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...
Tuesday, July 30, 2002
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.
Friday, July 19, 2002
S is for Sleepwalker
… or Falling in Love on Trains
By the time you get to the top of the stairs, you will realise that you were here last night as you are here tonight. At about the same place. At about the same time.
By the time you get to the bottom of the stairs, you will remember that Wynyard station, back in 1986, was the only city train station you knew of because this was the station your dad got off to go to his night classes. You know that this must be significant. You know that this must be symbolic. You have come full circle. And yet you have no idea what this means to you.
I catch the next available East Hills train going via the airport. Going into the second carriage, I find myself a seat in the bottom level, slide my head down, prop my knees up against the back of the seat in front of me and take out a book to read.
Sleepwalker sits next to me where my bag is. He is riding a train of thought, down the allegorical subway at 100 cogitations a minute. I am on a Tangara going home. Sleepwalker says we should call her. I say, let’s wait til we get out of the tunnel.
Sleepwalker is my imaginary friend. Actually, he’s not even that. He’s my imaginary imaginary friend. I don’t have an imaginary friend. So I invented him on the assumption that talking to someone, whether they be real or imagined, is always more sane than talking to yourself.
I take out my phone, find no messages or missed calls, stare at the little green screen for a few seconds, forget to look at the time and return to my book.
He really likes her. I think I may like her too. He wants to call her but I’d rather read Fight Club. Sleepwalker wants to fall in love tonight. But I just want to read about bombs, soap made of human fat and disenfranchised men bashing the crap out of each other for personal enlightenment. I want to be able to annoy people by continually paraphrasing the book in meaningless ways during inappropriate situations.
The first rule of blogging is you don’t talk about blogging.
The second rule of blogging is you don’t talk about blogging.
There’s a guy in front of us on the phone talking to a girl about another girl. I know I shouldn’t be listening in. But I can’t read with him talking right in front of me.
Jack met Lauren the night before, probably through a mutual friend, Lisa, with whom he is talking to. Jack likes Lauren and asks Lisa:
A. If Lauren seemed to like Jack or not.
B. If Jack’s ex, Esmerelda, looked jealous that night.
C. If jack should call Lauren now, one night after meeting her, and run the risk of sounding like a desperate loser.
But as is always the case with poetic lovers, even with Lisa and every bone in Jack’s body seemingly telling him to wait a day or two, Jack decides to call Lauren anyway. He shouldn’t have bothered asking. He had always known what he was going to do.
And in what I decide to be a bad omen, Jack gets Lauren’s answering service.
Hi Lauren. This is Jack. I was just wondering how you were. I wanted to tell you that I had a really great time last night and… um… yeah. Just wondering how you were… what you were doing… I’ll give you a call again tomorrow then. Bye.
Whenever somebody starts with ‘I was just wondering…’ you know it means that they’ve actually been thinking about it the whole day.
Oh, I was just wondering… just a passing thought… a random idea floating past my head… gentle… like a feather… not that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since last night… not that I couldn’t sleep, lying in my bed imagining you… probably naked… next to me… obsessing over you… no… just a wandering thought… just passing through… was thinking about something else completely and then whoosh! …there you were… a passing thought…
I am Jack’s unnecessary use of sarcasm.
Sleepwalker says, call her. But I am listening to a couple of drunks sitting about 2 O’clock from me. Mr Dragon, a young St George supporter, is making his way home from Wollongong after a rare win and is drunk from the customary celebratory 24 cans of beers. Mr Paella, an old Latino man, is making his way home from a night at the Spanish Club and is drunk from an unknown substance which I shall assume to be, in maintaining ethnic stereotype consistency, a whole lot of sangria. They had just met at Central station and have discovered that they in fact live on the same street.
- What number do you live in?
- [pause] Number four.
- Four? I live in number two. We’re right next to each other.
- Ahh. [pause] What number you live at?
- Two! I live in number two!
- I live in number four.
- Yeah! We’re right next to each other!
- Ahh.
- Go the Dragons!
Sleepwalker tells me that she’s probably not asleep yet. I look at my phone. Still no messages or missed calls.
- No, no. No drink too much.
- Oh don’t you worry about me. I know when to stop.
- OK. Good boy.
- I can have, like, another 20 beers and I’d be fine. But one more after that, and I’m gone! No more drink tonight. No more money.
- So what number you live at?
- Go the Dragons!
That’s 44 beers.
I am Jack’s exploding bladder.
Sleepwalker is getting restless. I am reading Wonderboys but I can’t concentrate because he is talking about her in my ear. I tell him to stop. I tell him that I’d rather be reading. I tell him that I love this book. I’m loving every bit of it.
- But you love a lot of books.
I say, but this book speaks to me. I can really relate to it. It’s like as if it was written about me.
- But it’s about a middle-aged fat White American pothead going into his fourth marriage.
I say, it doesn’t matter who the characters are. It’s about writing. It’s about insecurities. It's about futility and absurdity. I can really relate to it.
- But it’s about real writers.
Sleepwalker doesn’t want to read. He looks down at my phone again. He wishes it would start vibrating. He wants to fall in love tonight. I just want to go home.
Our stop.
I am home.
And as I lay me down to sleep tonight, all is quiet and Sleepwalker’s whispers are distant yet almost welcoming. In the dark, there are fewer distractions to dance with. A tired smile on my face. A single thought firing in my brain.
Are we out of the tunnel yet?
And finally I succumb to the sweetness of silence. And I sleep.
… or Falling in Love on Trains
By the time you get to the top of the stairs, you will realise that you were here last night as you are here tonight. At about the same place. At about the same time.
By the time you get to the bottom of the stairs, you will remember that Wynyard station, back in 1986, was the only city train station you knew of because this was the station your dad got off to go to his night classes. You know that this must be significant. You know that this must be symbolic. You have come full circle. And yet you have no idea what this means to you.
I catch the next available East Hills train going via the airport. Going into the second carriage, I find myself a seat in the bottom level, slide my head down, prop my knees up against the back of the seat in front of me and take out a book to read.
Sleepwalker sits next to me where my bag is. He is riding a train of thought, down the allegorical subway at 100 cogitations a minute. I am on a Tangara going home. Sleepwalker says we should call her. I say, let’s wait til we get out of the tunnel.
Sleepwalker is my imaginary friend. Actually, he’s not even that. He’s my imaginary imaginary friend. I don’t have an imaginary friend. So I invented him on the assumption that talking to someone, whether they be real or imagined, is always more sane than talking to yourself.
I take out my phone, find no messages or missed calls, stare at the little green screen for a few seconds, forget to look at the time and return to my book.
He really likes her. I think I may like her too. He wants to call her but I’d rather read Fight Club. Sleepwalker wants to fall in love tonight. But I just want to read about bombs, soap made of human fat and disenfranchised men bashing the crap out of each other for personal enlightenment. I want to be able to annoy people by continually paraphrasing the book in meaningless ways during inappropriate situations.
The first rule of blogging is you don’t talk about blogging.
The second rule of blogging is you don’t talk about blogging.
There’s a guy in front of us on the phone talking to a girl about another girl. I know I shouldn’t be listening in. But I can’t read with him talking right in front of me.
Jack met Lauren the night before, probably through a mutual friend, Lisa, with whom he is talking to. Jack likes Lauren and asks Lisa:
A. If Lauren seemed to like Jack or not.
B. If Jack’s ex, Esmerelda, looked jealous that night.
C. If jack should call Lauren now, one night after meeting her, and run the risk of sounding like a desperate loser.
But as is always the case with poetic lovers, even with Lisa and every bone in Jack’s body seemingly telling him to wait a day or two, Jack decides to call Lauren anyway. He shouldn’t have bothered asking. He had always known what he was going to do.
And in what I decide to be a bad omen, Jack gets Lauren’s answering service.
Hi Lauren. This is Jack. I was just wondering how you were. I wanted to tell you that I had a really great time last night and… um… yeah. Just wondering how you were… what you were doing… I’ll give you a call again tomorrow then. Bye.
Whenever somebody starts with ‘I was just wondering…’ you know it means that they’ve actually been thinking about it the whole day.
Oh, I was just wondering… just a passing thought… a random idea floating past my head… gentle… like a feather… not that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since last night… not that I couldn’t sleep, lying in my bed imagining you… probably naked… next to me… obsessing over you… no… just a wandering thought… just passing through… was thinking about something else completely and then whoosh! …there you were… a passing thought…
I am Jack’s unnecessary use of sarcasm.
Sleepwalker says, call her. But I am listening to a couple of drunks sitting about 2 O’clock from me. Mr Dragon, a young St George supporter, is making his way home from Wollongong after a rare win and is drunk from the customary celebratory 24 cans of beers. Mr Paella, an old Latino man, is making his way home from a night at the Spanish Club and is drunk from an unknown substance which I shall assume to be, in maintaining ethnic stereotype consistency, a whole lot of sangria. They had just met at Central station and have discovered that they in fact live on the same street.
- What number do you live in?
- [pause] Number four.
- Four? I live in number two. We’re right next to each other.
- Ahh. [pause] What number you live at?
- Two! I live in number two!
- I live in number four.
- Yeah! We’re right next to each other!
- Ahh.
- Go the Dragons!
Sleepwalker tells me that she’s probably not asleep yet. I look at my phone. Still no messages or missed calls.
- No, no. No drink too much.
- Oh don’t you worry about me. I know when to stop.
- OK. Good boy.
- I can have, like, another 20 beers and I’d be fine. But one more after that, and I’m gone! No more drink tonight. No more money.
- So what number you live at?
- Go the Dragons!
That’s 44 beers.
I am Jack’s exploding bladder.
Sleepwalker is getting restless. I am reading Wonderboys but I can’t concentrate because he is talking about her in my ear. I tell him to stop. I tell him that I’d rather be reading. I tell him that I love this book. I’m loving every bit of it.
- But you love a lot of books.
I say, but this book speaks to me. I can really relate to it. It’s like as if it was written about me.
- But it’s about a middle-aged fat White American pothead going into his fourth marriage.
I say, it doesn’t matter who the characters are. It’s about writing. It’s about insecurities. It's about futility and absurdity. I can really relate to it.
- But it’s about real writers.
Sleepwalker doesn’t want to read. He looks down at my phone again. He wishes it would start vibrating. He wants to fall in love tonight. I just want to go home.
Our stop.
I am home.
And as I lay me down to sleep tonight, all is quiet and Sleepwalker’s whispers are distant yet almost welcoming. In the dark, there are fewer distractions to dance with. A tired smile on my face. A single thought firing in my brain.
Are we out of the tunnel yet?
And finally I succumb to the sweetness of silence. And I sleep.
Monday, July 15, 2002
R is for Refuge
I like to call it the place between two truths.
It’s a break from the everyday world. A place to go when you wanna avoid reality. A chance to explore your creative side. An opportunity to be truly yourself in the absence of your corporeal being by which others may judge you. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Of course it is the case that I’ve always wished that my parents had named me xtn. Just three letters, written all in lower case, making me sound like a right wanker. Then there’s my ICQ identity Wags the Dog. No, not from the movie. Yes, from the Wiggles character — a probably sweaty man in a brown furry suit. He’s my hero (or ‘rhero’ as cartoon dogs seem to say).
The Net (the blog or otherwise) is ultimately my place of refuge from the realisation that I may never gain the fame in the literary and entertainment worlds that I so dearly wish for. Or maybe I’m just bored. Either reason will suffice.
I don’t know what others are in it for. I dare not guess this late at night at the fear that I might put my foot in my mouth somehow. I do know that the blog thing has become somewhat of a network of sorts. I am a relative latecomer, but I am learning the ropes. And I’d be lying if I were to say that I wasn’t at least a little addicted by it all.
Last night I was at a party where I knew of at least seven bloggers (one of which I never met but I know he was there!). I read their blogs and they read mine (they’d better!).
The purpose of this entry was to compensate for the fact that I don’t even know enough HTML to add a Links section to my site. This is a problem as when I tell people that I’m a graphic designer, they always assume that I’m a web designer.
Er… no. I only do print.
So let me write about some of the bloggers I know and why I read their sites.
__________
http://thrilmalia.blogspot.com
ooee’s site is one which I have enjoyed so much more since Big Brother finished. She also has the honour of being one of the few people to have crushed my sizeable ego to tiny little pieces by managing to forget who I was twice. I would have assumed thrice had I not had the thick skin to reintroduce myself a third time.
xtn: Hi, remember me?
ooee: Um… no.
xtn: OK then! *walks away to pick up the pieces of my pride on the floor*
One year later…
xtn: Hi, remember me?
ooee: Um… no.
xtn: OK then! *walks away to pick up the pieces of my pride on the floor*
Twice? Twice?! I am so memorable damn it!
__________
http://izms.blogspot.com
Ben Chew gets the credit for introducing me to the world of blogs. I shall refer to him as my blogfather. But sitting in the Union offices trying to lay out Mosaic while listening to crap music after crap music, whether it’s Ben’s elevator music or Erny’s selection of random electronic sounds. These are some of my fondest memories of my blogfather. One time, as I was waiting for my turn to share my quality music (a generous choice of del Amitri or S Club 7) with Ben and Erny, we listen to what Erny and I were convinced was a woman singing. No. Ben says it’s Maxwell.
xtn: He sounds like a woman.
Ben: Ahh. It’s that high falsetto voice of his.
xtn: No, I think it has more to do with the fact that he sounds like woman.
_________
http://otiose.blogspot.com
I am convinced that Stephen Yan (I suggested that his blogging alter-ego be Steven Yam to avoid recognition) spends hours formulating every sentence just to get it right. He tells me it just comes right out of his arse. While many friends bond during the course of going camping in the middle of nature’s wilderness, Stephen and I (and Lil and the Magster) bonded during the course of camping out at 2am outside the National library. Yes folks, the library! How many of you can say you’ve done that eh?!
__________
http://miramis.org/larissa
I just met her in person last night so I know she’s real now. But before that, for all I know, she could’ve been some dirty fifty-year-old fat man scratching his balls in front of a computer wearing a singlet and y-fronts pretending to be a little Asian girl in uni! But she has good tastes in music. She actually knows who Adam Duritz is. And that’s good enough for me.
__________
http://whitechina.blogspot.com
I’m not 100% sure that this is truly the site of who I think it is. But nevertheless it’s a pretty good read. If she is who I think she is, then she’s also the person who I have a memory of through three years of uni without meeting her once, just because she reminded me of a comic character I used to read. I only actually met her this year.
__________
http://tripleoptix.com
This is the kind of visually impressive site that really puts mine to shame. (Note to self: must learn web design). Dre (I’ve never met the other author of the site) and I met when he approached me one day with a napkin asking for my autograph and it’s the closest I’ve felt to being a real celebrity (it’s not quite the same when I line up my soft toys and He-man action figures to ask for my autograph). I don’t know whether to take it as a compliment that I look like my favourite Honkie actor Chow Yun Fat or as an insult that someone might confuse me for a 47-year-old man.
__________
http://www.high8us.com/blog
This site is currently in the process of an ownership change. yy is handing over the reins to some people or other that I may or may not know. It's a group thing. I like the idea of a group blog and wouldn't mind contributing myself if I didn't think I was already wasting too much time doing my own. Try as I might, I can’t think of a single funny thing to say about this site at the moment.
__________
Chai
It was gonna be that or Noodles or Dumpling. We picked out a name at a Northern Chinese restaurant so that she might serially leave comments on other people’s blogs without leaving a trace of her true identity (in true superhero fashion!). However, after her net alter-ego had been established, she decided that she didn’t wanna leave comments after all and so what might have become legend died before it even started toilet traning.
__________
I am running out of letters.
I like to call it the place between two truths.
It’s a break from the everyday world. A place to go when you wanna avoid reality. A chance to explore your creative side. An opportunity to be truly yourself in the absence of your corporeal being by which others may judge you. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Of course it is the case that I’ve always wished that my parents had named me xtn. Just three letters, written all in lower case, making me sound like a right wanker. Then there’s my ICQ identity Wags the Dog. No, not from the movie. Yes, from the Wiggles character — a probably sweaty man in a brown furry suit. He’s my hero (or ‘rhero’ as cartoon dogs seem to say).
The Net (the blog or otherwise) is ultimately my place of refuge from the realisation that I may never gain the fame in the literary and entertainment worlds that I so dearly wish for. Or maybe I’m just bored. Either reason will suffice.
I don’t know what others are in it for. I dare not guess this late at night at the fear that I might put my foot in my mouth somehow. I do know that the blog thing has become somewhat of a network of sorts. I am a relative latecomer, but I am learning the ropes. And I’d be lying if I were to say that I wasn’t at least a little addicted by it all.
Last night I was at a party where I knew of at least seven bloggers (one of which I never met but I know he was there!). I read their blogs and they read mine (they’d better!).
The purpose of this entry was to compensate for the fact that I don’t even know enough HTML to add a Links section to my site. This is a problem as when I tell people that I’m a graphic designer, they always assume that I’m a web designer.
Er… no. I only do print.
So let me write about some of the bloggers I know and why I read their sites.
__________
http://thrilmalia.blogspot.com
ooee’s site is one which I have enjoyed so much more since Big Brother finished. She also has the honour of being one of the few people to have crushed my sizeable ego to tiny little pieces by managing to forget who I was twice. I would have assumed thrice had I not had the thick skin to reintroduce myself a third time.
xtn: Hi, remember me?
ooee: Um… no.
xtn: OK then! *walks away to pick up the pieces of my pride on the floor*
One year later…
xtn: Hi, remember me?
ooee: Um… no.
xtn: OK then! *walks away to pick up the pieces of my pride on the floor*
Twice? Twice?! I am so memorable damn it!
__________
http://izms.blogspot.com
Ben Chew gets the credit for introducing me to the world of blogs. I shall refer to him as my blogfather. But sitting in the Union offices trying to lay out Mosaic while listening to crap music after crap music, whether it’s Ben’s elevator music or Erny’s selection of random electronic sounds. These are some of my fondest memories of my blogfather. One time, as I was waiting for my turn to share my quality music (a generous choice of del Amitri or S Club 7) with Ben and Erny, we listen to what Erny and I were convinced was a woman singing. No. Ben says it’s Maxwell.
xtn: He sounds like a woman.
Ben: Ahh. It’s that high falsetto voice of his.
xtn: No, I think it has more to do with the fact that he sounds like woman.
_________
http://otiose.blogspot.com
I am convinced that Stephen Yan (I suggested that his blogging alter-ego be Steven Yam to avoid recognition) spends hours formulating every sentence just to get it right. He tells me it just comes right out of his arse. While many friends bond during the course of going camping in the middle of nature’s wilderness, Stephen and I (and Lil and the Magster) bonded during the course of camping out at 2am outside the National library. Yes folks, the library! How many of you can say you’ve done that eh?!
__________
http://miramis.org/larissa
I just met her in person last night so I know she’s real now. But before that, for all I know, she could’ve been some dirty fifty-year-old fat man scratching his balls in front of a computer wearing a singlet and y-fronts pretending to be a little Asian girl in uni! But she has good tastes in music. She actually knows who Adam Duritz is. And that’s good enough for me.
__________
http://whitechina.blogspot.com
I’m not 100% sure that this is truly the site of who I think it is. But nevertheless it’s a pretty good read. If she is who I think she is, then she’s also the person who I have a memory of through three years of uni without meeting her once, just because she reminded me of a comic character I used to read. I only actually met her this year.
__________
http://tripleoptix.com
This is the kind of visually impressive site that really puts mine to shame. (Note to self: must learn web design). Dre (I’ve never met the other author of the site) and I met when he approached me one day with a napkin asking for my autograph and it’s the closest I’ve felt to being a real celebrity (it’s not quite the same when I line up my soft toys and He-man action figures to ask for my autograph). I don’t know whether to take it as a compliment that I look like my favourite Honkie actor Chow Yun Fat or as an insult that someone might confuse me for a 47-year-old man.
__________
http://www.high8us.com/blog
This site is currently in the process of an ownership change. yy is handing over the reins to some people or other that I may or may not know. It's a group thing. I like the idea of a group blog and wouldn't mind contributing myself if I didn't think I was already wasting too much time doing my own. Try as I might, I can’t think of a single funny thing to say about this site at the moment.
__________
Chai
It was gonna be that or Noodles or Dumpling. We picked out a name at a Northern Chinese restaurant so that she might serially leave comments on other people’s blogs without leaving a trace of her true identity (in true superhero fashion!). However, after her net alter-ego had been established, she decided that she didn’t wanna leave comments after all and so what might have become legend died before it even started toilet traning.
__________
I am running out of letters.
Monday, July 08, 2002
Q is for Quibbles
Hate
Why is it so easy for people to understand other people being in love but hating someone is usually considered unreasonable and unacceptable? They’re both just two extremes on the same scale. Every superhero needs an arch-nemesis. OK, so I tell my friend that I don’t like this guy — I mean really don’t like him. And she says:
Why don’t you get over it? Maybe if you got to know him better…
Hey! I’ve known the guy for almost twelve bloody years now. I think that’s enough time to make up my mind about him! Sometimes, when you see a big steaming pile of crap and you dig into it, you’ll just find more crap! More often than not, there ain’t no gold at the end of a dung heap!
I don’t wanna kill him. I don’t wish him dead. I don’t even ask that other people not like him (most people don’t like him anyway). I just don’t ever wanna be within a 12.53 metre-radius of the guy and I want him and his descendants to be perpetually miserable! (OK, maybe the descendants bit is taking things too far!) Is that so bad?
__________
Tennis
Apologies to all non-tennis-fans but I need to get this off my chest!
This year’s Wimbledon was a farce. And with the World Cup and all, no one seemed to care anyway. Last year I supported the Aussie but when the other guy won, I was happy too. This year, I supported the other guy but when the Aussie won I was happy too. No, I’m not talking about David Nalbandian (who?!). I’m talking about Tim Henman. I wanted him to win. He’s been in the semis four times now! Just give him one! I mean, I love the fact that an Aussie is on top of the tennis world but:
1. Couldn’t he be a more likeable guy like that Pat Rafter dude?
2. Wimbledon shouldn’t be in this much chaos. Wimbledon is one of those tournaments that the same old people keep coming back to. It’s about dynasties! This year featured a semi-final titanic match-up between David Nalbandian (Nalban- what?!) and Xavier Malisse (are we still talking tennis players?) and the eventual champion Hewitt (good as he is) had never even been past the fourth round before! The French Open is usually where the one-hit wonders flourish. Their champions consist of flukes such as Michael Chang, Andres Gomez and Albert Costa, and their runners-up and semi-finalists — a string of no-names. Wimbledon is usually as tight as the mafia! Their old-time champions were legends like Borg, Connors and McEnroe. Then came the Becker/Edberg/Stich era, followed by the Samprass/Agassi/Ivanesevic/Rafter/Henman era that ended last year with an absolute cracker of a final between Rafter and Ivanisevic. Now it just sucks.
Having said all that, I predict that Hewitt will now probably dominate or near-dominate all but the claycourt circuit of tennis. And if he doesn’t, it’s his fault cos the men’s field is now wide-open. There are no marquee players left. Sampras is freefalling, Agassi is losing his footspeed as much as he’s losing his hair, Kuerten can only play on clay, Rafter’s retired and the new kiddies (Roddick, Safin, Ferrero, Federer and co.) just aren’t all that awe-inspiring. Good on him. Lleyton’s on his way to superstardom but boy are we in for a boring patch of tennis here. I mean, you know a sport has gone to crap when the star attraction is a blonde who plays better in an Enrique video clip than on the tennis court and people actually start to believe that the Williams sisters are as attractive as they think they are…
__________
$2 music
I’m in K-mart today (as one would be) and I see two of my favourite CDs (albums) going for $2! What is going on here?! What’s wrong with everyone’s music tastes?! One was Fiona Apple Grammy-award-winning debut Tidal and the other was Ben Folds Five’s Whatever and ever amen… featuring that hit song Brick. $2!
__________
Ian Thorpe
First I hear thousands of Japanese school girls religiously chanting his name (or Ee-un Sorp, as they like to call him), then he signs a contract with Seven, then he has jewellery named after him, then his own TV show, spawning its own soundtrack and now he’s on the cover of the Sunday paper dressed as Superman. Arghh! Stop this madness! Stop it now!
Why won’t the lambs stop crying?
__________
Contrary to how I sound, I’m actually in quite a good mood…
Hate
Why is it so easy for people to understand other people being in love but hating someone is usually considered unreasonable and unacceptable? They’re both just two extremes on the same scale. Every superhero needs an arch-nemesis. OK, so I tell my friend that I don’t like this guy — I mean really don’t like him. And she says:
Why don’t you get over it? Maybe if you got to know him better…
Hey! I’ve known the guy for almost twelve bloody years now. I think that’s enough time to make up my mind about him! Sometimes, when you see a big steaming pile of crap and you dig into it, you’ll just find more crap! More often than not, there ain’t no gold at the end of a dung heap!
I don’t wanna kill him. I don’t wish him dead. I don’t even ask that other people not like him (most people don’t like him anyway). I just don’t ever wanna be within a 12.53 metre-radius of the guy and I want him and his descendants to be perpetually miserable! (OK, maybe the descendants bit is taking things too far!) Is that so bad?
__________
Tennis
Apologies to all non-tennis-fans but I need to get this off my chest!
This year’s Wimbledon was a farce. And with the World Cup and all, no one seemed to care anyway. Last year I supported the Aussie but when the other guy won, I was happy too. This year, I supported the other guy but when the Aussie won I was happy too. No, I’m not talking about David Nalbandian (who?!). I’m talking about Tim Henman. I wanted him to win. He’s been in the semis four times now! Just give him one! I mean, I love the fact that an Aussie is on top of the tennis world but:
1. Couldn’t he be a more likeable guy like that Pat Rafter dude?
2. Wimbledon shouldn’t be in this much chaos. Wimbledon is one of those tournaments that the same old people keep coming back to. It’s about dynasties! This year featured a semi-final titanic match-up between David Nalbandian (Nalban- what?!) and Xavier Malisse (are we still talking tennis players?) and the eventual champion Hewitt (good as he is) had never even been past the fourth round before! The French Open is usually where the one-hit wonders flourish. Their champions consist of flukes such as Michael Chang, Andres Gomez and Albert Costa, and their runners-up and semi-finalists — a string of no-names. Wimbledon is usually as tight as the mafia! Their old-time champions were legends like Borg, Connors and McEnroe. Then came the Becker/Edberg/Stich era, followed by the Samprass/Agassi/Ivanesevic/Rafter/Henman era that ended last year with an absolute cracker of a final between Rafter and Ivanisevic. Now it just sucks.
Having said all that, I predict that Hewitt will now probably dominate or near-dominate all but the claycourt circuit of tennis. And if he doesn’t, it’s his fault cos the men’s field is now wide-open. There are no marquee players left. Sampras is freefalling, Agassi is losing his footspeed as much as he’s losing his hair, Kuerten can only play on clay, Rafter’s retired and the new kiddies (Roddick, Safin, Ferrero, Federer and co.) just aren’t all that awe-inspiring. Good on him. Lleyton’s on his way to superstardom but boy are we in for a boring patch of tennis here. I mean, you know a sport has gone to crap when the star attraction is a blonde who plays better in an Enrique video clip than on the tennis court and people actually start to believe that the Williams sisters are as attractive as they think they are…
__________
$2 music
I’m in K-mart today (as one would be) and I see two of my favourite CDs (albums) going for $2! What is going on here?! What’s wrong with everyone’s music tastes?! One was Fiona Apple Grammy-award-winning debut Tidal and the other was Ben Folds Five’s Whatever and ever amen… featuring that hit song Brick. $2!
__________
Ian Thorpe
First I hear thousands of Japanese school girls religiously chanting his name (or Ee-un Sorp, as they like to call him), then he signs a contract with Seven, then he has jewellery named after him, then his own TV show, spawning its own soundtrack and now he’s on the cover of the Sunday paper dressed as Superman. Arghh! Stop this madness! Stop it now!
Why won’t the lambs stop crying?
__________
Contrary to how I sound, I’m actually in quite a good mood…
Wednesday, July 03, 2002
P is for Play
Guess who’s back
Back again
The play is back
Tell a friend
Guess who’s back, guess who’s back, guess who’s back…
I’m talking to Andy again. We hadn’t spoken for a while. Jas, I’m just getting to know now, really. We were merely acquaintances before. Then there’s Penny, Greg, Steve, Nick, Henry and the rest. Tommy, unfortunately, is no longer with us.
I am once again hanging out with my imaginary stereotypical Asian group of friends and their token whiteboy buddy. And it feels really good this time around.
In early 2001, I started writing a play called Everything you want about the lives of a group of young Asian Australians living in Sydney. A year later, a now dormant (as opposed to extinct) group called Mango Pudding Productions was formed to help get Andy, Jas and the Asians (if you haven’t realised already, they are the play characters) onto the stage. Originally, there were eleven of us.
You think we need one more?
…You think we need one more…
…OK, we’ll get one more.
Since then, some have left, others have arrived and we’re getting help from ADC. And after my few months of self-imposed exile from the play script and the eerie absence of any talk about it to anyone, I’m getting back to it.
We had set a tentative date (April 2003) and my second rewrite should be done by the end of August. Everything looks on track again. And I’m looking at the project with a renewed (again) vigour.
Tell you what, rewriting is so much easier with a big break since writing it the first time. I’ve managed to gain some level detachment that has allowed me to dissect the story without too much emotional distress. This is my little baby after all! I can now remove or combine whole scenes, leave out lines that I was previously so proud to have written and even exterminate an entire character. All for the good of the project.
When I started writing, my worry was that I could never be able to write anything of the length required for a full stage production. Turns out that was never the problem. I managed to write enough material for at least three to four hours. Now my biggest problem is cutting it down.
Soon, after I’m done with the rewrite, I’ll start the hype again, except it will be much louder this time around. Auditions will begin and the train will start chugging and hopefully never look back. Destination: fifteen minutes of fame. And everyone is welcome aboard… well just about everyone (the mandatory disclaimer :P).
First you do the play. Then you get the power. Then you get the women…
Guess who’s back
Back again
The play is back
Tell a friend
Guess who’s back, guess who’s back, guess who’s back…
I’m talking to Andy again. We hadn’t spoken for a while. Jas, I’m just getting to know now, really. We were merely acquaintances before. Then there’s Penny, Greg, Steve, Nick, Henry and the rest. Tommy, unfortunately, is no longer with us.
I am once again hanging out with my imaginary stereotypical Asian group of friends and their token whiteboy buddy. And it feels really good this time around.
In early 2001, I started writing a play called Everything you want about the lives of a group of young Asian Australians living in Sydney. A year later, a now dormant (as opposed to extinct) group called Mango Pudding Productions was formed to help get Andy, Jas and the Asians (if you haven’t realised already, they are the play characters) onto the stage. Originally, there were eleven of us.
You think we need one more?
…You think we need one more…
…OK, we’ll get one more.
Since then, some have left, others have arrived and we’re getting help from ADC. And after my few months of self-imposed exile from the play script and the eerie absence of any talk about it to anyone, I’m getting back to it.
We had set a tentative date (April 2003) and my second rewrite should be done by the end of August. Everything looks on track again. And I’m looking at the project with a renewed (again) vigour.
Tell you what, rewriting is so much easier with a big break since writing it the first time. I’ve managed to gain some level detachment that has allowed me to dissect the story without too much emotional distress. This is my little baby after all! I can now remove or combine whole scenes, leave out lines that I was previously so proud to have written and even exterminate an entire character. All for the good of the project.
When I started writing, my worry was that I could never be able to write anything of the length required for a full stage production. Turns out that was never the problem. I managed to write enough material for at least three to four hours. Now my biggest problem is cutting it down.
Soon, after I’m done with the rewrite, I’ll start the hype again, except it will be much louder this time around. Auditions will begin and the train will start chugging and hopefully never look back. Destination: fifteen minutes of fame. And everyone is welcome aboard… well just about everyone (the mandatory disclaimer :P).
First you do the play. Then you get the power. Then you get the women…
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