2007-12-11
...Is To Be Conscious
What has driven me to write another entry? I write primarily based on inspiration, and I wait for it to come, patiently, no matter how long it takes. Maybe I'm fatalistic in a way. That explains why the last poem I've written was in Sec 4. I don't think I remember how to write poetry anymore, but meeting one of my favourite local poets, Cyril Wong, whom I hold a great deal of respect for, last Sunday at his performance, Facade, probably awakened something. Slowly, my friends, slowly, something will come out of this.No, it isn't because of Cyril that I write this entry. Well, maybe he had a part in that. And so did my friend, Tom, who wrote another beautiful piece of his own, describing his experiences working in community theatre, with people with special needs - a cool thing that comes out of joining the Contemporary Performance Practice course at RSAMD. Too bad I'll have to settle for Law at the moment. But let's not go into that just yet.
I wonder what has gotten into many of us these days. Recently, I've been a punching bag for a number of people who seem to have so many things going on with themselves, often cryptic, silent, personal. They aren't problems. More like things. It's all very surreal. They begin to be unrecognisable to me, because I simply am not on the same wavelength as them. In a way, it makes me feel stupid. That I am rather carefree for the time being. That I am enjoying simplicity. That I don't complicate matters for myself anymore. In turn, I find others complicated. This isn't necessarily bad on their part, it perhaps brings back a bit of deja vu, in the sense that I used to be like them at one point in my life. But I can't find the right wavelength, to keep in touch with these people, to comprehend what they are saying anymore, even though I used to be a part of their community. Does this make me a simpleton? A mere one of the masses? Funny how I feel satisfied, but yet it doesn't seem to hold all its promises. There's still something to pick on. I think I liked it better when I was not satisfied.
I have been thinking about my times in school - something that I ought to be forgetting about and preparing for the next stage; what I have always dreamed of. Mr. A. Chew said how we girls move on out of the school like gilded butterflies. But remember, dear kind sir, our ties to you and the rest were never as close as those you held with the boys. I could never share that luxury. It's normal, it can't be changed. There were many things I hid, alone, because I would naturally fall out of favour. I don't blame anyone, because it was all set in place, and time. Nothing can change this and I don't think I would advocate for it.
I feel that I'm drifting away from certain people, mainly because our aspirations are so different now. And I look back upon the years when we used to share crazes and dreams, and how we were all simple and amazing. We still are amazing, but no longer simple beings. I know I said I found myself getting simpler, and I don't know why I would detest that, when others just want to be like me. I guess it's not about satisfaction anymore, but about our shifting nature, nomads who find solace in drifting, refreshing, molding into something new, unfamiliar to ourselves and others. There's a kind of comfort in that, somehow. Here I am worrying about the arts scene, the universities and LNAT. There they are worrying about complex messages in the dark. I seem to have sorted everything out, like my beloved German, but it could shift, like it always does.
Maybe there's some truth in the sense that when one has pleasure, the other has to suffer. Just a week ago, I attended the Norwegian Film Fest, thanks to the arthouse society on Facebook. I loved Reprise. The mood and the atmosphere that such sharp, delicate, beautiful angles produced drew me in. I guess I do love French New Wave. Anyway, Reprise got me thinking. That everything seems to be on a see-saw. A writer becomes famous in one night. His friend gets rejected. Six months later, the writer is healing his wounds from a stint in the psychiatric hospital. His friend gains worthy mention out of fiery debates arising from his career as an author. A definite see-saw. And other parts in the film that I've failed to mention here as well. Currently, the whole film reminds me of my source of inspiration. And I dedicate this to her, him, it. Someday I shall get you the movie, dear friend, and you shall see everything so clearly.
I laugh at what I'm doing. It doesn't mean I'm treating it as a joke, no. God forbid, no. Here I am, a Catholic, fiercely fighting for an acceptance of the gay community, in church, at home, on my UCAS application form. Hell, people think I'm mad. But I don't see any madness in what I'm doing. I laugh because I believe in it, it's fun and I like it. I return to the drifter part of me. Like Patrick Wolf. But that boy has gotten himself silly again; he'll grow into himself, I know it. In a few years, maybe I'll be in love with other things; I just let myself drift along with the times, but not necessarily keeping to them. Yes, I'm still proudly Catholic, and my relationship with God to me, is private and intimate. But I've always tried to keep my mind open to everything.
Maybe that's why I don't have a straight opinion on some topics, it really can go either way and I'm fine with that. Except, Literature in my former school has made me feel otherwise - I inhabit a person who thinks in black and white. But that's only from one point-of-view and marks, that don't really matter to me now. She could be so, so, very wrong, and she would know that. Same thing with the performance y grec. I caught it last Saturday. My first taste of Cake Theatre, but I am inclined to see more of their work. I think I was the only one in the audience who didn't like it. But that doesn't mean a thing. Nothing wrong with being on the other side, when others found it brilliant. I lost my chance to explain to Amos why, but I think there is a time when silence is more graceful.
Cyril Wong, Adrian Tan and the band in Facade.
Where I want to be.
No hesitations.
Someday I shall find myself by a sea-side hotel; grandiose, washed-up and rotting. And I won't ask myself where I am or why.