synapse

i was walking through katherine - on the tail-end of my journey, the return trip on the ghan - feeling so self-assured, knowing exactly what i was doing, all because i had saved a bit by walking into town instead of taking a bus. i was bored, though, because katherine on a sunday afternoon had the combined energy of two ants on a treadmill.

by this time, i considered myself highly experienced with turning down aboriginal requests for, variously, money to buy meat, cigarettes, and spare change. the style i adopted had evolved from flat out "no", to "hell, i need money too, can i come with you?" so imagine the warmth of familiarity in my heart when a group of three aboriginals approached me for some kindness on a desolate street. at that very moment i decided to employ a new tactic, because i was an aboriginal from taiwan who could not speak english, was very glad to be on their land, and would love to be in possession of some kindness too. THAT worked like a charm because god knows prolly the only thing aboriginals cant stand is someone exactly like themselves.

motordreaming

there's something about little india that makes it a great joy working here at the inncrowd. it's the swash and the wash of humanity; the lingering of body odour from foreign workers, watching them tired, sweaty, dirty but very happy (or terribly unhappy and Angry sometimes); it's the vagueness of what everyone else is saying, and the opacity of even the language which they speak; it's the romance of baskets of unknown produce from an unknown land feeding an unknown man with an unknown family in an even further land. the streets on sunday become the campus for thousands of foreign workers, who gather here like posing schoolboys, to see and be seen and to eat and drink and look at the local produce of the female kind; five-foot ways lining the streets become opium dens for friends to gather around a spread of thali, cheap beer and the kind of mirth that comes with long-awaited idle.

it's no wonder then, that something always happens while i'm making my way to work every day. it's in the smile of a bemused traveller, the different way a shop looks today, the concert down in the open space, or the man dead pissed and out cold on clive and campbell. tonight on the bus 67 there, i fall asleep as always and dream of the road. im running past a busy road, but am too slow, and am knocked down by a motorbike in the last lane. everyone gathers around to help me and i laugh because maybe i'm dying. the crowd clears for the motorcyclist who knocked me down and it's... rudy.

rebellion

my pen dropped into the toilet bowl just as i pressed the flush button in CCSG. as i realised that this would prolly be the best way to lose a pen (i lose one every day), an uncontrollable fit took over me and i laughed myself shitfaced much to the chagrin of the supervisor. amidst all the grease and coffee in the cafe, there's always a light mood, and we never take ourselves too seriously. it's the only way to stay sane.

it really is the only way, faced with the challenge of university, moving, getting what i've been pining for, the unending madness, everyday quiet placating the big and crazy Confusion which demands more, more, more monotony and routine before it lays itself to sleep for tonight. If I could just take the piss about all these things, hold up this sense of kefe, then perhaps one day, i will tell myself nothing really matters, and on that day, I will know it to be true.

Dunce Dreaming

I'm rushing into the PAC at RJ because I think I'm a little late for this staging of Macbeth. As I burst through the double doors, they're already announcing cast credits at the curtain call, so they call out for me... and put a dunce hat (it's more like a pail) on me. I'm determined to not be late for the next staging so I rushed to Mac's, but lo and behold, they're already well into the Porter scene.

At Mac's (not the same one, it's not a dream, and yes, what was I doing there?), I bump into Agnes where we start to yak about regular catch-up stuff. Turns out that she's in UNSWAsia, and still trying to decide if she will go to Sydney. So I ask her how she took the news that school was closing down, because that's always one of our secret wishes back in primary or secindary school. True enough, she tells a tale of how she gets into class late to see her classmate alone in the classroom, who then shouts to her animatedly, "No need to come school la, no more school, school close down already!" So be careful what you wish for, because it might very well come true, just very much later on... at the wrong time.