later and I said thanks for the pretzel and see you later and she got out of the car and I drove off home. And I was thinking that I did just tell her something really important that I hadn’t told anyone before and not that it ever needed telling anyone really and I was wondering why I did tell her.
And then I remembered that all I said was thanks for the pretzel. When what I should have said was thanks for caring enough to ask.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.2 I would like to see geneticists and horticulturalists work together to develop a fruit that tastes like chicken.
So there we were. The two of us sitting at a table with a third of a pretzel left looking less and less appetising by the second. The pretzels that is. Not us. We, as usual, were looking quite appetising.
I wasn’t sitting with an imaginary friend for once. She was real this friend. We were at a real place. And we really weren’t talking.
We were at a stalemate. I had just told her something I had never told anyone before and she had just asked me a question to which I could not see myself giving a reply that she wanted to hear.
It wasn’t that it was an uncomfortable silence. At least to me it wasn’t. Although I don’t really believe in comfortable silences. And she was sort of waiting for an answer from me and I was sort of stalling with it. So maybe it was rather uncomfortable after all but…
– Oh my God! Did you see how hard that guy was clenching her arse?!
Or words to that effect.
I turned around but could only vaguely see the couple she was referring to. I supposed that the girl might have had such a skinny arse that he had no choice but to grab on as tight as he could.
– I’m holding on to dear life here!
On the table next to us sat a group of barely-pubescent boys in basketball singlets and assorted gold-plated chains and looking all hardcore and ghetto-like.
Gee, I said, just fill up the juvenile detention centres now and save everyone the hassle for later on.
– You are so un-PC.
We should put half the population in jails and just leave all the nice people so everyone can be nice and happy and be frolicking in the fields, chasing butterflies and petting fluffy bunnies.
– Well you’re not exactly nice.
Fine! Then I guess I’d be put in jail too and I won’t get to pet any bunnies.
– I think you’d get tired of petting bunnies pretty quickly anyway. Bunnies are so overrated.
I finished my pretzel and she packed what was left of hers. I drove her home then with the thoughts of bunnies and a tightly-clenched arse having lifted the generally somber cloud that had been hanging over us for most of the day.
And so we hugged the hug that said “everything is OK”. You know, the one you usually reserve for when everything isn’t OK. And she said thanks for lunch and see you later and I said thanks for the pretzel and see you later and she got out of the car and I drove off home. And I was thinking that I did just tell her something really important that I hadn’t told anyone before and not that it ever needed telling anyone really and I was wondering why I did tell her.
And then I remembered that all I said was thanks for the pretzel. When what I should have said was thanks for caring enough to ask.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.2 I would like to see geneticists and horticulturalists work together to develop a fruit that tastes like chicken.
Monday, August 26, 2002
Another unhealthy obsession
Recently, I discovered the joys of Avril Lavigne. Even more recently, I discovered the joys of the haiku. Here are the fruits of my recent discoveries.
Oh dear sweet Avril
If only you could write more
Than your three good songs
Avril you are young
So talented… oh I wish
You were twenty-three
Avril I love you
But you are no more a punk
Than Punky Brewster
__________
Further haiku hijinks
TV on Monday
But what is the point really?
There is no Buffy
Lovely chicken breasts
Juicy wings and tenderloins
He’s good that colonel
Nineteen-ninety-nine
Such a good innocent time
Can I have you back?
From this day onwards
I only communicate
In the haiku form
Please ignore that one
Don’t know what I was thinking
A stupid idea!
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.1 I'd like to see a gay black rapper doing a hip hop cover of It's raining men with Eminem and Rupaul.
__________
Notice
The Word Project from the last posting is still on. Please refer to the side bar.
Recently, I discovered the joys of Avril Lavigne. Even more recently, I discovered the joys of the haiku. Here are the fruits of my recent discoveries.
Oh dear sweet Avril
If only you could write more
Than your three good songs
Avril you are young
So talented… oh I wish
You were twenty-three
Avril I love you
But you are no more a punk
Than Punky Brewster
__________
Further haiku hijinks
TV on Monday
But what is the point really?
There is no Buffy
Lovely chicken breasts
Juicy wings and tenderloins
He’s good that colonel
Nineteen-ninety-nine
Such a good innocent time
Can I have you back?
From this day onwards
I only communicate
In the haiku form
Please ignore that one
Don’t know what I was thinking
A stupid idea!
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.1 I'd like to see a gay black rapper doing a hip hop cover of It's raining men with Eminem and Rupaul.
__________
Notice
The Word Project from the last posting is still on. Please refer to the side bar.
Friday, August 23, 2002
A pointless vocabulary exercise
In a joint project with Catherine, we are attempting to establish a list of the twenty best words in the history of the English language.
Why, might you ask? Beats the hell out of me! But let’s do it anyway.
Here are my initial six (all I can be bothered to think of at the moment). Please feel free to contribute your favourite words and say why you like them. And we will eventually make up a list of what we think are the top twenty.
– der (the all-purpose term of condescension)
– bollocks (if you use this word in Australia, it’ll make you sound like a git!)
– d’oh! (a deer, a female deer)
– git (this is what you call someone when they are talking a whole load of bollocks)
– dodecahedron (when someone tries to insult you and calls you a square, just say “no, I’m a dodecahedron” and watch them reel in open-mouthed defeat!)
– excrement (is there a classier, more elegant way to describe doo doo?)
Your input at this point would be appreciated.
In a joint project with Catherine, we are attempting to establish a list of the twenty best words in the history of the English language.
Why, might you ask? Beats the hell out of me! But let’s do it anyway.
Here are my initial six (all I can be bothered to think of at the moment). Please feel free to contribute your favourite words and say why you like them. And we will eventually make up a list of what we think are the top twenty.
– der (the all-purpose term of condescension)
– bollocks (if you use this word in Australia, it’ll make you sound like a git!)
– d’oh! (a deer, a female deer)
– git (this is what you call someone when they are talking a whole load of bollocks)
– dodecahedron (when someone tries to insult you and calls you a square, just say “no, I’m a dodecahedron” and watch them reel in open-mouthed defeat!)
– excrement (is there a classier, more elegant way to describe doo doo?)
Your input at this point would be appreciated.
Wednesday, August 21, 2002
I are a idiot
It has suddenly come to my attention that I know nothing. Well that’s not entirely true. I do know quite a lot of things in a wide variety of subjects. And I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, intentions, etc. in other people. Whatever.
I just don’t think I know anything when it comes to myself. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to live. I have no working knowledge on how to live an effective life.
I don’t do anything. I can’t think of a single instance where anything significant in my life has come about due to my own doing. Everything has been a series of little accidents, both good and bad, and I’m just bumbling around taking it all as it comes. I’m like Mr. Magoo.
I think one reason why it is so easy for me to believe in God and in fate is that I’ve never felt like I’m in any control when I’m interacting with the rest of the world. Everything that happens to me seems completely random and every effort I make turns to crap. Which is dumb really, because that’s not even the model of fate that I subscribe to.
I want the set of rules. I want the hint book, the walkthrough, the Cliff’s notes! Anything! I want to know how to play the game dammit!
__________
Shorts
Canberra really isn’t so bad. Everything looks a little artificial but it’s actually quite nice. Nice trees, nice lake, nice gardens. All very neat. Plus, we went to this club with cheap drinks, cheap entry, no smoking and S Club 7. That’s all I need to say really.
__________
My two current favourite CDs are Motor Ace’s Shoot this and Phantom Planet’s The Guest. Avril has a few good songs too, but um...er... I'll just leave it at that.
It has suddenly come to my attention that I know nothing. Well that’s not entirely true. I do know quite a lot of things in a wide variety of subjects. And I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, intentions, etc. in other people. Whatever.
I just don’t think I know anything when it comes to myself. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to live. I have no working knowledge on how to live an effective life.
I don’t do anything. I can’t think of a single instance where anything significant in my life has come about due to my own doing. Everything has been a series of little accidents, both good and bad, and I’m just bumbling around taking it all as it comes. I’m like Mr. Magoo.
I think one reason why it is so easy for me to believe in God and in fate is that I’ve never felt like I’m in any control when I’m interacting with the rest of the world. Everything that happens to me seems completely random and every effort I make turns to crap. Which is dumb really, because that’s not even the model of fate that I subscribe to.
I want the set of rules. I want the hint book, the walkthrough, the Cliff’s notes! Anything! I want to know how to play the game dammit!
__________
Shorts
Canberra really isn’t so bad. Everything looks a little artificial but it’s actually quite nice. Nice trees, nice lake, nice gardens. All very neat. Plus, we went to this club with cheap drinks, cheap entry, no smoking and S Club 7. That’s all I need to say really.
__________
My two current favourite CDs are Motor Ace’s Shoot this and Phantom Planet’s The Guest. Avril has a few good songs too, but um...er... I'll just leave it at that.
Sunday, August 18, 2002
Preface, introduction, foreword, etc.
So here we are. One entry after Z. A new layout, a new name. But it's the same old crap really, only with new prettier window dressing. What will follow are pieces of random rants and creative writing. Some will be rather long, I admit. These will most probably be the creative writing side of the blog. Anyway, let's begin with a long one. Because I felt like it at the time.
Christian Harimanow
Sydney 2002
__________
Welcome to Wonderworld
You look like shite, says Sleepwalker. And I say, yeah. I do. The mirror shows me a portrait of the sleep-deprived. Eyes bloodshot. Bags under them carrying their own luggage. My imaginary friend, Sleepwalker, suggests that maybe I shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night. I say, duh.
– It’s a shame really. You usually look so much better.
I say, yeah whatever.
–You’re a good-looking guy. You look like Chow Yun Fat.
I say, stop it. Sleepwalker says, no really. I smile and say, well…
At the station, I am sitting on the edge of a wet seat after a night of rain. Sleepwalker stands against the pole smoking an imaginary cigarette. I tell him those things will kill you. He laughs. He tells me he likes the idea of non-existent tar building up in his non-existent lungs.
The bum next to me looks worse than I do. He lights up a real cigarette. And at the first real puff of real smoke, I begin to wheeze and cough violently. This reaction is real. The wheezing is real. I am coughing for real. But it is so over-the-top that it looks completely faked.
Tobacco smoke. Cold air. Dust. Must have created something rather nasty in my asthmatic lungs. The bum walks away, surprised by my involuntary convulsions. I almost feel a token need to explain. But I am enjoying the clean air too much to bother.
By 12:20 pm that day, I make my way from my 70’s time warp of an office down to the Metro food court for lunch. On the way there, I look at the same pile of books that I looked at the day before. Placed in the same order. On the same table. At the same discount bookseller. The same woman at the paying table is watching me that was watching me the day before. Sleepwalker says we should get that book. I say, it’ll probably still be there tomorrow.
– That’s what you said yesterday.
And we walk on.
The CD store offers little more relief to this maddening monotony. New stock only comes in once a week. In fact, the revolving door of staff seems to move faster than incoming stock. Every time, I am greeted by a new bubbly blonde with her midriff exposed, or some new guy with dreadlocks looking like the Tim Tam genie. But the CDs are always the same.
So I walk past, having developed an inexplicable desire for chocolate-covered biscuits. I know it’s time to eat.
– We’re not having KFC again are we? We had that yesterday.
No, I say. I was thinking of a kebab.
– We had that two days ago.
Indian?
– Monday.
I then suggest the Chinese smorgasbord. If my memory serves me correctly, we haven’t had that in weeks.
– But if your memory really did serve you correctly, you would also remember why we haven’t had that in weeks.
Oh.
Having fried chicken two days in a row isn’t so bad. You can have the burger one day and pieces of original recipe chicken the next. And you can conveniently forget to think about the fat content if you can. But it’s hard to. A couple of metres from me is the man who I shall call Luigi. He is here everyday. He is fat. He reminds me of fat. He probably eats fried chicken everyday. But if he does, he does so before I get here. By the time I get to the food court, Luigi is already having coffee and flirting with the unamused girls at Michele’s. And the cute girl at the newsagency has just begun her shift.
Luigi, I’m convinced, is either a gangster or he’s an actor who auditioned for The Sopranos and decided to keep the look even after he was rejected by the show’s producers. Of course, chances are, he’s probably just a fat bald Italian dude with a penchant for gold chains. The cute girl at the newsagency is probably just a cute girl who works at the newsagency.
I don’t know the time anymore. I used to go nowhere without my watch. And then when I lost my watch, I used to go by the time on my mobile. But now I don’t bother. I know how long I take to eat. I know how long I take to look at books, browse the CD shelves and wander aimlessly around the polished off-white aisles of K-mart. My body is synchronised to the routine ticking of my weekdays.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
– You do realise of course that today is the most important day of your life.
Sleepwalker often blurts out things out of nowhere. I say, and how so?
– Actually this is the most important day in the history of the universe.
I barely humour him. I continue to eat. Maybe just let out a half-hearted wry smile.
– Everything from the very beginning of time has led to this point. From the big bang to the seven essential proteins rising from the primordial soup to form the building blocks of life, the rise of humanity, all the wars, all human innovations, every human success, every failure, every sacrifice, every selfish act — they all have led to this day. And let’s not stop there. There’s you. Your parents, your upbringing, your choices, your efforts, every risk you’ve ever taken and all the ones you didn’t take, every path you’ve ever walked. Everything that has come before has led to this singular moment of you and I having lunch. Right here. Right now.
He waits for a response like he always does. I make him wait like I always do. His hands mindlessly play with his Coke cup. I finish my last mouthfuls of chicken.
I say, do you always have to sound like such a wanker?
My imaginary friend smiles at me and raises his cup in my direction, beckoning me to do the same.
I don’t look at him. But I see Luigi still flirting with the girls at Michele’s. The cute girl at the newsagency is selling some guy a lottery ticket. The guy is buying his one ticket out of this place — that he may never have to eat at this food court anymore. And maybe he’ll win. Maybe he’ll never see this place again. And maybe he’s just a guy buying a lottery ticket. But all I know is that I’ll be back here tomorrow to do this all over again.
So I raise my cup to Sleepwalker and I indulge myself in a single moment of genuine contentment.
I say, cheers Sleepwalker. And he says, cheers mate. And we put our rubbish in the bin and we walk back to work.
__________
Welcome to Wonderworld.
And have a wonderful stay.
So here we are. One entry after Z. A new layout, a new name. But it's the same old crap really, only with new prettier window dressing. What will follow are pieces of random rants and creative writing. Some will be rather long, I admit. These will most probably be the creative writing side of the blog. Anyway, let's begin with a long one. Because I felt like it at the time.
Christian Harimanow
Sydney 2002
__________
Welcome to Wonderworld
You look like shite, says Sleepwalker. And I say, yeah. I do. The mirror shows me a portrait of the sleep-deprived. Eyes bloodshot. Bags under them carrying their own luggage. My imaginary friend, Sleepwalker, suggests that maybe I shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night. I say, duh.
– It’s a shame really. You usually look so much better.
I say, yeah whatever.
–You’re a good-looking guy. You look like Chow Yun Fat.
I say, stop it. Sleepwalker says, no really. I smile and say, well…
At the station, I am sitting on the edge of a wet seat after a night of rain. Sleepwalker stands against the pole smoking an imaginary cigarette. I tell him those things will kill you. He laughs. He tells me he likes the idea of non-existent tar building up in his non-existent lungs.
The bum next to me looks worse than I do. He lights up a real cigarette. And at the first real puff of real smoke, I begin to wheeze and cough violently. This reaction is real. The wheezing is real. I am coughing for real. But it is so over-the-top that it looks completely faked.
Tobacco smoke. Cold air. Dust. Must have created something rather nasty in my asthmatic lungs. The bum walks away, surprised by my involuntary convulsions. I almost feel a token need to explain. But I am enjoying the clean air too much to bother.
By 12:20 pm that day, I make my way from my 70’s time warp of an office down to the Metro food court for lunch. On the way there, I look at the same pile of books that I looked at the day before. Placed in the same order. On the same table. At the same discount bookseller. The same woman at the paying table is watching me that was watching me the day before. Sleepwalker says we should get that book. I say, it’ll probably still be there tomorrow.
– That’s what you said yesterday.
And we walk on.
The CD store offers little more relief to this maddening monotony. New stock only comes in once a week. In fact, the revolving door of staff seems to move faster than incoming stock. Every time, I am greeted by a new bubbly blonde with her midriff exposed, or some new guy with dreadlocks looking like the Tim Tam genie. But the CDs are always the same.
So I walk past, having developed an inexplicable desire for chocolate-covered biscuits. I know it’s time to eat.
– We’re not having KFC again are we? We had that yesterday.
No, I say. I was thinking of a kebab.
– We had that two days ago.
Indian?
– Monday.
I then suggest the Chinese smorgasbord. If my memory serves me correctly, we haven’t had that in weeks.
– But if your memory really did serve you correctly, you would also remember why we haven’t had that in weeks.
Oh.
Having fried chicken two days in a row isn’t so bad. You can have the burger one day and pieces of original recipe chicken the next. And you can conveniently forget to think about the fat content if you can. But it’s hard to. A couple of metres from me is the man who I shall call Luigi. He is here everyday. He is fat. He reminds me of fat. He probably eats fried chicken everyday. But if he does, he does so before I get here. By the time I get to the food court, Luigi is already having coffee and flirting with the unamused girls at Michele’s. And the cute girl at the newsagency has just begun her shift.
Luigi, I’m convinced, is either a gangster or he’s an actor who auditioned for The Sopranos and decided to keep the look even after he was rejected by the show’s producers. Of course, chances are, he’s probably just a fat bald Italian dude with a penchant for gold chains. The cute girl at the newsagency is probably just a cute girl who works at the newsagency.
I don’t know the time anymore. I used to go nowhere without my watch. And then when I lost my watch, I used to go by the time on my mobile. But now I don’t bother. I know how long I take to eat. I know how long I take to look at books, browse the CD shelves and wander aimlessly around the polished off-white aisles of K-mart. My body is synchronised to the routine ticking of my weekdays.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
– You do realise of course that today is the most important day of your life.
Sleepwalker often blurts out things out of nowhere. I say, and how so?
– Actually this is the most important day in the history of the universe.
I barely humour him. I continue to eat. Maybe just let out a half-hearted wry smile.
– Everything from the very beginning of time has led to this point. From the big bang to the seven essential proteins rising from the primordial soup to form the building blocks of life, the rise of humanity, all the wars, all human innovations, every human success, every failure, every sacrifice, every selfish act — they all have led to this day. And let’s not stop there. There’s you. Your parents, your upbringing, your choices, your efforts, every risk you’ve ever taken and all the ones you didn’t take, every path you’ve ever walked. Everything that has come before has led to this singular moment of you and I having lunch. Right here. Right now.
He waits for a response like he always does. I make him wait like I always do. His hands mindlessly play with his Coke cup. I finish my last mouthfuls of chicken.
I say, do you always have to sound like such a wanker?
My imaginary friend smiles at me and raises his cup in my direction, beckoning me to do the same.
I don’t look at him. But I see Luigi still flirting with the girls at Michele’s. The cute girl at the newsagency is selling some guy a lottery ticket. The guy is buying his one ticket out of this place — that he may never have to eat at this food court anymore. And maybe he’ll win. Maybe he’ll never see this place again. And maybe he’s just a guy buying a lottery ticket. But all I know is that I’ll be back here tomorrow to do this all over again.
So I raise my cup to Sleepwalker and I indulge myself in a single moment of genuine contentment.
I say, cheers Sleepwalker. And he says, cheers mate. And we put our rubbish in the bin and we walk back to work.
__________
Welcome to Wonderworld.
And have a wonderful stay.
Sunday, August 11, 2002
Z is for Zenith
It is with great disappointment that I now have climbed my proverbial mountain only to want nothing more than to climb the next peak. The view from up here is alright but I am speechless. Not from awe. But from lack of interest. There is no climax. There is no resolution. There is simply thinner air.
And so I shall end this well-intentioned, yet ill-advised, concept not on top of my mountain but on its foothills. I shall end at the very beginning and do something that I said I would never want to do again. I shall give my back story. And explain my existence. So here are ten not-so-interesting facts about xtn.
May God help me…
10. I stutter but not many people notice.
9. I can put both of my legs behind my head… and I make sure that everyone notices!
8. I am not fresh off the boat. And I speak English rather well. But I am not a banana. I am not friggin’ ‘white on the inside’! I hate that term! If you cut me open, I will bleed red. Just like you would.
7. I have stepped on the soil of these countries: Australia, Indonesia, Singapore, Hong Kong, China, The United States of America, Mexico, England, Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Germany, France, Switzerland, Italy and Tasmania.
6. I speak fluent English, conversational Indonesian, I can understand bits of Dutch, know how to say “can you speak English?’ in French and German, ‘happy new year’ in Croatian and I can recognise most of the yum cha foods in Cantonese. I also know a couple of words in Klingon.
5. I am Indonesian by birth, Australian by citizenship, Chinese by blood and a child of television by inclination. Apparently I also had a Dutch great-grandmother. And apparently I don’t have any Indonesian blood in me, although I accept that fact with some suspicion. I also don’t look like anyone in my family. This prompts the rather improbable, and ultimately inconsequential, possibility that I was either adopted or switched at birth.
4. I was involved in the newspaper of my high school, the newspaper of my university and if my company now had a newspaper, I would probably be involved in that too.
3. I play tennis and basketball well enough, and I would agree to participate in badminton, squash, ping pong, touch footy and lawn bowls. I refuse to play sports and games which I am bad at, mostly because I try to suppress all knowledge that I am incompetent at anything.
2. I am part of the Roman Catholic church. And if you don’t like that, then may fire and brimstone rain on your village. That was a joke. Not blasphemy.
1. This blog has taken over my life.
__________
And so it ends. Twenty-six entries. A to Z.
What comes next?
More of the same. Another mixture of random rants and creative writing. Just with new window dressing. So stay tuned. I will be back here real soon. I’ve started redesigning the look of the site, I am freeing myself of any possibly cumbersome gimmicks and I’ve promised myself that what comes next will be better.
This is where I am today.
Where do I want to go now?
It is with great disappointment that I now have climbed my proverbial mountain only to want nothing more than to climb the next peak. The view from up here is alright but I am speechless. Not from awe. But from lack of interest. There is no climax. There is no resolution. There is simply thinner air.
And so I shall end this well-intentioned, yet ill-advised, concept not on top of my mountain but on its foothills. I shall end at the very beginning and do something that I said I would never want to do again. I shall give my back story. And explain my existence. So here are ten not-so-interesting facts about xtn.
May God help me…
10. I stutter but not many people notice.
9. I can put both of my legs behind my head… and I make sure that everyone notices!
8. I am not fresh off the boat. And I speak English rather well. But I am not a banana. I am not friggin’ ‘white on the inside’! I hate that term! If you cut me open, I will bleed red. Just like you would.
7. I have stepped on the soil of these countries: Australia, Indonesia, Singapore, Hong Kong, China, The United States of America, Mexico, England, Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Germany, France, Switzerland, Italy and Tasmania.
6. I speak fluent English, conversational Indonesian, I can understand bits of Dutch, know how to say “can you speak English?’ in French and German, ‘happy new year’ in Croatian and I can recognise most of the yum cha foods in Cantonese. I also know a couple of words in Klingon.
5. I am Indonesian by birth, Australian by citizenship, Chinese by blood and a child of television by inclination. Apparently I also had a Dutch great-grandmother. And apparently I don’t have any Indonesian blood in me, although I accept that fact with some suspicion. I also don’t look like anyone in my family. This prompts the rather improbable, and ultimately inconsequential, possibility that I was either adopted or switched at birth.
4. I was involved in the newspaper of my high school, the newspaper of my university and if my company now had a newspaper, I would probably be involved in that too.
3. I play tennis and basketball well enough, and I would agree to participate in badminton, squash, ping pong, touch footy and lawn bowls. I refuse to play sports and games which I am bad at, mostly because I try to suppress all knowledge that I am incompetent at anything.
2. I am part of the Roman Catholic church. And if you don’t like that, then may fire and brimstone rain on your village. That was a joke. Not blasphemy.
1. This blog has taken over my life.
__________
And so it ends. Twenty-six entries. A to Z.
What comes next?
More of the same. Another mixture of random rants and creative writing. Just with new window dressing. So stay tuned. I will be back here real soon. I’ve started redesigning the look of the site, I am freeing myself of any possibly cumbersome gimmicks and I’ve promised myself that what comes next will be better.
This is where I am today.
Where do I want to go now?
Wednesday, August 07, 2002
Y is for Youth
All I ask for is guilt-free music. But it’s getting harder and harder. It’s like they’re growing them in vats these days. Nubile 17-year-old chicks with guitars that make you feel like a paedophile just for enjoying their music. And I do enjoy their music. It’s all that mid-tempo radio-friendly guitar-pop that record companies are passing off as rock these days. Can you really ever get enough of that?
When it’s Matchbox 20, or even fully-developed women like Meredith Brooks, doing that kind of music, it’s OK. But now they come in cute little packages like Michelle Branch, Avril Lavigne and Vanessa Carlton. Just watching their video clips makes me feel guilty.
It’s just their music that I like. Not them. Just the music. Nothing else. Just the music…
My friend looks up at a giant Channel V screen and Avril Lavigne is jumping up and down and he says, she's cute but she doesn’t even have breasts yet. And I say, you’re not admiring her beauty. You’re admiring her great potential.
Save me now…
All I ask for is guilt-free music. But it’s getting harder and harder. It’s like they’re growing them in vats these days. Nubile 17-year-old chicks with guitars that make you feel like a paedophile just for enjoying their music. And I do enjoy their music. It’s all that mid-tempo radio-friendly guitar-pop that record companies are passing off as rock these days. Can you really ever get enough of that?
When it’s Matchbox 20, or even fully-developed women like Meredith Brooks, doing that kind of music, it’s OK. But now they come in cute little packages like Michelle Branch, Avril Lavigne and Vanessa Carlton. Just watching their video clips makes me feel guilty.
It’s just their music that I like. Not them. Just the music. Nothing else. Just the music…
My friend looks up at a giant Channel V screen and Avril Lavigne is jumping up and down and he says, she's cute but she doesn’t even have breasts yet. And I say, you’re not admiring her beauty. You’re admiring her great potential.
Save me now…
Sunday, August 04, 2002
X is for X
The letter X brings images of two things for me: X-men and mathematics. I’m not in the mood to talk about either right now. Talking about those two subjects would probably turn this into another ‘Yay for geeks!’ entry and frankly, I don’t feel like it.
I say quite often that I’m a geek, and yet I’ve noticed from my own behaviour that I also like to distance myself from other geeks. I buy comics but I’m not as bad as other comic readers. I watch Star trek but I’m not as sad as other Trekkies. And so on.
I guess at the end of the day, I don’t really consider myself a geek. I just happen to show undeniably geek-like qualities. Whatever that means. I think I also like to distance myself from everything and everyone. I like to watch, as they say. That’s probably why I like writing. I could try to explain all this. Although I’d probably be contradicting myself a few times along the way. But frankly, I can’t be bothered doing that either.
__________
What’s your favourite Matthew Broderick movie? If you say Godzilla, then please go away! If you say Ferris Bueller, you won’t get my agreement, but you’ll have my respect. My favourite is Biloxi Blues. Broderick and Christopher Walken make a great combination. And today I got it on video for $2. Man, I love bargains!
__________
I went wine tasting last night. That’s twice in two weeks. I still can’t tell much about it. I know what I like and don’t like. And that’s about it. For now I’m sticking to whites… and the odd sparkling red.
__________
My friend Jo got engaged yesterday. They looked really happy. And I’m really happy for them. I could’ve been really happy for myself too cos I met this really nice girl there. But apparently she’s been spoken for. Oh well. Such is life…
__________
Phantom Planet is a good band. I just discovered them now. The sound like Travis would sound if they lightened up once in a while.
__________
I took a drive to Rookwood cemetery today. It reminded me that there’s this one story that I’d like to tell. It would be my most important story. But I’m just afraid to write it cos after that, I don’t think I’ll have any more stories to tell. But until then, I guess I’m just beating around the bush…
__________
My friend just got back from New Zealand (I was in Old Zealand just under a year ago) and as a coming-home present, I got him a Mandy Moore photo book. We were at a bar and he was too embarrassed to take it out of the plastic bag. What could possibly be so embarrassing about a 23-year-old liking Mandy Moore??!
Did I just say that out loud?
__________
What else? Oh yeah… two to go.
The letter X brings images of two things for me: X-men and mathematics. I’m not in the mood to talk about either right now. Talking about those two subjects would probably turn this into another ‘Yay for geeks!’ entry and frankly, I don’t feel like it.
I say quite often that I’m a geek, and yet I’ve noticed from my own behaviour that I also like to distance myself from other geeks. I buy comics but I’m not as bad as other comic readers. I watch Star trek but I’m not as sad as other Trekkies. And so on.
I guess at the end of the day, I don’t really consider myself a geek. I just happen to show undeniably geek-like qualities. Whatever that means. I think I also like to distance myself from everything and everyone. I like to watch, as they say. That’s probably why I like writing. I could try to explain all this. Although I’d probably be contradicting myself a few times along the way. But frankly, I can’t be bothered doing that either.
__________
What’s your favourite Matthew Broderick movie? If you say Godzilla, then please go away! If you say Ferris Bueller, you won’t get my agreement, but you’ll have my respect. My favourite is Biloxi Blues. Broderick and Christopher Walken make a great combination. And today I got it on video for $2. Man, I love bargains!
__________
I went wine tasting last night. That’s twice in two weeks. I still can’t tell much about it. I know what I like and don’t like. And that’s about it. For now I’m sticking to whites… and the odd sparkling red.
__________
My friend Jo got engaged yesterday. They looked really happy. And I’m really happy for them. I could’ve been really happy for myself too cos I met this really nice girl there. But apparently she’s been spoken for. Oh well. Such is life…
__________
Phantom Planet is a good band. I just discovered them now. The sound like Travis would sound if they lightened up once in a while.
__________
I took a drive to Rookwood cemetery today. It reminded me that there’s this one story that I’d like to tell. It would be my most important story. But I’m just afraid to write it cos after that, I don’t think I’ll have any more stories to tell. But until then, I guess I’m just beating around the bush…
__________
My friend just got back from New Zealand (I was in Old Zealand just under a year ago) and as a coming-home present, I got him a Mandy Moore photo book. We were at a bar and he was too embarrassed to take it out of the plastic bag. What could possibly be so embarrassing about a 23-year-old liking Mandy Moore??!
Did I just say that out loud?
__________
What else? Oh yeah… two to go.
Tuesday, July 30, 2002
W is for Words
Comrade Yan posted a poem he wrote that I rather liked. But in general, I’m not such a fan of poetry. This is probably because I am not a poet. I suck at it. Having said that, I have dabbled. To varying degrees of success.
__________
My favourite poem was written in year 9 about my first true obsession other than communism. Frankly, I haven’t written a better poem since.
Ode to Liquid Paper
A thing so pure and fine
Words cannot describe it
But a challenge such as this
At least deserves a try
I love the way you spread peace
When people make mistakes
The way your fine hairs
Brush across the page
So smooth, so fine
Things you do just excite me
The way you shake it for me
When I need you
The way you sit on my table
When I want you
The way you take off your top
When I desire you
So graceful
So perfect
Just so so fine…
__________
This next poem is something that I had forgotten ever writing at all. It was THAT memorable. But I think it’s appropriate for the circumstances under which I’m writing now.
'ICQ Insomniac' (The time is now 1:25 am on a weeknight)
It’s amazing the things you think of when it’s late
When you can’t go to sleep cos you kinda just ate
You know I have no idea what it is that I am writing
But damn those mosquitoes! They really are biting!
I am bored yes yes but I just cannot sleep
And though cute at first, they get annoying, those sheep!
I know I should be in bed as I am sick
But that ICQ is bloody addictive! Damn! Click click!
Even tonight, when there’s hardly anyone on
I’m sure Ben was, but it’s late and he’s gone
I’m hiding from my friend but she knows! Beep beep!
Yeah I just got off the phone with her. I’d said I needed to sleep
Perhaps it is time. I need to wake early tomorrow
To a late night last night, another one shouldn’t follow
But a couple lines left, I’m determined to finish this
So I can fall asleep and dream... and dream... sweet bliss!
__________
This third offering was published in Tharunka (UNSW student newspaper) in 1999. Of course, I was the chief editor so I could always put any and all of my crap in every issue!
Poetry
what is poetry?
are there any rules?
it seems silly to me
that anything
written in skinnier columns
than prose
could be
considered poetry.
all the rules
go down the drain.
the weirder
the better
one word
per line
makes for a great
effect
nobody understands
no one but
the writer
but everyone likes it
because it’s weird
Weird
WEIRD!
and anything weird
is always good.
poetry
an expression
of the soul?
a manifestation
of the spirit?
a window
to the mind?
or just a way of filling space
with less words than prose
__________
Finally, I wanted to share with you something that I didn’t write. It’s from a book that I am reading now, by one of my favourite authors — Kurt Vonnegut Jnr. I don’t know if he even wrote it himself. It’s probably old and overused but it’s about teenage girls so I couldn’t really give a toss who wrote it.
Roses are red
And ready for plucking
You are sixteen
And ready for high school
And on that note...
Comrade Yan posted a poem he wrote that I rather liked. But in general, I’m not such a fan of poetry. This is probably because I am not a poet. I suck at it. Having said that, I have dabbled. To varying degrees of success.
__________
My favourite poem was written in year 9 about my first true obsession other than communism. Frankly, I haven’t written a better poem since.
Ode to Liquid Paper
A thing so pure and fine
Words cannot describe it
But a challenge such as this
At least deserves a try
I love the way you spread peace
When people make mistakes
The way your fine hairs
Brush across the page
So smooth, so fine
Things you do just excite me
The way you shake it for me
When I need you
The way you sit on my table
When I want you
The way you take off your top
When I desire you
So graceful
So perfect
Just so so fine…
__________
This next poem is something that I had forgotten ever writing at all. It was THAT memorable. But I think it’s appropriate for the circumstances under which I’m writing now.
'ICQ Insomniac' (The time is now 1:25 am on a weeknight)
It’s amazing the things you think of when it’s late
When you can’t go to sleep cos you kinda just ate
You know I have no idea what it is that I am writing
But damn those mosquitoes! They really are biting!
I am bored yes yes but I just cannot sleep
And though cute at first, they get annoying, those sheep!
I know I should be in bed as I am sick
But that ICQ is bloody addictive! Damn! Click click!
Even tonight, when there’s hardly anyone on
I’m sure Ben was, but it’s late and he’s gone
I’m hiding from my friend but she knows! Beep beep!
Yeah I just got off the phone with her. I’d said I needed to sleep
Perhaps it is time. I need to wake early tomorrow
To a late night last night, another one shouldn’t follow
But a couple lines left, I’m determined to finish this
So I can fall asleep and dream... and dream... sweet bliss!
__________
This third offering was published in Tharunka (UNSW student newspaper) in 1999. Of course, I was the chief editor so I could always put any and all of my crap in every issue!
Poetry
what is poetry?
are there any rules?
it seems silly to me
that anything
written in skinnier columns
than prose
could be
considered poetry.
all the rules
go down the drain.
the weirder
the better
one word
per line
makes for a great
effect
nobody understands
no one but
the writer
but everyone likes it
because it’s weird
Weird
WEIRD!
and anything weird
is always good.
poetry
an expression
of the soul?
a manifestation
of the spirit?
a window
to the mind?
or just a way of filling space
with less words than prose
__________
Finally, I wanted to share with you something that I didn’t write. It’s from a book that I am reading now, by one of my favourite authors — Kurt Vonnegut Jnr. I don’t know if he even wrote it himself. It’s probably old and overused but it’s about teenage girls so I couldn’t really give a toss who wrote it.
Roses are red
And ready for plucking
You are sixteen
And ready for high school
And on that note...
Monday, July 29, 2002
V is for Vampires (or lack thereof)
I should be out in the family room watching TV, but instead I’m here in front of the computer. I am lamenting the end of Monday night TV as I know it and try as I may, I cannot embrace the Commonwealth games as an acceptable substitute.
Always Greener ended a while ago with Tom declaring his love to a mystery person.
Alias ended with Sydney being captured by her own mother.
The Practice ended with Lindsay getting a life sentence for murder.
And last week, Buffy’s Scooby gang saved the world again and Spike got his soul back.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do with my Monday nights?!
Even my trusted soapies have gone bad. Last week, they ran a whole episode of Home and Away without Dani even appearing once!! I mean, without her, why even bother? Instead of Home and Away, they should’ve just called it Dani is Away. That way they’re not wasting anybody’s time.
__________
On a small scale, I’m actually pretty easy to please. All I need is a lot of food, a little alcohol, a little physical exercise, good company, and I’m happy. Last weekend had all those things. Needless to say, I was happy…
__________
Last entry was a bit incoherent. It was an attack of verbal diarrhoea. I actually had to stop myself from writing more. I had so much to say with so little meaning. An experiment if you like. And I wanted to shift from the brooding mood of my previous two entries.
S is for Sleepwalker was probably my first true complete piece of prose that I’ve produced since 1st year uni. Pretty sad eh? I was very happy with it though, which I guess counts for something.
And T is for Testament was probably the most personal thing that I have ever written that was readily available to a public. And I’m not even sure if anyone noticed.
Both were cathartic. A good release for me. I feel free now. I feel like a reality TV show contestant after he gets the guts to bathe/shower without underwear for the first time! I feel like I’m a little more prepared to begin writing my novel. A few more baby steps.
But for now it’s time to lighten up.
A bit.
__________
Goodnight Sleepwalker.
Don’t let the bedbugs bite.
I should be out in the family room watching TV, but instead I’m here in front of the computer. I am lamenting the end of Monday night TV as I know it and try as I may, I cannot embrace the Commonwealth games as an acceptable substitute.
Always Greener ended a while ago with Tom declaring his love to a mystery person.
Alias ended with Sydney being captured by her own mother.
The Practice ended with Lindsay getting a life sentence for murder.
And last week, Buffy’s Scooby gang saved the world again and Spike got his soul back.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do with my Monday nights?!
Even my trusted soapies have gone bad. Last week, they ran a whole episode of Home and Away without Dani even appearing once!! I mean, without her, why even bother? Instead of Home and Away, they should’ve just called it Dani is Away. That way they’re not wasting anybody’s time.
__________
On a small scale, I’m actually pretty easy to please. All I need is a lot of food, a little alcohol, a little physical exercise, good company, and I’m happy. Last weekend had all those things. Needless to say, I was happy…
__________
Last entry was a bit incoherent. It was an attack of verbal diarrhoea. I actually had to stop myself from writing more. I had so much to say with so little meaning. An experiment if you like. And I wanted to shift from the brooding mood of my previous two entries.
S is for Sleepwalker was probably my first true complete piece of prose that I’ve produced since 1st year uni. Pretty sad eh? I was very happy with it though, which I guess counts for something.
And T is for Testament was probably the most personal thing that I have ever written that was readily available to a public. And I’m not even sure if anyone noticed.
Both were cathartic. A good release for me. I feel free now. I feel like a reality TV show contestant after he gets the guts to bathe/shower without underwear for the first time! I feel like I’m a little more prepared to begin writing my novel. A few more baby steps.
But for now it’s time to lighten up.
A bit.
__________
Goodnight Sleepwalker.
Don’t let the bedbugs bite.
Friday, July 26, 2002
U is for Undead
…or ‘Oh no, it’s the end of the world again!’
— a transvestite horror melodrama!
xtn had gone loopy. He woke up in the morning to the sound of his vibrating phone. At 7am the phone vibrates and emits a small sound loud enough to wake him up. Then xtn, who also goes by the name of Christian, would look at the little green screen and, depending on what mental state he is in at the time, sees either a line of small clocks or a line of small bombs. The writing on the screen, he often mistakes for someone’s name. He often thinks someone is calling him. It actually says:
Alarm!
Then he would usually turn it off and go back to sleep til his own body clock wakes him up at around 8.
But xtn had gone loopy. He woke up that morning at 7am and muttered:
I’m a brain in a vat.
Then he went back to sleep til his own body clock woke him up at 8.
The brain in a vat is an interesting and useful hypothetical tool used in philosophy, that assumes that nothing is real — that you are just a brain in a vat being fed artificial stimuli in the form of electrical impulses. It used to be popularly known as ‘the brain in a vat’. Nowadays, people just say:
Ahh, the Matrix.
It wasn’t the first time he’d gone loopy. Once he woke up and muttered:
Deutschland uber ales!
He has nothing against Jews. Another time it was:
Lapis lazuli.
He had forgotten what lapis lazuli meant and for a whole day he was afraid he was subconsciously chanting an ancient mystical incantation. Other times he would just pat his German shepherd soft toy on its head and say:
Good boy.
For the rest of the day, xtn believed he was a brain in a vat. What this meant to him was that if nothing was real, then everything was just as real, or unreal, as anything else.
For example, when his mother was telling him something important, it didn’t matter to him since it wasn’t real anyway.
Another example: for the whole day, he believed that Willow, who also goes by the name of Allison, had gone evil and was actually going to destroy the world that night, and that Buffy, her best friend, was going to try to stop her. Buffy also goes by the name of Sarah Michelle.
xtn used to think that all females with two first names must be ugly.
He doesn’t think so anymore.
xtn knew about all this ‘end of the world’ stuff because the Oracle had told him so.
He only called it the Oracle because he was loopy. Normally, he would call it the TV guide.
xtn knew that there was little he could do to stop things. The Oracle was hardly ever wrong. But he wasn’t really afraid of the end of the world because he knew that nothing was real. But he was thinking about this as he was having lunch with his friend Sandy Toggs. He was thinking of Buffy because Buffy fights vampires, Dracula was a vampire and Dracula lived in Transylvania.
Sandy, who also goes by the name of David, becomes an alien on Thursday nights and works with a big monstrous transvestite named Frankenfurter, who’s other name I don’t know, in a castle in Transylvania.
Transylvania is where Dracula also lived.
They call it The Rocky Horror Show. Although it’s not really horror at all. It’s just a bunch of men wearing dresses and bondage gear dancing to music.
A transvestite is a person (usually a man) who likes to wear clothing of the opposite sex.
Bondage gear is a little harder to explain.
It was possible that he was actually thinking about lunch with Sandy while seeing Buffy and not the other way around. xtn wasn’t sure which was which but it didn’t matter because nothing was real anyway.
Sandy was one of xtn’s best friends in school. So good friends they were that the only argument between them that xtn could remember was over tomato sauce. You know you have a good friend when the only thing you argue over is tomato sauce.
Other than that, they were great friends. They both loved the theatre. Of course, Sandy actually studies theatre. xtn just likes to watch and then say something like:
I liked that. That was good.
Sandy would then reply with something along the lines of:
Yes. I thought it was good too.
They also worked together during school. The six steps of service at the place they worked at was:
1. Greet the customer.
2. Take the order.
3. Suggestive sell.
4. Assemble the order.
5. Take the money
6. Thank the customer and ask for return service.
They sold burgers. Another thing they did at work was check out girls together.
Nowadays, xtn works fulltime, studies part-time and still checks out girls. Sandy still studies at uni, is a part-time queer performer and now checks out guys. They meet for lunch once in a while.
xtn asked Sandy during lunch if he remembered a guy at work named Hongda? Sandy replied:
Don’t you mean E. Honda?
Sandy had confused a guy they both used to know with a computer game character.
As far as I know, he hadn’t gone loopy as well.
Buffy did not end up saving the world. It was Xander, who’s other name is not Seth Green, who did. xtn already suspected this because the Oracle had warned him as much. Now he can sleep easy.
Seth Green used to hang out with Buffy and her friends and was called Oz. But then he left them. He will never come back because his ex-girlfriend Willow is now a lesbian.
A lesbian is a woman who is sexually attracted to other women.
All these people lived inside the television.
A television is a box that emits information and entertainment in the form of images and sounds.
When xtn woke up the next morning at 7am, he did not mutter anything. He did think for a second that someone was calling him. But then he just turned his phone off and went back to sleep til his body clock woke him up at around 8.
__________
Notes:
1. Apologies to Kurt Vonnegut Jnr.
2. Apologies to everyone who read this. Yes it is long.
3. My friend does perform in the Rocky Horror Show every Thursday at midnight at the Imperial Hotel in Erskinville. It’s a fabulous show. Lillian and Alwin, who went to see it with me, I’m sure, would testify to that. So go see it if you get the chance. It’s free.
…or ‘Oh no, it’s the end of the world again!’
— a transvestite horror melodrama!
xtn had gone loopy. He woke up in the morning to the sound of his vibrating phone. At 7am the phone vibrates and emits a small sound loud enough to wake him up. Then xtn, who also goes by the name of Christian, would look at the little green screen and, depending on what mental state he is in at the time, sees either a line of small clocks or a line of small bombs. The writing on the screen, he often mistakes for someone’s name. He often thinks someone is calling him. It actually says:
Alarm!
Then he would usually turn it off and go back to sleep til his own body clock wakes him up at around 8.
But xtn had gone loopy. He woke up that morning at 7am and muttered:
I’m a brain in a vat.
Then he went back to sleep til his own body clock woke him up at 8.
The brain in a vat is an interesting and useful hypothetical tool used in philosophy, that assumes that nothing is real — that you are just a brain in a vat being fed artificial stimuli in the form of electrical impulses. It used to be popularly known as ‘the brain in a vat’. Nowadays, people just say:
Ahh, the Matrix.
It wasn’t the first time he’d gone loopy. Once he woke up and muttered:
Deutschland uber ales!
He has nothing against Jews. Another time it was:
Lapis lazuli.
He had forgotten what lapis lazuli meant and for a whole day he was afraid he was subconsciously chanting an ancient mystical incantation. Other times he would just pat his German shepherd soft toy on its head and say:
Good boy.
For the rest of the day, xtn believed he was a brain in a vat. What this meant to him was that if nothing was real, then everything was just as real, or unreal, as anything else.
For example, when his mother was telling him something important, it didn’t matter to him since it wasn’t real anyway.
Another example: for the whole day, he believed that Willow, who also goes by the name of Allison, had gone evil and was actually going to destroy the world that night, and that Buffy, her best friend, was going to try to stop her. Buffy also goes by the name of Sarah Michelle.
xtn used to think that all females with two first names must be ugly.
He doesn’t think so anymore.
xtn knew about all this ‘end of the world’ stuff because the Oracle had told him so.
He only called it the Oracle because he was loopy. Normally, he would call it the TV guide.
xtn knew that there was little he could do to stop things. The Oracle was hardly ever wrong. But he wasn’t really afraid of the end of the world because he knew that nothing was real. But he was thinking about this as he was having lunch with his friend Sandy Toggs. He was thinking of Buffy because Buffy fights vampires, Dracula was a vampire and Dracula lived in Transylvania.
Sandy, who also goes by the name of David, becomes an alien on Thursday nights and works with a big monstrous transvestite named Frankenfurter, who’s other name I don’t know, in a castle in Transylvania.
Transylvania is where Dracula also lived.
They call it The Rocky Horror Show. Although it’s not really horror at all. It’s just a bunch of men wearing dresses and bondage gear dancing to music.
A transvestite is a person (usually a man) who likes to wear clothing of the opposite sex.
Bondage gear is a little harder to explain.
It was possible that he was actually thinking about lunch with Sandy while seeing Buffy and not the other way around. xtn wasn’t sure which was which but it didn’t matter because nothing was real anyway.
Sandy was one of xtn’s best friends in school. So good friends they were that the only argument between them that xtn could remember was over tomato sauce. You know you have a good friend when the only thing you argue over is tomato sauce.
Other than that, they were great friends. They both loved the theatre. Of course, Sandy actually studies theatre. xtn just likes to watch and then say something like:
I liked that. That was good.
Sandy would then reply with something along the lines of:
Yes. I thought it was good too.
They also worked together during school. The six steps of service at the place they worked at was:
1. Greet the customer.
2. Take the order.
3. Suggestive sell.
4. Assemble the order.
5. Take the money
6. Thank the customer and ask for return service.
They sold burgers. Another thing they did at work was check out girls together.
Nowadays, xtn works fulltime, studies part-time and still checks out girls. Sandy still studies at uni, is a part-time queer performer and now checks out guys. They meet for lunch once in a while.
xtn asked Sandy during lunch if he remembered a guy at work named Hongda? Sandy replied:
Don’t you mean E. Honda?
Sandy had confused a guy they both used to know with a computer game character.
As far as I know, he hadn’t gone loopy as well.
Buffy did not end up saving the world. It was Xander, who’s other name is not Seth Green, who did. xtn already suspected this because the Oracle had warned him as much. Now he can sleep easy.
Seth Green used to hang out with Buffy and her friends and was called Oz. But then he left them. He will never come back because his ex-girlfriend Willow is now a lesbian.
A lesbian is a woman who is sexually attracted to other women.
All these people lived inside the television.
A television is a box that emits information and entertainment in the form of images and sounds.
When xtn woke up the next morning at 7am, he did not mutter anything. He did think for a second that someone was calling him. But then he just turned his phone off and went back to sleep til his body clock woke him up at around 8.
__________
Notes:
1. Apologies to Kurt Vonnegut Jnr.
2. Apologies to everyone who read this. Yes it is long.
3. My friend does perform in the Rocky Horror Show every Thursday at midnight at the Imperial Hotel in Erskinville. It’s a fabulous show. Lillian and Alwin, who went to see it with me, I’m sure, would testify to that. So go see it if you get the chance. It’s free.
Wednesday, July 24, 2002
T is for Testament
For a long time I tried so hard to differentiate myself from the rest of my faith. I didn’t want the stigma that you get when you introduce yourself as a Christian, or more specific to my case, a Catholic.
I’m different. I see inconsistencies in the Bible, I recognise the paradox of prayer and I still can’t find a single Christian who can provide a satisfactory explanation as to how exactly Jesus saves us by dying and then rising from death. I think, you see? I’m not like the rest of the hoi polloi.
But now that I have come to accept so much more of who I am and what I believe, and who other believers are and what they believe, and I can finally say that I am a Catholic without having to add a ‘but…’ at the end, I am no longer sure whether I can even call myself a Catholic at all.
No doubt I believe in God. No doubt I believe in Jesus, the saints and all that jazz. And so what if I may have some slightly radical ideas? My basic belief in the faith is as strong as it’s ever been.
But how about everything else? I don’t go to church. I haven’t been to church for so long that I can’t even tell people anymore that I haven’t been to church lately. I do pray every night but I can’t say that I’m sure it’s not just from force of habit.
I’ve become complacent. I take my faith, and my God, for granted. And I don’t really see myself changing. So as I went to my church in the early hours of Sunday morning, as I received communion, as I spoke to and shook the hand of my priest that has known our family for as long as I can remember, I felt like a fraud. I felt ashamed.
For it is only now, in an hour of need, that the fraud comes back to You, with his tail between his legs, asking for a miracle. And he still can’t even promise that he’ll change.
So I won’t give You reasons why You should listen to me now. I won’t even trouble You with what this would mean to me… to us… to them… to her.
All I will say is
please
And I will take what You give me.
For a long time I tried so hard to differentiate myself from the rest of my faith. I didn’t want the stigma that you get when you introduce yourself as a Christian, or more specific to my case, a Catholic.
I’m different. I see inconsistencies in the Bible, I recognise the paradox of prayer and I still can’t find a single Christian who can provide a satisfactory explanation as to how exactly Jesus saves us by dying and then rising from death. I think, you see? I’m not like the rest of the hoi polloi.
But now that I have come to accept so much more of who I am and what I believe, and who other believers are and what they believe, and I can finally say that I am a Catholic without having to add a ‘but…’ at the end, I am no longer sure whether I can even call myself a Catholic at all.
No doubt I believe in God. No doubt I believe in Jesus, the saints and all that jazz. And so what if I may have some slightly radical ideas? My basic belief in the faith is as strong as it’s ever been.
But how about everything else? I don’t go to church. I haven’t been to church for so long that I can’t even tell people anymore that I haven’t been to church lately. I do pray every night but I can’t say that I’m sure it’s not just from force of habit.
I’ve become complacent. I take my faith, and my God, for granted. And I don’t really see myself changing. So as I went to my church in the early hours of Sunday morning, as I received communion, as I spoke to and shook the hand of my priest that has known our family for as long as I can remember, I felt like a fraud. I felt ashamed.
For it is only now, in an hour of need, that the fraud comes back to You, with his tail between his legs, asking for a miracle. And he still can’t even promise that he’ll change.
So I won’t give You reasons why You should listen to me now. I won’t even trouble You with what this would mean to me… to us… to them… to her.
All I will say is
please
And I will take what You give me.
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