Words come bidden, unbidden, words written.
A conversation I had the other day:
"I've been reading your blog"
"I can't write it anymore. I was thinking of stopping it and starting a new one, later. I mean, it was always hard, seemingly impossible, that sinking feeling always there when I pressed the publish button, but I had Nepal! And I always worried about how I was only writing mundane things about my everyday normal life - less electricity, more hills - but now I realise that that was the point! To try and capture the mundane, yes, I find it annoying when people use the phrase 'third world problems' all the time, as though people in the third world don't get pissed off when their facebook stops working without explanation, yes, to capture that, she helped me to see it too, the counterpoint of mundane and magical. But now I'm in Melbourne, working a regular job,"
"Well, write about that. Being back in Melbourne, missing Nepal."
"I've already written two blog posts about that."
"Well. Just write something else then."
Now, a-sudden, a breeze blows through, mind alive in motionless body. Melbourne! The dance! Yesterday I went to drinks, a work-thing, on day three of the new job. I'm teaching English now, with many other English teachers, all travellers, all of the birds come home to roost. We all wear ironed shirts, nice skirts, adequate footwear. The great Reg Bolton said that one of the best things about the circus industry was that you don't have to wear shoes at work. This was once a cute line, now it is a heaven-sent truth. They, the other English teachers, have been in Melbourne for some time now, working in that same place, Impact English, for two years or three. I was quietly incredulous at the thought of staying in the same job for so long. But then, that's what people do, isn't it? That's what is expected, I suddenly realised why I never get jobs from my CV. It is not an ancient curse, as I'd suspected, the CV just reveals the fact that I will probably only stay for 6 months, less, if the job is crap.
I decided to leave the work-thing-drinks early, the ciders were too easy to drink, too expensive to buy. Decorum preserved, mystery maintained, off and away, on my bicycle into the cold Antarctic headwind. Part wanted to go home, another part wanted to drink, to dance, all of the things. In an act of self-discipline, I swung my bike homewards. At that point, a great gust of icewind hit me, bringing myself and my bike to a standstill. I reconsidered the options. As I pushed forward again, a man in a beanie came out of the darkness and bent my ear, a hirsute man like myself, a writer from New Zealand, with an excellent name, Benjamin Weaver. He wanted to get involved, to do spoken-word gigs, to partake of Melbourne's much-lauded underground art scene. He was nice, I sensed in him so much good-will and hopefulness. Rosy-cheeked, I told him that I could have helped him, once. I used to be in the loop, no, I used to Be the loop. Now, no, I couldn't really help, can't even bring myself to be a part of that dance anymore. We walked and talked on many things, Mr. Weaver and I. Two polar bears, discussing language and freedom under the night sky.
Strangely, my conversation with him led me to an old bar, where I once worked. The same old piano, red velvet curtains, the same Paris-style crepe pan which I used to love twiddling out crepes on. Inside, a group of artists had come together to share stories, and talk about their process. One of the artists recognised me, invited me to join them. As I sat and listened, a mortal fear overtook me. What if they ask me to talk? They would hear it in my voice, see it in my face, they would know. I could talk about all of the explorations, process vs. product, the role of audience, the marbling of real and imaginary, blah blah, it would be obvious to everyone that the fire had gone out. I heard one of them talking about creating worlds on stage - something which I myself have said countless times - and I thought they sounded like a moron. Was this self-loathing? As I listened, I honestly couldn't say why it was that they were doing it. If I talked, they would see that I would rather do a simple, good job, than go through all of the self-indulgent anguish of being an artist. Or would I? Suddenly, like a vision, an old friend from Brisbane appeared. I made good my escape, to eat a second dinner, and seek refuge in rice paper rolls and reminiscence.
Later on, back in the bar, I tried to explain to my artist friend why I had disappeared suddenly. It turns out that these are the same things which everyone goes through, the same icy headwind. Some choose to continue down the artist's path, some choose to go back to Uni and become a school teacher. I didn't know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
This is perhaps the last blog post for "Old things, New things". I'll keep writing in the same sort of way - I don't know how to do otherwise - but probably in a different blog. I've run out of old diaries for now, there are more, in some box, who knows where. Thank you for reading, thank you everyone who told me you like it. It helped.
A conversation I had the other day:
"I've been reading your blog"
"I can't write it anymore. I was thinking of stopping it and starting a new one, later. I mean, it was always hard, seemingly impossible, that sinking feeling always there when I pressed the publish button, but I had Nepal! And I always worried about how I was only writing mundane things about my everyday normal life - less electricity, more hills - but now I realise that that was the point! To try and capture the mundane, yes, I find it annoying when people use the phrase 'third world problems' all the time, as though people in the third world don't get pissed off when their facebook stops working without explanation, yes, to capture that, she helped me to see it too, the counterpoint of mundane and magical. But now I'm in Melbourne, working a regular job,"
"Well, write about that. Being back in Melbourne, missing Nepal."
"I've already written two blog posts about that."
"Well. Just write something else then."
Now, a-sudden, a breeze blows through, mind alive in motionless body. Melbourne! The dance! Yesterday I went to drinks, a work-thing, on day three of the new job. I'm teaching English now, with many other English teachers, all travellers, all of the birds come home to roost. We all wear ironed shirts, nice skirts, adequate footwear. The great Reg Bolton said that one of the best things about the circus industry was that you don't have to wear shoes at work. This was once a cute line, now it is a heaven-sent truth. They, the other English teachers, have been in Melbourne for some time now, working in that same place, Impact English, for two years or three. I was quietly incredulous at the thought of staying in the same job for so long. But then, that's what people do, isn't it? That's what is expected, I suddenly realised why I never get jobs from my CV. It is not an ancient curse, as I'd suspected, the CV just reveals the fact that I will probably only stay for 6 months, less, if the job is crap.
I decided to leave the work-thing-drinks early, the ciders were too easy to drink, too expensive to buy. Decorum preserved, mystery maintained, off and away, on my bicycle into the cold Antarctic headwind. Part wanted to go home, another part wanted to drink, to dance, all of the things. In an act of self-discipline, I swung my bike homewards. At that point, a great gust of icewind hit me, bringing myself and my bike to a standstill. I reconsidered the options. As I pushed forward again, a man in a beanie came out of the darkness and bent my ear, a hirsute man like myself, a writer from New Zealand, with an excellent name, Benjamin Weaver. He wanted to get involved, to do spoken-word gigs, to partake of Melbourne's much-lauded underground art scene. He was nice, I sensed in him so much good-will and hopefulness. Rosy-cheeked, I told him that I could have helped him, once. I used to be in the loop, no, I used to Be the loop. Now, no, I couldn't really help, can't even bring myself to be a part of that dance anymore. We walked and talked on many things, Mr. Weaver and I. Two polar bears, discussing language and freedom under the night sky.
Strangely, my conversation with him led me to an old bar, where I once worked. The same old piano, red velvet curtains, the same Paris-style crepe pan which I used to love twiddling out crepes on. Inside, a group of artists had come together to share stories, and talk about their process. One of the artists recognised me, invited me to join them. As I sat and listened, a mortal fear overtook me. What if they ask me to talk? They would hear it in my voice, see it in my face, they would know. I could talk about all of the explorations, process vs. product, the role of audience, the marbling of real and imaginary, blah blah, it would be obvious to everyone that the fire had gone out. I heard one of them talking about creating worlds on stage - something which I myself have said countless times - and I thought they sounded like a moron. Was this self-loathing? As I listened, I honestly couldn't say why it was that they were doing it. If I talked, they would see that I would rather do a simple, good job, than go through all of the self-indulgent anguish of being an artist. Or would I? Suddenly, like a vision, an old friend from Brisbane appeared. I made good my escape, to eat a second dinner, and seek refuge in rice paper rolls and reminiscence.
Later on, back in the bar, I tried to explain to my artist friend why I had disappeared suddenly. It turns out that these are the same things which everyone goes through, the same icy headwind. Some choose to continue down the artist's path, some choose to go back to Uni and become a school teacher. I didn't know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
This is perhaps the last blog post for "Old things, New things". I'll keep writing in the same sort of way - I don't know how to do otherwise - but probably in a different blog. I've run out of old diaries for now, there are more, in some box, who knows where. Thank you for reading, thank you everyone who told me you like it. It helped.
