Back straight, eyes forward, you observe with little interest or connection but your face betrays nothing. Why are you here in this stuffy run down funeral parlour? You don’t care; it’s not the loss of anyone you know. You could use the time better for something else, but obligations….
You take a deep breath, but it is relinquished as an extended and silent sigh. Well, you didn’t want to let it all out quickly and noisily; that would have caused dozens of glaring faces to scrunch up in disgust. It may even cause a few disappointed shakes of a head. You would know, you made it happen before. It happened 2 years ago, when you were 14 in fact. It was not to your parent’s delight. They scolded and disciplined you pretty harshly for that. The agonizing memory of your spanking remains like a permanent souvenir, the searing pain on your buttocks almost reoccurring every time you contemplate exposing your boredom. But it was true though, it was goddamn boring, why were you persecuted for telling the truth?
The idleness batters on your sanity, your youthful vigour catalysing the violent bubbling of your frustration. Your helpless gaze drifts from your scruffy leather shoes and slack covered legs across the aisle to a seemingly endless row of identical wooden pews which seat the other half of the guests. Your attention drifts to a lady sitting in the back row, directly across from you. She is young, short and dons entirely black apparel; face partially covered by a lopsided charcoal veil and dark mascara. You notice her because she was crying. She looks pitiful there by herself as she weeps, the mascara bleeds from her eyes like black tears, neutralizing the tan foundation powder, forming veins of mercury down the obliques of her reddened face. The sight of it damn near kills you. The guilt of feeling bored almost disappears. You look up and see the speaker burst out in tears almost in synchronisation with the woman; 2 actors in an emotional drama. Soon the whole room is filled with sniffles, painful wallowing and sobs, as if everyone had contracted a virus which was eating them from the inside out.
But all you do is just sit there. You feel that you should cry as well but you can’t. You feel nothing for that man whose body lies lifeless and beautifully dressed in an intricately carved wooden box. The deathly pale and cold aura which he emanates does not make any connection with your sentiments; all you feel is utter detachment. People in the row behind you pat your back and reassure its ok to cry for the man who had died, as he was a true “hero”. You wouldn’t want anyone to cry at your funeral, you wouldn’t want them to embarrass themselves. You feel trapped, helpless and alone, the thought of it prompts a bead of water to escape through the corner of your eye. Why were you crying for someone who you have and never will know? The thought rattles your mind as you close your eyes and mutely hang your head as if to weep, anxiously awaiting the bitter snivels to slowly but inevitably die away.
The wake awaited in an adjacent room plastered with white paint. Silverware and bulging plates were stacked with a plethora of fine food which lay pre-prepared in the glow of the morning sun on a long wooden table that stretched to almost match the width of the room. Waiters and waitresses in identical uniforms flanked the table with their hands behind their backs, gaze wandering innocently but impatiently around the ceiling of the room, oblivious to the emotional suffering of the guests they were serving. You take a seat next to your watery eyed parents, the luxuriously cushioned dining seat a great relief from the cold and hard surface of the pew. You watch as the sniffles and pained tears are soon muffled and replaced by clattering of cutlery, furious munching and jovial chatter. An old man who sits in front of you roars in laughter, one arm swilling an over filled glass full of wine while the other wrapped around the initially crying young woman. She is laughing now. The sight disgusts you and your eyes drift away. Your fork pierces into a shank of meat and you chew it slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible. A flat and bland taste of overcooked beef dulls your taste buds; you had no appetite for such an occasion. Your father turns from his happy conversation and asks you about the food. “It’s great right?” he says. You smile and reply “yeah, pretty good”. Before you can finish he has turned around already.
The crying, the eating, the sudden happiness; it is all a bit too much. You throw your glass of wine on the floor and it shatters, sending shards of glass spinning on the marble floor. You hold your head with both your hands. Heads immediately turn to look as if in some fascination something interesting had happened. You can feel their cold eyes, filled with disapproval, bore into you as the chatter silences. All that comes to your mind as the glass is propelled across the now pinot covered marble is an ice skater. You think of an ice skater as they effortlessly glide across the ice, delicate in their motion, gracefully transitioning from spin to skating; free and without constraint. You want to say how you felt, scream to the world how sickened you are with their performance. You could, but you didn’t; you just apologize and say your elbow slipped and you continue eating your steak. Anything otherwise would have been rude.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Rat Race
For Kristi :)
The harsh electronic buzz of the alarm rings in your ear. You blindly reach for the snooze button and tumble back to sleep. You repeat this 2 more times but you should have left 30 minutes ago. Now not only do you have the buzz of the clock in your ear but also the barking of an anxious woman (we know how bad that is) and the wailing of a child, as well as 4 eager hands pushing you out of bed. This makes you fall onto the ground and see bowl of mouldy cereal under the bed; reality hits; responsibility hits; it sucks. You’ve made your son late for the 3rd time this week and he’s gonna get a detention, which means he’s not going to talk to you for a couple of days, perfect.
You bolt out the door, tie half mast and toast hanging out of your mouth, the jam sliding down your chin and coagulating in your thick stubble. The birds chirp merrily as to encourage your inarticulate juggling act to the car. You rush back in because you forgot to grab the house keys, and again because you forgot the car keys. By now, it’s 8: 45am and young Jim is already 15 minutes late for school.
“Aaand welcome back to triple Q radio, totally not a rip off of triple j”. As you skip from lane to lane on the freeway, the phone goes off. It’s Mr Mazelli, your new boss. He’s wondering why you are 5 minutes late for your 1st day at your new job, and why he is even chasing you up. Maybe because he liked your jokes and how you complimented how his fashion sense accentuated his rugged looks. You couldn’t help but snicker at the thought of it, the bald fart. Before he could tell you off, your wife is shouting down the other end about how Jimmy is getting bullied at school. The cars zoom by you as you struggle to get to grips with the situation. “Screw etiquette” you say and turn off the phone without saying goodbye. You weren’t in the mood. Jimmy was still in the car, dammit. You watch in the back mirror as he just puts his face in his palm and shakes his head. It was pleasant to hear nothing but Queen blasting through the radio anyway. You cruise along in your Lamborghini Galado as “Don’t stop me now” blares though the empty roof and through your hair. Except it isn’t a sportscar, but a v6 KIA minivan with the sunroof panel slid back. Pretending is kind of nice sometimes. But it wasn’t pleasant to have a brooding and angst teen in the back; hmm trouble.
You’ve arrived, Parktree High. You double park and drop off Jimmy, you know it’s ok because all the eager parents had dropped off their children 40 minutes ago. You wish him a nice day and how you’d talk to him after school about his ‘bullying problem’. You don’t even face him as you know he’s too mad to respond right now. You start to feel kind of guilty but then you look at your watch. The gruilt instantly disappears.
Now back to the freeway, zooming to work. You call Mr Mazelli and apologize, trying to justify your cause with the beautiful excuse of having to talk to your son. Works every time. You rock up and he asks who are you and your name. For a moment, you think of all the things you are; a father, a husband, a shrink, an accountant, a chauffeur, a lazy couch potato, a teenage enemy, a nuisance, a careless and clumsy twit; but you feel loved. You reply “I’m John, John Smith, the new guy”.
You are assigned a sterile white cubicle among 20 identical others. You sit down and disappear in it. You look at the fat stack of work that squats on your to do tray; and the emptiness of the “done” tray. You hate it already. You lean back and day dream, thinking about the hell you’d have to go through when you got to go back. Being stuck in the 6pm jam on the road, being told off by the wife and the kid, eating the same mediocre dinner, retelling the same wise words your parents told you when you were in the same situation; being a dad. You smiled and looked forward to it. People asked you what you were smiling about, you replied “Nothing”. They turned away and melted back into their cubicle, their white shirts acting almost like camouflage against the bleach coloured wall. You proudly and gently place a family photo in the corner of the table, knowing exactly where to find yourself in a sea of faces; standing behind Jimmy and next to your wife in the 3rd row. More importantly, you focused on how stunning you looked in that pinstripe suit. You revelled in the triumph of knowing and having something your colleagues didn’t. You have a stupid smug look on your face as you lean back in your chair to assume your position as king of the world but then you tumble backwards. As you lay on the ground, half conscious and head throbbing, a thought drifts into your head.
“Stop dreaming kiddo, and get back to work. The boss is coming over and he’s pissed.”
The harsh electronic buzz of the alarm rings in your ear. You blindly reach for the snooze button and tumble back to sleep. You repeat this 2 more times but you should have left 30 minutes ago. Now not only do you have the buzz of the clock in your ear but also the barking of an anxious woman (we know how bad that is) and the wailing of a child, as well as 4 eager hands pushing you out of bed. This makes you fall onto the ground and see bowl of mouldy cereal under the bed; reality hits; responsibility hits; it sucks. You’ve made your son late for the 3rd time this week and he’s gonna get a detention, which means he’s not going to talk to you for a couple of days, perfect.
You bolt out the door, tie half mast and toast hanging out of your mouth, the jam sliding down your chin and coagulating in your thick stubble. The birds chirp merrily as to encourage your inarticulate juggling act to the car. You rush back in because you forgot to grab the house keys, and again because you forgot the car keys. By now, it’s 8: 45am and young Jim is already 15 minutes late for school.
“Aaand welcome back to triple Q radio, totally not a rip off of triple j”. As you skip from lane to lane on the freeway, the phone goes off. It’s Mr Mazelli, your new boss. He’s wondering why you are 5 minutes late for your 1st day at your new job, and why he is even chasing you up. Maybe because he liked your jokes and how you complimented how his fashion sense accentuated his rugged looks. You couldn’t help but snicker at the thought of it, the bald fart. Before he could tell you off, your wife is shouting down the other end about how Jimmy is getting bullied at school. The cars zoom by you as you struggle to get to grips with the situation. “Screw etiquette” you say and turn off the phone without saying goodbye. You weren’t in the mood. Jimmy was still in the car, dammit. You watch in the back mirror as he just puts his face in his palm and shakes his head. It was pleasant to hear nothing but Queen blasting through the radio anyway. You cruise along in your Lamborghini Galado as “Don’t stop me now” blares though the empty roof and through your hair. Except it isn’t a sportscar, but a v6 KIA minivan with the sunroof panel slid back. Pretending is kind of nice sometimes. But it wasn’t pleasant to have a brooding and angst teen in the back; hmm trouble.
You’ve arrived, Parktree High. You double park and drop off Jimmy, you know it’s ok because all the eager parents had dropped off their children 40 minutes ago. You wish him a nice day and how you’d talk to him after school about his ‘bullying problem’. You don’t even face him as you know he’s too mad to respond right now. You start to feel kind of guilty but then you look at your watch. The gruilt instantly disappears.
Now back to the freeway, zooming to work. You call Mr Mazelli and apologize, trying to justify your cause with the beautiful excuse of having to talk to your son. Works every time. You rock up and he asks who are you and your name. For a moment, you think of all the things you are; a father, a husband, a shrink, an accountant, a chauffeur, a lazy couch potato, a teenage enemy, a nuisance, a careless and clumsy twit; but you feel loved. You reply “I’m John, John Smith, the new guy”.
You are assigned a sterile white cubicle among 20 identical others. You sit down and disappear in it. You look at the fat stack of work that squats on your to do tray; and the emptiness of the “done” tray. You hate it already. You lean back and day dream, thinking about the hell you’d have to go through when you got to go back. Being stuck in the 6pm jam on the road, being told off by the wife and the kid, eating the same mediocre dinner, retelling the same wise words your parents told you when you were in the same situation; being a dad. You smiled and looked forward to it. People asked you what you were smiling about, you replied “Nothing”. They turned away and melted back into their cubicle, their white shirts acting almost like camouflage against the bleach coloured wall. You proudly and gently place a family photo in the corner of the table, knowing exactly where to find yourself in a sea of faces; standing behind Jimmy and next to your wife in the 3rd row. More importantly, you focused on how stunning you looked in that pinstripe suit. You revelled in the triumph of knowing and having something your colleagues didn’t. You have a stupid smug look on your face as you lean back in your chair to assume your position as king of the world but then you tumble backwards. As you lay on the ground, half conscious and head throbbing, a thought drifts into your head.
“Stop dreaming kiddo, and get back to work. The boss is coming over and he’s pissed.”
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Playground; A different spin on things.
Hey guys, another short thing I did for eng hw. Not my best work, but interesting never the less. You know the drill :)
“The roar at 12:45pm, as usual, was terrible. The harsh ununiformed sound of runners hitting the ground rang in my ears. The noise was sharp like the shards of tanbark which grazed my scrawny legs, displaced by a frantic herd of students stampeding by me towards the playground. As I just stood petrified, I was engulfed in a moving sea of people, creating a bulge in the flow where I stood as people slowed and tried to clamber around my shaking figure. As the last of the mass rushed by me, I was forcefully pushed, sending me sprawling over and cutting my knee. Tears welled in my eyes and I wanted to cry but I saved my breath; I knew no one would care; they were too caught up in the happiness of creaky slides and rusty swings, the elements of the school I hated the most and avoided. And again I lay there alone, holding my bandaid covered shin as the crimson kept leaking through my fingers. It was marginally worse than when the students rushed by, at least someone was around me. This was the place I had learnt the brutality of social rejection. “
You wouldn’t have believed how loudly the class laughed at me after I said that for my English assessment. The topic was personal reflection. “Thank you so much Lawrence” the teacher snorted, barely but politely suppressing his laugh with a masking hand. “Harden up you wimp” someone jeered as I walked back to my seat. You could see my face redden and I felt like it was ablaze, as liquid emotion trickled from my eyes, my head sunk to my chest and a bitter plaque of anger and embarrassment crept down the back of my throat. The trek to my chair seemed indefinite, accompanied by cold arrows of mockery that hurtled and speared me from every angle of the classroom. Head down, I was reduced to the reading graffiti on the desk; further eye contact would have damn near killed me. Apart from the usual profanities etched in capitals in the wood, I noticed the words “Play the game”; the 3 words which my parents, the teachers, the principal, my peers, practically everyone in my life have been repeating nonsensically. “Play by the rules, conform to the expectations, be normal” they all said. I reflected to myself as I sat in the chair, oblivious to the students and our teacher who stared critically at me. They burned with an expectation for me to clap as students finished their presentations, but I stayed idle; I didn’t want to. Each time one of the boys stood up to give their speeches; I nearly suffocated by scoffing. Predictable sagas of “pleasant” and happy moments of the past polluted the air, such as when dad used to bring us down to the lake to fish or when we and mum went shopping for my first computer. After a while, it was all a bit samey and boring. But every time a presentation was finished, the students would cheer and clap, even the teacher would, no matter how bad it was. But what do my thoughts matter? I’m just a weirdo right?
I just shook my head; it was all a bit phony. I closed my eyes and stayed in my chair as the bell for lunch rang, followed by a rustling of books being stacked and people rushing out the door. Again, I was alone, but for some reason I was glad. Some things never change.
~L Ling
“The roar at 12:45pm, as usual, was terrible. The harsh ununiformed sound of runners hitting the ground rang in my ears. The noise was sharp like the shards of tanbark which grazed my scrawny legs, displaced by a frantic herd of students stampeding by me towards the playground. As I just stood petrified, I was engulfed in a moving sea of people, creating a bulge in the flow where I stood as people slowed and tried to clamber around my shaking figure. As the last of the mass rushed by me, I was forcefully pushed, sending me sprawling over and cutting my knee. Tears welled in my eyes and I wanted to cry but I saved my breath; I knew no one would care; they were too caught up in the happiness of creaky slides and rusty swings, the elements of the school I hated the most and avoided. And again I lay there alone, holding my bandaid covered shin as the crimson kept leaking through my fingers. It was marginally worse than when the students rushed by, at least someone was around me. This was the place I had learnt the brutality of social rejection. “
You wouldn’t have believed how loudly the class laughed at me after I said that for my English assessment. The topic was personal reflection. “Thank you so much Lawrence” the teacher snorted, barely but politely suppressing his laugh with a masking hand. “Harden up you wimp” someone jeered as I walked back to my seat. You could see my face redden and I felt like it was ablaze, as liquid emotion trickled from my eyes, my head sunk to my chest and a bitter plaque of anger and embarrassment crept down the back of my throat. The trek to my chair seemed indefinite, accompanied by cold arrows of mockery that hurtled and speared me from every angle of the classroom. Head down, I was reduced to the reading graffiti on the desk; further eye contact would have damn near killed me. Apart from the usual profanities etched in capitals in the wood, I noticed the words “Play the game”; the 3 words which my parents, the teachers, the principal, my peers, practically everyone in my life have been repeating nonsensically. “Play by the rules, conform to the expectations, be normal” they all said. I reflected to myself as I sat in the chair, oblivious to the students and our teacher who stared critically at me. They burned with an expectation for me to clap as students finished their presentations, but I stayed idle; I didn’t want to. Each time one of the boys stood up to give their speeches; I nearly suffocated by scoffing. Predictable sagas of “pleasant” and happy moments of the past polluted the air, such as when dad used to bring us down to the lake to fish or when we and mum went shopping for my first computer. After a while, it was all a bit samey and boring. But every time a presentation was finished, the students would cheer and clap, even the teacher would, no matter how bad it was. But what do my thoughts matter? I’m just a weirdo right?
I just shook my head; it was all a bit phony. I closed my eyes and stayed in my chair as the bell for lunch rang, followed by a rustling of books being stacked and people rushing out the door. Again, I was alone, but for some reason I was glad. Some things never change.
~L Ling
Monday, May 3, 2010
"Boys need to steal the key from under the pillow of his sleeping mother"- Robert Bly
Hey guys, I came across this quote through english hw and I found it really interesting and insightful in the themes it explores; independence and our constant quests for identity. If you want, have a read of my discussion I wrote, hope you enjoy :) (PS: It's quite a read so get comfortable :))
Bly's quote is an exploration of a child's growing quest for independance that comes with a growing age. The physical act of "stealing" is rebellious and frowned upon; possibly being a new source of exhilaration and exploration which children crave at such a young age.
The very fact it is from their mother, the breathing reason the child exists in the first place, amplifies the gravity of this act. The children are betraying the trust of the most powerful figure in their lives and thus demonstrating a thirst for independence and control. They reveal an unwillingness to be controlled and dominated by committing such an ungrateful act which they believe may carry positive repercussions.
This 'probing' of their authorial space is a thirst never quenched if allowed to continue and mutate into the behavioral scope of "delinquency". However, by testing these boundaries, they learn through their parents' usually negative reactions where they truly stand and the correlation of between challenging and disrespectful behavior and the unpleasant consequences that follow it.
Although it may seem brutal and painful to punish a child, it is a crucial stage of learning. The wisdom of the old saying "you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink" is especially true in this case. As a parent, your role is to guide and provide the best conditions for a child's future. However, the child's existence and behavior is in their hands. You may be the catalysts in their development, but it is their will that makes them who they are.
It is only through personal experience will they learn what is good and bad. Only pain and suffering (of a safe limit) will serve as a constant reminder forever in their minds that will shape and mould their behaviour into a form hopefully more acceptable and socially desirable.
In terms of the quote, the rebellion of stealing this object is literally the "key" from which the child can learn his morals and thus a stepping stone in unlocking the complexity of becoming a more respectable person.
~L. Ling
Bly's quote is an exploration of a child's growing quest for independance that comes with a growing age. The physical act of "stealing" is rebellious and frowned upon; possibly being a new source of exhilaration and exploration which children crave at such a young age.
The very fact it is from their mother, the breathing reason the child exists in the first place, amplifies the gravity of this act. The children are betraying the trust of the most powerful figure in their lives and thus demonstrating a thirst for independence and control. They reveal an unwillingness to be controlled and dominated by committing such an ungrateful act which they believe may carry positive repercussions.
This 'probing' of their authorial space is a thirst never quenched if allowed to continue and mutate into the behavioral scope of "delinquency". However, by testing these boundaries, they learn through their parents' usually negative reactions where they truly stand and the correlation of between challenging and disrespectful behavior and the unpleasant consequences that follow it.
Although it may seem brutal and painful to punish a child, it is a crucial stage of learning. The wisdom of the old saying "you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink" is especially true in this case. As a parent, your role is to guide and provide the best conditions for a child's future. However, the child's existence and behavior is in their hands. You may be the catalysts in their development, but it is their will that makes them who they are.
It is only through personal experience will they learn what is good and bad. Only pain and suffering (of a safe limit) will serve as a constant reminder forever in their minds that will shape and mould their behaviour into a form hopefully more acceptable and socially desirable.
In terms of the quote, the rebellion of stealing this object is literally the "key" from which the child can learn his morals and thus a stepping stone in unlocking the complexity of becoming a more respectable person.
~L. Ling
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