when you're strange..........

What is it about the allure of strangers? People you see in the street. Faces from the bus or around work. Neighbours, shopkeepers, folks smoking around bends, down alleyways, under fire escape ladders, the far, far corner of the carpark (....but not the people who smoke in garden beds. Have you seen these people?)

There's a certain kind of stranger that is particularly alluring. They're mysteriously quiet, seemingly stoic, as though their personal story is admirably contained or withheld, although not so far or so sad as repressed. They may very well carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, and yet they walk on from Here to There with resolve - in shoes you hope are orthopedically kind - their eyes blazing with thought, an agenda, or a fictional conversation, and yet still perceptively roaming and hoping to connect with others, or their window reflection.

You catch glimpses of their inner world as they make their foot journey. It's more than mere steps: their style of gait, their pace, their posture, their mode up hills, their navigation around puddles, broken bottles and small straying children. Some strangers get away with hats you could only dream of wearing. Some strangers wear very apt, understated satchel bags. Some carry nothing. These ones must really live on the edge. They seem strong, maybe even strong enough to take on your worries and woes, too.

If you happen to lock eyes with one of these strangers, even briefly, perhaps repeatedly over time, you might be slightly overcome with wonder, inquisition, or attraction. You're no stalker or anything. Your face is appropriately stern-looking on the street, and you decidedly ignore them some days. You're quiet and respectful and burdened (by an overstuffed, yet stylish backpack, or possibly horrible romantic history) and they see that, too. This is how Stranger Lure begins. It contracts both you and the stranger, not in an extreme case of love or lust, but somewhere in between. No one acts on it or asks names (for a long while, you can only beg your Omniscient Creator). It's a game of cat-and-mouse. A leggy dance. An unspoken agreement that you would be lovers in an alternate timeline. Not in this life, because that would surely ruin. It isn't because you're both way too shy and damaged to give the romance a shot. More that you're both afraid of the underwhelming acquaintance you'll share the moment one of you begins to fatefully utter "...By the way, I'm [a very token name]."

You thought he'd be smarter, a little more cultured. He hoped you'd be a traveller, more adventurous -- fearless. Conversations commonly destroy Stranger Lure. We prefer the sight of bodies, souls, and minds unknown.

It's the lone girl with flowers in her hair, walking the main drag night after night with only her iPod for company (an audio book on play, possibly some Jeff Buckley).

Or, it's the broad-shouldered man, crew cut and chef pants, no bag, no music, stomping home to a pantry presumably empty and a refrigerator full of craft beer.

It's the woman with retro glasses smiling to herself in a cafe window, scribbling peacefully in her notebook. An honest smile for you would pain her to her anxious core. She just keeps her eyes down and nurses that tea for hours.

It's the young tattooed guy, smoking drags, and wandering around with his trusted, doe-eyed Kelpie. Both of them lean. The feeling of a starving social life seems to make more sense when it goes with a starving belly.

It's the career girl, body wrapped like a pretzel, on the same treadmill, at the same unholy hour of the morning, five days a week. Eyes on the prize. Running like her life depends on it.

Each of them has a quiet beauty and a dignity in their solitude, that reassures you. You're both alone. That's all you need to know. Say nothing. Don't even stare for too long. Or else, the illusion crumbles.

The woman with the glasses writing in the cafe window, without warning, breaks her elegant form to gulp her glass of water and hold it in her mouth like a child imitating a blowfish or a chimpanzee. Then she gets pen on her face and starts singing along to "Build Me Up Buttercup" that's on play. She makes faces at an adorably-overalled toddler, hoping to make their face light up, but whose reaction is more on the scared, tearful side. Her cheeks flush and she grimaces apologetically - not for the parents having to quell and shush a disturbed little creature - but for herself, and her poor affinity with humans, small or big. She sinks in her chair. And then you discover that this lonesome, well-postured stranger with lovely lips isn't actually cool. She's not flawed in all the wistful ways you supposed for so many months.

She doesn't get you. She probably doesn't want to. She doesn't even get herself. The person wearing your clothes lures her, but you're really not that cool either. That is the illusion. And that is the very condition of Stranger Lure. If you find yourself falling for a certain kind of stranger, best to go away and write some nonsense, creative and therapeutic. You can do it by yourself, killing an afternoon, and keeping you off the street most importantly. Away from eyes. Away from the lure. A way to feel better about being alone.

Memories of Mandy

Going back through one of my writing journals, I discovered a whole page of scrawl that was totally unfamiliar to me. It was about a character named Mandy. I do not name characters Mandy. This "Mandy" character was involved in "everyday situations" and typically "rolled around on the floor". I then placed Mandy and her trademark floor-rolling into an international espionage setting – which I noted would be "extra amusing". Today, this strikes me as little more than odd. No wonder I get the faces I get sometimes. Are my attempts at humour ever actually as clever as I imagine? Hindsight does wonders. Shameful wonders. I am also struck by the peculiarity that Mandy is "integral" to the scene, she is the "height of its humorous tones", and yet she would "most effectively be placed in the background of shots"....

Mandy. Mandarin. 

Da'doy.

Now this joke makes sense. Foolish-yet-comprehensible sense. See it now: a mandarin in a CIA classified ops briefing, on the table, corner of shot, as the no-nonsense Commander-in-chief prattles off war criminal histories, disgraced double agents, assassination plans, the kind of bait-and-switch heists that might end in success, arsenic, or nuclear retaliation.  And then his mandarin rolls off the table, or something, and he fumbles over his toes to catch it.

Now this joke is actually slightly amusing. In its execution, more or less.

I do not name characters Mandy, and I didn't. But I certainly don’t call a Mandarin a “Mandy”. 

Where did this voice come from? Social ties with country bumpkins? Infectious TV jingles?

....I can sense an old memory rising to the surface. An acquaintance I don't think about too often these days, and that brief embarrassing episode shelved away.

At the time of recording this entry, I had developed some uncertainty and insecurity about the pronunciation of the citrus fruit Mandarin (say: “reen”) which, I believed, is a distinct entity from the language Mandarin (say: "rin").

I did not know the truth. I did not know about the Mandarin Orange.

When this friend told me, I froze for a minute. Then it was as though a bridge was suddenly built in my mind, and the world seemed a simpler, smarter place to be in. Evidently, this recent humiliation had been transferred to a fear of writing the word on the page.

Mandarins seem to feature prominently in my life. Just last night, I dreamt that I mistakenly stole one, believing it to be my orange. And this was before reading and deciphering my old notebook entry...

For more fruit dreams and veggie nightmares, check out my Visions and Ramblings of My Unconscious wordpress journal or ask me about my Vitamin C deficiency paranoia on the street!

Stay In Tonight

Greetings, old friend.

I haven't tended to you in some time. But I'm always scribbling something, somewhere, naturally. On free postcards in cafes, in university notebooks, on go-card receipts, in newspaper margins, my docket pad as I pretend to take customer's brunch orders...

I've been stereotypically writerly in other ways, too. I'm growing more hermitted -- the cold weather, the non-desire to find/make costumes for cat-themed parties, and early starts at work have made me reluctant to venture out after dark.

I have not been inspired as yet to start a work, or return to an existing script... But I do feel quite influenced by the habits and work ethics of friends. S who lives in S is writing a book (with good humour, and sharp analysis I dare say) about her relationships/dates/flirtations/bold and saucy encounters of her 20s. N who lives in M has written a comedy feature in like a month. A month! Deeply impressive.

I'm seeking more leisure, less pressure on my creativity. Easing into more relaxing, concentrated and pensive habits where genius undoubtedly will germinate. At the moment, I'm starved for food and company, nursing a head cold. It is somewhat horribly romantic, coughing and wheezing and painting from bed as I grow more and more socially isolated and confident in my dreams for an exclusive LOBSTER COUNTRY CLUB where crustacean-loving people can scurry laterally and slurp hallucinatory seawater to their hearts' content. Oh, the galas we will put on! The gowns, the diamond-encrusted shells! Sand in all the places you always wanted....

*****

I would also like to add that chats with Mother are very comforting and grounding. Other aspiring writers might want to consider talking to theirs or someone else's parent or buying a cheap grey wig and lipstick and doing the ol' Norman Bates. It's a frightfully wholesome good time.

Looking Out, and Up, Why Not?

It's nearly properly Winter now, yet I was thinking about swimming pools earlier this evening. There's nothing quite like being submerged and buoyant in chlorinated water. Now, I haven't experienced zero gravity but I do feel qualified to say that in comparison with a dip, it's a rotten loser of a time. Where are the foam noodles to awkwardly straddle? And scolding brick tiles to bake on after the so-called 'experience'? A backyard pool offers both of these devilry pastimes, in addition to the pleasurable sensation of being simultaneously refreshed and warmly encased by the element that brings life.

Then, for some bothersome reason, or begrudging obligation in an exotic explorer's game, you must get out of the pool and without the intention of swaddling yourself in a dry towel or jumping into a hot shower. Of course, the instant you leave the water, the North Wind rips through, chilling you to the bone marrow. It can be hard to tell when you're living it, but those seconds or minutes of blistering cold, shrinking bits, hardening nips, and Mother Goosebumps are actually worth it. Yes, indeedy - the moment you re-enter the water. Hohhhhhhhh. Blood rushes. Skin settles. Stomach inexplicably full of soup, a hearty one.

I have felt this kind of warmth, deprivation and sweet consolation/reward upon reacquainting myself with fictional television in the last few weeks. Nothing too special, really. Just some good old fashioned Waspy dishes: Blackadder; The Americans; It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia. It's been a treat.

****

I took myself out to the movies tonight as well. As a great admirer of Steve Coogan, Rob Brydon and their collective works, I thought The Trip To Italy would be something of giddy reunion for the three of us. The movie provided many laughs, for sure. At the same time, I was distracted by the booming clarity of their voices and my own dreary inner monologue. Among the celebrity impersonations and charming banter, the grave, morally ambiguous and melancholic sides of the actors made for a richer, more layered experience than most comedy features of today seem to offer.

After watching a sufficient portion of the end credits, I wandered out to the lobby, still half-immersed in the movie and partly-preoccupied with the week ahead: "I wonder how long Steve had been considering moving closer to-- I should validate my parking". I approached a couple of employees hanging around the ticket counter. One took my parking ticket; the other casually observed me.

"The Fault With Our Stars?"
"What? No. God, no." I responded.
"Oh, you just look a little weepy."
"I saw The Trip To Italy. Pretty great, I just find watching middle-aged men too..."
"Depressing?"
"I was going to say relatable, but depressing is also apt."

****

Presently, I'm reading David Mitchell's memoir Back Story as well as traffic signs. I'm learning fascinating things.

Thought of a pretty big-budget sketch today also. The joke can still be done in an ordinary context, but wild effects and multiple locations and legions of extras would enhance it. Maybe I should crowdfund it - concealing the entire premise, punchline and subtext, and assuring audiences "it's simply hilar".

Exciting writing opportunity on the horizon. Vague details and comments to follow.

PhwoaahhHH! The Return to Blogging (older, wiser, less writer?)

Today I am writing a blog. PhwoahhHH?

It’s been 15 months since I started this secret blog (which as it turns out is not so secret, practically everyone I know stalkerishly reads it and makes subtle or outright reference to it, and yet without a hint of complement or revere for my brutally unabashed rambles and penchant for pointless parenthesised asides to display alliterative, figurative flourish and my strong command of wily-long sentences) and six months have passed since I started this sentence  my last entry.

A lot has happened in my life since September 2013.

I live more independently, but I am less happy.

I have been increasingly social, but I feel more isolated.

My working hours have nearly halved, and paradoxically, so have my writing hours.

I have met some terrifically kind and interesting people, yet I often pine for and lament lost friendships.

I am producing spontaneous sketches with friends, and there is no con to this. I am pitching jokes, supposing wildly, acting, directing, editing, calling for atmos, ordering wigs, practising old Parisian dance steps... I am learning a lot about collaboracy.

Among the anguish, doubt and depression I bat off daily, this regular sketching is a pick-me-up, an obligation, helpfully future-oriented.

Today I have an assignment due. So I went out for a walk. Who am I kidding? I went out for a run. It was an honest, guilt-free run – maybe linked to procrastination, but I just really felt like running. It’s been a while. Lately, when I walk or wajog (like jazzercise or yogalates, except unrecognised and uncool) I can’t help but dwell on my unhappily unpredictable situation. I concentrate too hard on the R&B beats to ‘lift’ me into the running mode and enter that blissfully blank state of mind of calm and writerly genius. I used to write my blog entries on walks/runs.

Today was a breakthrough. I wrote this blog – the line – in my head while enjoying involuntary leg leaps. I say “enjoy” when it’s not wholly sublime for unfit individuals such as myself. It’s only enjoyable when you hit the ‘sweet spot’ of ‘blankdom’, or in the post-exercise stage when those endorphins really, richly take a hold and spur you on to tackle that bitch of a day ahead. As I say, lately when I walk or wajog, it’s been a task, a checklist item for good health, positive self-image, fender-awayerer of melancholy. Unfortunately, my propensity to worry every minute of the day has seized the early hour of endorphin creation. I would come home, torso well-stretched, head pulsing with gangstah beats, and glimmer that inner joy I used to naturally wake up feeling.... and then cry. That’s just not how it’s supposed to go. Some days I cry on the walk. That’s really not right. Other days I crave sleep and do absolutely nothing between meetings / class / waitressing / obligatory social plans. I just worry.

Today is different. On my run, I started thinking about something I’m going to edit; something very appealing; a music video as such. It’s a sketch that was a lot of fun to film and that isn’t really like anything I’ve seen before. It was a fanciful idea that was funny to both me and my writing partner and it’s hard to pinpoint why exactly. Nonetheless, we got visionary about it. One thought led to another, and I started writing this blog.

I suppose I was turned off blogging it as I learned people I knew had chanced across it (as opposed to the legion of nerdy wannabe writers that would discover it in a decade’s time when I’m actually successful, which it was intended for; or solely for myself as a chronicle). I guess I became self-conscious and sheepish and feared censoring myself when I needed an outlet. Instead of blogging, I used words in conversation which is also good. But it meant I stopped the practise of writing, which is similarly the expressing of ideas and feelings, except it’s fundamentally more reflective; you see the words, you see connections, you rearrange, you get creative. That was switched off; needing oil (doubly metaphoric, yet unrelated – see what I mean?). The brilliant thing about journalling and chronicling my writings with a blog is that I’m less dependent on others. Coffees and sundry catch ups were always times to speak, to confess, to opine, to practise wit in another form, which was why I entertained one or two a day. I do want to go out less and even skip seeing certain individuals so regularly. Leaning on social occasions (which inherently involve other people), I leant less on writing (which can be done independently, and incredibly usefully for my profession).  Both time spent with others and time alone are important; I have considered becoming a total recluse in the hopes of gathering more physical, emotional and cognitive strength; but I understand that balance is the key to good health, and what kind of writer would I be if I completely severed human interaction and experiences from my life?

Routine. More fixed hours for study, work, play, and writing. More stable personal life, to be frank. I have been romantically interested in an absolute few, though peripherally distracted and entangled with some more, I realised that I need practice being normal and wholesome. A recent casual romance that was long-denially-fancied, unexpectedly started, then stopped, then start-stopped, stop-started, star-sto-start-start-stopped-started, has been a wee bit exhausting. Emotionally, that is (...why does my blog attract such gutterminds?). It’s doomed, we both know. But there has been just the right mix of signals to entertain it, lean on it (procrastinate), hope for it. At least, I have learned more about aloofness and things unspoken and assumed. Script note: no one knows can possibly, accurately guess what goes on inside your mind.

What goes on inside my mind?

The condensed version:

1.  Write and direct more sketches
2.  Develop this exciting web series
3. Get another part-time job
4. Get another writing/editing job
5. Be a more dependable friend
6. Be a more available daughter/sister
7. Hold artsy catch ups and introduce people to each other
8.  Quit Facebook (oh, I loathe “chatting” and “seen” messages, oh but the circulation and marketing of sketches!)
9. Save money, somehow
10. Get a Masters in Belgium
11. Pick up French
12.  Do fun runs
13.  Eat all the food groups
14. Buy more Vitamin B12
15. Broccoli
16. Quinoa
17. Dark chocolate
18. Toilet paper
19. Create more space. Get a desk. Stop living out of suitcases and canvas bags
20. Tax the rich

Assignmenting calls. Volunteering beckons. Waitressing shrieks.

See you next week!!!!!!!

(rhymology, nearly!)

Walking the Lonely Road

You talk the talk, but can you walk the walk?

No, I really can’t. I can’t walk the walk, I discovered while out walking today.

I’ve been showing off a peculiar gait the last few weeks, owing to an annoyingly persistent and annoyingly minor foot injury. This iffy ankle has encumbered me so much that I can’t run like I used to – halving court time at basketball and reducing my morning jog to a power walk (read: unnecessarily urgent foolish-looking pace) – and adding insult to (minor) injury, it isn’t major enough to excuse me from work or elicit ‘Nawww…” responses from Parking Inspectors gleefully issuing tickets to my begrudgingly able-bodied self. This grey area of physical affliction drives me insane. I just want one way or the other: happily resigned to bed and blogging, or running for my life from ninjas, terminators, Pennywise and Spanish bulls.

Really, my hobble is just the tip of the iceberg. I can’t walk the walk – the metaphoric one, connotative to action and follow-through of attitudes and plans for the future. I’ve stopped trying nearly completely in the last month. There have been glimmers of an actual pursuit of my ambitions – attending the Sydney Writers’ Festival, scribbling poems, scratching jokes, searching jobs – but what have I done worth showing to partners, audiences, prospective employers? I’ve grown lazy and I don’t think it’s because of the ankle.

I’ve been shaken, rudely, of late. There are some who are gifted with the virtues of resilience, dedication and sacrifice. And there are others who haven’t had the will or cause to learn these virtues. I am in the latter category of people and, merely nagged by my professional responsibilities and ambitions, I am ashamed of my situation.

I tried so hard this year. I bit bullets and at last shared my work; reaching out to friends, family, peers and strangers. I applied for jobs I felt ill-qualified for and got interviews. I jumped into impro performance. I studied, read and wrote daily. I set deadlines and I met them.

These attempts, these plans, these projects haven’t worked out. I had sneaking suspicions with these jobs I missed; I considered the odds of competitions and incentives; I could feel relationships crumbling bit by bit. These slights happened in isolated weeks, on ordinary days, between the delightful and the hum-drum. They weren’t so surprising nor were they dramatically affecting in my life. They were so small, so surreptitious, so slight… That word is married so perfect to its definition.  

My passion has fizzled. I now wake and use the morning aimlessly, work afternoons and nights, and consider projects in the witching hour when I am too apathetic to truly imagine and innovate. And I hear and see all the wonderful things my loved ones are achieving or striving to achieve. It’s entirely on me, I tell myself now, like I told myself so many months ago when I returned from travel and began doing; thinking decisively and getting at this life business. Only now, I can’t see anything in the future I can feel hopeful for. There are very broad brushstrokes of collaborations and very distant deadlines. I need something now. Something shiny to capture my sense of wonder, desire and purpose or I may fizzle out completely. I want to be that excitable puppy again who pee at the hint of a writing incentive.

I thought about my prospects on my midday-til-dusk walk. I considered returning to study, moving out, moving cities, jumping into more stable work suited to my skills and experience. I think I know what I want to do, what I must do, but it’ll take hard work and discipline. It’s even difficult just to discuss these things with others. I often detect a certain tone and expression when I talk to family and friends about what I do and want to do. My dreams and my measures of success should be my own, but inextricably linked to these senses of happiness, expression and fulfilment is their worth to others and especially those I deeply care about. It’s no fault of theirs. Maybe they just think that I’m talking the talk.

It’s entirely on me. I made something out of the clean slate five months ago. I just have to keep working, keep planning, keep aspiring and keep writing more than anything. To keep me motivated and self-aware. To make me resilient and inspired. To withstand rejection, disappointment and criticism (...mostly coming from myself, no?)

The secret to inspiration and success

What is the first thing you do in the morning?

I try to remember my dreams in that 10 minute sleep-in window I afford myself the night before when I set my alarm.

Meanwhile, I listen to the world outside my bedroom. I listen for sounds of birds, traffic, rain, wind, lawnmowers, garbage trucks – which all help me recall what day of the week it is and what time of the morning. Then I usually place myself in context.

For instance, it is before ten on a Friday. I have work in a couple of hours. Damn, and it sounds as though I might have enjoyed a beautiful day out. Or, it is before eight on a Saturday. I have work in eleven hours. Damn, and it sounds as though I might have enjoyed a beautiful day out.

When I work dinner shifts, I tend to write off the whole day. I literally don't mean this literally. I stall, procrastinate, snack. I pick a few small errands to do and achieve maybe one of them. I feel pressed for time and watch the clock all day – a behaviour that often prolongs time, but when you have to be somewhere else, the minutes and hours slip by suddenly.

I’ve been haven’t been too eager to write lately. No subject or story has particularly tickled my fancy. I’ve scribbled a few blog ideas down on paper and brainstormed some funny bits for some collaborative projects, only without the compulsive urge to work on them, make them better, see them through. I feel like it was just yesterday I was obsessed with writing – obsessively writing, living in the world of the characters; my first sober thoughts in the morning and my last conscious ones at night.

This was probably 6 weeks ago when I was excited by some competitions, and before that, my most enthusiastic writing sessions were in September-October and March-April of 2012. I had a very close look at these dates in my old diary,  hoping to find the secret to inspiration and success. I found that was working around 20 hours a week, talking regularly with friends and had key writing incentives in mind. I was also consuming many books and newspapers and fascinated by the world at large. When I’m not writing, I slump into Facebook exploration and watch much fictional television.  During these proudly productive (though stressful) periods, I was also getting earlier nights’ rest and finding the time to exercise daily. I was busy and motivated by others. Re-reading my blogs, I seemed engaged in my own original thoughts and musings. I also seemed wittier!

I felt accountable to a writing partner, someone older I respected, who believed in my talent and understood my humour; someone whose own talent and humour seemed vastly superior to my own which at times, made me intimidated, frustrated and envious.

Strange enough, I’m in that position again, but with a new partner. I suppose a chief difference between this partner and that last is that this one is keen to make things. He produces what he writes. He does soundscapes and recruits others’ help. He is proactive about writing.

So what is wrong with me? Why aren’t I writing for these exciting partnered projects? Following my sleep-in and dreamy recollections of a morning, I open my curtains, stretch, pee and usually then go for a jog. When I get home, I rehydrate, turn on my computer, shower, log on and have breakfast. I check the newspaper, open computer windows, catch up on email and Facebook notifications and the general newsfeed. I do this everyday and as I do it, it sickens me. I am so obsessed with the online world and connecting to others on such a superficial level. For all the sources of inspiration I want to expose my brain to and professional networks I seek to open up, really I just feel like I’m becoming petty, unimaginative, disingenuous and dumber.

I saw a brilliant talk Alain de Botton gave in Seoul just recently (via Facebook newsfeed I should mention, rather hypocritically). The man is so fascinated by ideas it’s fascinating. The man’s ideas are fascinating as well as challenging and thought-provoking. This talk was about where and how to learn to live happily and as good people. Education systems like school and university don’t teach us about living happy private lives. Religions don’t necessarily provide answers either – especially for the growing number of atheists in the world, myself being one of them. Who can we look to? To Alain, he says. Not in those words, exactly, but he has set up The School of Life – institutions to help with the moral, ethical and interpersonal situations we look to solve and better understand.

These are the things I am interested in right now: being good and being good enough. Not too surprising for my young, careerless, creative, 22-year-old self living at home whilst friends and brothers are already establishing careers and families. Stories around these matters I usually write about. (Yoda-like are my sentences.) With this latest partner, overarching themes haven’t exactly emerged. Perhaps I should ask him what kinds of things he likes to write about. Obviously he has a vivid imagination and remarkable flair for the English language and we share interest in the same TV shows and movies, but what personal aspects does he hope to fulfil in writing. What ideas does he connect to? Nostalgia? Anxiety?

But I think perhaps he’s already told me. Or alluded to or hinted at, in the way that males seem only capable. He hasn’t stated explicit fears or anxieties or meta-conundrums like I have to him (and most others I encounter). But he has identified with specific ideas I have blogged about. This should say it all, should it not? Doggone, I am writer, after all, so I should know:  SHOW, don’t tell.