Sep 29, 2007
Study Break
Watched Taxi Driver. Watched Hairspray. Later found the original in the video store. Didn't know it was Ricki Lake. Interesting. Didn't rent it though. Watched 28 Days Later. Disc scratched to hell. Took it back, got it cleaned. They put it in a little machine that melts the outer layer of plastic on the DVD. Then the scratches disappear. Anyway, got the disc back, put it in the machine. No dice. Scratched too deep, looks like. Watched Stardust at the movies. Watched Superbad. Everything blends together. Watched Friends With Money. Star-studded character actress cast. Wonder if anyone I know ever saw that movie. Got five stars from Margaret Pomeranz and they put her quote on the back of the DVD cover. Wonder if that's the same as the US edition. Stuff isn't funny. Stuff isn't moving. I don't get it. Stuff doesn't end. Stuff isn't romantic. Stuff isn't scary. My girlfriend never caught the end of that zombie movie because the disc was too messed up. Wonder if she cares. Does fiction need an end? Does it need a beginning? Does it need closure, and character types and all that? Life doesn't have those things does it? Maybe it does. Seen evil? Seen an evil person? I think I have now. Never thought that stuff was true. Go[/o]d and [d]evil - all pretend like the Easter Bunny. Well I've seen a bad guy now. If I was a good person, would I want so badly to make him suffer? Is Robert De Niro a bad guy in Taxi Driver? Is Michelle Pfeiffer a bad guy? She's always so skinny and mean. Who's the good guy? How do you tell? Are they better looking, and do they never get divorced? I think I watch too many movies to ever write a good screenplay. Writers write stuff they did and saw and they translate it into movie language. I never did the first part. I just know the language. I know the language but I got nothing to say.
Sep 16, 2007
Sep 7, 2007
Disappointment
I am being slowly fired.
Each week, I ascend to the staff room to stare at the great Casuals Roster, where I am identified by first name and last initial. I tilt my head to find my name, I pan across the columns of days, and I note down what I discover.
I have never yet had an empty roster. Never yet. But slowly, week by week, my roster diminishes. A month ago, I was working about twenty-five hours a week. Steady. Two weeks ago, I worked twenty. The week before this one, I had eight hours. This week? Five.
They have every reason not to like me. I'm a terrible worker. I'm slow. I stammer when I speak to customers and co-workers alike. The coffees I make are hit and miss, and I take my time to make 'em.
Despite knowing these things, I cannot improve. I'd love to be better, but somehow whenever I resolve to build my confidence, I stumble and fall.
When I was a child, I was always top of my class. Throughout primary and secondary schooling, I received top grades and adulation from peers and teachers. I was good. Hell, I was even the best. I never really thought to worry about those who received the Cs... those who failed and struggled and hated themselves. As a girl of thoughts and ideals, I'd like to say all of us were equal. But we aren't. Some people can't write so well, and some can't kick a footy so far. I can't kick a footy. I can't dance. I can't beat out a rhythm on a drum.
But I didn't care about any of those things, because I was smart. I was proud and I simply didn't notice that I was incapable of doing anything except thinking.
Now, however, I am losing all that made me proud of myself. Finishing the second year of my degree, I am losing momentum. I have stopped learning; I have stopped trying. I hardly read. I shrug off average marks. And I feel like I'm losing another job.
Those kids that failed English class - and the ones that passed, but never really made it past average - those kids are now my managers. How did they get there? Surely they were crushed by failure and mediocrity. Surely they resigned themselves to a life in accordance with such. And then - perhaps they built themselves up. Perhaps they found their strengths and learned to succeed. Perhaps, as I cling to achievements of seasons past, they climb to reach higher ones.
I'm not nearly as clever as I once believed.
Each week, I ascend to the staff room to stare at the great Casuals Roster, where I am identified by first name and last initial. I tilt my head to find my name, I pan across the columns of days, and I note down what I discover.
I have never yet had an empty roster. Never yet. But slowly, week by week, my roster diminishes. A month ago, I was working about twenty-five hours a week. Steady. Two weeks ago, I worked twenty. The week before this one, I had eight hours. This week? Five.
They have every reason not to like me. I'm a terrible worker. I'm slow. I stammer when I speak to customers and co-workers alike. The coffees I make are hit and miss, and I take my time to make 'em.
Despite knowing these things, I cannot improve. I'd love to be better, but somehow whenever I resolve to build my confidence, I stumble and fall.
When I was a child, I was always top of my class. Throughout primary and secondary schooling, I received top grades and adulation from peers and teachers. I was good. Hell, I was even the best. I never really thought to worry about those who received the Cs... those who failed and struggled and hated themselves. As a girl of thoughts and ideals, I'd like to say all of us were equal. But we aren't. Some people can't write so well, and some can't kick a footy so far. I can't kick a footy. I can't dance. I can't beat out a rhythm on a drum.
But I didn't care about any of those things, because I was smart. I was proud and I simply didn't notice that I was incapable of doing anything except thinking.
Now, however, I am losing all that made me proud of myself. Finishing the second year of my degree, I am losing momentum. I have stopped learning; I have stopped trying. I hardly read. I shrug off average marks. And I feel like I'm losing another job.
Those kids that failed English class - and the ones that passed, but never really made it past average - those kids are now my managers. How did they get there? Surely they were crushed by failure and mediocrity. Surely they resigned themselves to a life in accordance with such. And then - perhaps they built themselves up. Perhaps they found their strengths and learned to succeed. Perhaps, as I cling to achievements of seasons past, they climb to reach higher ones.
I'm not nearly as clever as I once believed.
Sep 6, 2007
The update
I've barely spent a half-hour with her since last semester. Hell, I haven't spent real time with her since the year began. Our clashing timetables cut us off from one another. Sure, we tried to arrange things away from uni, but things get strained when you're not an organic part of someone's life. I don't really know what's going on in her world, so many lightyears away from my own. When someone has to check whether you're still with "your girl", you know you're not so close any more.
Today I found her down at Einsteins, swinging a pot of beer with a collection of friends I didn't recognise. She told me she was "liberated". Her life was on a completely new track. "I can finally concentrate on being really single again," she said.
Hey?
She leaned closer and murmured, "I'll explain later." Following her own gaze, I glanced around at her merry assortment of friends. Half-past-one-pee-em and the lot of them were tiddly and giggly and quoting Bill Bailey. Fair enough - DMC later.
Now she leapt from her seat, heralding the next round and disappearing inside. I sat at the corner of the table, still anonymous. Laugh at the jokes. Enjoy the atmosphere. You don't need to be involved to appreciate the vibe. I absorbed the faces of her new friends: a loud, cackling, drunken blonde. A skinny guy with glasses and an admirable devotion to British comedy. An intellectual-looking, fair-haired older man with jumbled teeth and a nose that ended before it I felt it rightly should.
The intellectual handed out birthday invitations - I didn't merit one, but then, who was I, anyway? The invitations read, "You are invited to an un-birthday. To celebrate nothing in particular."
"He's turning thirty. I'm gonna get 'im a walking frame," shouted the blonde. "Mug an old lady on my way in."
He smirked. I smiled, charmed somehow by their language, so different from mine.
Her smile seemed almost twice the width of her face as she swaggered back to the table wielding a jug of glorious amber piss. The requisite cheer went out, and the jug was almost instantly empty. I was a bit disappointed to see it go. I don't drink beer and have rare occasion to observe those tiny bubbles that flow constantly upward from the base of the jug: quite a mesmerising alternative to actual conversation. As the beer vanished, I remembered I was an outsider. The culture of this group revolved around drinking and smoking between classes, skipping class and playfully attacking one another. I am Sandra Dee.
Finally it was two o'clock. "We've got class," I said.
After a few ta-ta cuddles round the table, the two of us were up and marching for B building.
"Oh," she said. "So I was going to tell you."
Today I found her down at Einsteins, swinging a pot of beer with a collection of friends I didn't recognise. She told me she was "liberated". Her life was on a completely new track. "I can finally concentrate on being really single again," she said.
Hey?
She leaned closer and murmured, "I'll explain later." Following her own gaze, I glanced around at her merry assortment of friends. Half-past-one-pee-em and the lot of them were tiddly and giggly and quoting Bill Bailey. Fair enough - DMC later.
Now she leapt from her seat, heralding the next round and disappearing inside. I sat at the corner of the table, still anonymous. Laugh at the jokes. Enjoy the atmosphere. You don't need to be involved to appreciate the vibe. I absorbed the faces of her new friends: a loud, cackling, drunken blonde. A skinny guy with glasses and an admirable devotion to British comedy. An intellectual-looking, fair-haired older man with jumbled teeth and a nose that ended before it I felt it rightly should.
The intellectual handed out birthday invitations - I didn't merit one, but then, who was I, anyway? The invitations read, "You are invited to an un-birthday. To celebrate nothing in particular."
"He's turning thirty. I'm gonna get 'im a walking frame," shouted the blonde. "Mug an old lady on my way in."
He smirked. I smiled, charmed somehow by their language, so different from mine.
Her smile seemed almost twice the width of her face as she swaggered back to the table wielding a jug of glorious amber piss. The requisite cheer went out, and the jug was almost instantly empty. I was a bit disappointed to see it go. I don't drink beer and have rare occasion to observe those tiny bubbles that flow constantly upward from the base of the jug: quite a mesmerising alternative to actual conversation. As the beer vanished, I remembered I was an outsider. The culture of this group revolved around drinking and smoking between classes, skipping class and playfully attacking one another. I am Sandra Dee.
Finally it was two o'clock. "We've got class," I said.
After a few ta-ta cuddles round the table, the two of us were up and marching for B building.
"Oh," she said. "So I was going to tell you."
Sep 5, 2007
Not coming back
Two weeks ago, I killed myself. It felt good. At the time, at least, I had a comfortable sense of righteousness about the whole affair. I'm not coming back, and you'll all see what you've done to me, I thought as I pulled the trigger. I'll show you.
Of course, I absolutely meant it at the time. And I don't regret it. Not at all. But it's the damnest thing - I keep peeking back. I have to see how they've remembered me, you know. I hang around, scanning conversations for mentions of myself. Some message, some plea. We miss you! You meant so much to us. Well, I have heard snippets. One or two moments of sentimentality. But it just doesn't seem enough. Surely they're still in shock. I have to wait a little longer, see what becomes of this. Perhaps there will be more. Who knows? Perhaps, without me, things will simply begin to crumble. But I have to give it time; and wait and see what happens.
I dearly long to prompt someone: Hey, guys - remember Miriam? I'd say. Wasn't she funny! Didn't she have a brilliant mind? Wasn't it sad...
But they have to see for themselves, now. And after all, I've severed my vocal chords. I remain silent. I have no choice. But I have to stay, I have to wait and watch and hold my lifeless breath - til they realise how much they care.
Funny, I've forgotten... why was it that I left?
Of course, I absolutely meant it at the time. And I don't regret it. Not at all. But it's the damnest thing - I keep peeking back. I have to see how they've remembered me, you know. I hang around, scanning conversations for mentions of myself. Some message, some plea. We miss you! You meant so much to us. Well, I have heard snippets. One or two moments of sentimentality. But it just doesn't seem enough. Surely they're still in shock. I have to wait a little longer, see what becomes of this. Perhaps there will be more. Who knows? Perhaps, without me, things will simply begin to crumble. But I have to give it time; and wait and see what happens.
I dearly long to prompt someone: Hey, guys - remember Miriam? I'd say. Wasn't she funny! Didn't she have a brilliant mind? Wasn't it sad...
But they have to see for themselves, now. And after all, I've severed my vocal chords. I remain silent. I have no choice. But I have to stay, I have to wait and watch and hold my lifeless breath - til they realise how much they care.
Funny, I've forgotten... why was it that I left?
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