Now I'm tired and really grumpy.

Ach. At the very least I found a pinstripe vest and a pair of pink-and-black satiny sort of flats. But no bloody fuzzy wooly thing. Disappointed. Annoyed.

If you're one of the people who bought the dress, similar to the one pictured above, from Marks and Spencer while I was counting my bleeding pennies for it, the dress, the one I had been waiting for what seems like my entire life, you are horrible horrible people and I hate you very much.

I really do.

I think I shall go to bed. Perhaps I will awake feeling very silly for being so very annoyed, but I doubt it. I shall most probably cry sometime tonight, but I think that will be because of my nose, as it will not stop running.

Rivers of snot, gentlemen. Rivers of snot.

Today's Muse: Toaster Ticking

I'm very tired.

I'm typing this in the dark, eating olives from a jar (They're very old, and must be consumed), with one potato stuck in the toaster and no coffee.

I'm very, very tired.

I am not burning out. I am not succumbing to any pressure. I am working well despite the many commitments; The To-Do for The Word Womb has been compiled and has items being steadily ticked off, the presentation on Lecoq is ready for tomorrow, a room's been booked for rehearsal for the chorus assessment piece. I like being busy. I love doing what I do.

I'm just tired, and a little grumpy.

Pardon me, my potato appears to be whistling.

Today's Muse: Under The Hat:

PAULINKA:

"You know the scene in the play (Faust) where the black poodle turns into the Devil and offers Faust the world? All that demurring, endless, always seemed so coy to me. Just...

But so one night I was walking home after a performance and a very strange thing happened. I found myself going down a narrow street, an alley, really, one I'd never been down before, and suddenly.

... There was this little black poodle, sitting on a doorstep. Waiting for me. Staring at me with those wet dark dog eyes. And I thought to myself: "It's Him! He's come to talk to me!" He's going to stand up on His little hind legs and say "Paulinka! Fame, films, and unsupassable genius as an actor in exchange for your immortal soul!"

And that's when I knew it, and my dears I wish I didn't know: I'd never resist. I couldn't. I am constitutionally incapable of resisting anything. A good actress, a good liar, but not in truth a very good person. Just give me Berlin, sixty years of sucess, and then haul me off to the Lake of Fire! Do business with the Devil.

[snip]

Probably just somebody's nasty black poodle. But I've always wondered... what if it really was Him, and He decided I wasn't worth it?"

A Bright Room Called Day

Tony Kushner

Today's Muse: 157

Work work work. Work work worky work. Work.

Lessee if we can pull anything else out of the brain-pan...

The screaming from outside my window tells me that it's a new year. Golly gee.

It's been a good year though, methinks.

Work work work.


Alexine and Tristan are visiting. Tristan is such a sombre little creature. So quiet for a two year-old. I don't think he has met Elizabeth properly yet, it will be interesting. Yes. Bit like fire and water, methinks.

Alexine talks nineteen to a dozen about everything and anything, in English and French, sometimes both languages at the same time. Five children, all together, until Chinese New Year. Brian, Tara, Alexine, Tristan, and Elizabeth.

They're so small.

It... kills me. Funnily enough. I keep looking at them and thinking they're going to get old. I watch them politicking - with Tara and Alexine not sure whether they like each other or not and Brian, all of eight years, try to distance himself because he says he's too old.

Too old.

I'm too old and I'm not allowed in the ballpen unless I'm dragging Elizabeth out. I'm too old and I packed up the dollhouse to give to the girls. I'm too old and I buy picture books, beautiful sorts, at Bras Basah. Yakult bottles don't last the afternoon any more. Soft toys decay quietly on the top shelf.

I'm going to read this when I hit thirty and think, Well fuck you, Vic. Wait til you hit thirty.

And then I'll read it when I'm forty, and...


Work work work. Back to it, then.

Today's Muse: Just Dandy

*Oh, lookit, lookit: The lovely Natalie has opened up a test shop online, where you can find her handmade wire flowers. Go! Spend!


*The closing party for GBM was brillant. In that speshul way that makes small children explode.


*There are small children at the camp I'm conducting drama whatsits at, but they do not explode. They come very close to it, though.

Seriously, the kids - the youngest is five, and the oldest is twelve, I believe - are a riot. At first I was worried I wouldn't be able to keep up with them or keep them interested. I shouldn't have. I'm pretty - dare I say it - good at this large-kid-herds-handling stuff. I've probably jinxed it now. Woo.

It's funny, because the oft-repeated "you've got to take up teaching sooner or later to get by in the industry" is, well, repeated. It's a joke, almost.

But not everyone is suited for teaching.


*Something in Warren Ellis' BAD SIGNAL helped crystallize the ideas and lines I had floating around about comics and theatre. Maybe I'll put it up when I'm done outlining.

Today's Muse: Process Recess

Well, that went by quickly.

It's almost ridiculous, everything that's seen and done since school began. And it's been only, what, sixteen weeks? Sixteen weeks.

Sixteen weeks.

New names. New ideals. New frustrations.

New me?

I missed you today.

I was up at 3am working, and all of a sudden I realised it was November. I'm delightfully occupied, I know where I'm going, and I've found people to be fond of. And I don't miss you.

And I miss that.

Today's Muse: Eisenstein - missing from the books

So, an evening spent at a music showcase, with much of it being 'experimental', self-serving, high-pitched squealing, in the company of... gahwhydoIeventry. Sat through two hours of that just to hear five minutes of the headliner, which admittedly was okay. (last time I keep an open mind.)(my writing, she stinks.)

So, painful walk home because I landed wrong during practice. Back to a house fast asleep, fumble in the dark, and oh I think my belly's about to 'splode.

So, I walk in and am greeted by an upset cat, demanding his night snack, fresh(er) water, and nothing less than my undivided attention.


It's nice being wanted.

I'm not quite sure what to feel.

I watch you try, desperately, to be one of the boys. I watch you try to be funny, be rude, be bold. I see you frightened and nervous and trying so hard to hide it and I want to do something, something to help.

But do you want help?

Sometimes I want to smack you so hard for being so stupid about things. You're so insecure about yourself it makes me want to scream. Whenever someone pays you a compliment, you don't know what to do - you try to brush it off as though you think, who'd be dumb enough to like me?

You don't listen. You behave as though you're expecting people to insult you, so you do it first. But making rude, brash comments doesn't endear you to people; you don't appear witty or smart. Just boorish.

It pains me, seeing you force your laughs.

I'm very fond of you, but you can be very hard to like, sometimes.

Today's Muse: Boil

I was up most of last night reading Brecht's journals, and when I woke up later it felt like my brain had attempted to crawl out my nose. "Nooo! Why do you do this to meeee!"

I like Brecht. I just need to justify slipping the time spent reading up on him under "ac. writ. research".

I was going to write something lovely and long about MEEE, but the Matrix is on tv.


Oh God I think my cat just broke something.


EDIT: I cut my hair, by the way.

EDIT2, a bit later: I never got that. Posts that go "I got my hair cut" and just that. No pictures, no interesting anecdotes about how the hairdresser nearly took your ear off or how you walked out smelling curiously of mutton. It fills me with the same fustration as reading "15% longer!" on a box of sanitary pads, beacause your next immediate thought is exactly how long is 15% longer supposed to be and how is that a selling point and if 15% is that long then how does one wear this extra-long pad without it sticking out of your pants, somehow?

So, anyhoo, I cut my hair and now it is quite short.

Today's Muse: Bill's "Dark Lady"

I came across an amusing article while preparing for Tuesday's quiz (Psychoanalysis - Go me for finishing them Penguin Freud anthologies back when I shoulda been studying A.Math!).

Apparently, infatuation is "an attraction to a person who combines the worst traits of our parents/primary childhood caretakers, the negative traits we ourselves possess but refuse to acknowledge, traits we find attractive but are repressed due to our upbringing, and 'infatuating traits that society denies our gender' (Whatever that means.)"

Can you tell me why I found this funny enough to snort milk across the screen? Eh? Eh? Ppfft I dunno either.



Ooh, I feeel just lurverly, and it's not because of the cough syrup. Tomorrow is the first reading/meeting o' departments for this SHOW I've been lucky enough to attach meself to. There goes my holiday, but I never liked the slimy thing. Yay dark theatres and blinding lights and funky-smelling props!

Also, my essay is definitely on track. I've finally settled on a title, and the essay is slowly taking shape. I plan to hole myself up in M working on it between lessons. The IBM may be wonky, but at least it's light.

Next three weeks are going to be bluppt. Gamelan exam, Dance, Stage Combat, the SHOW, the other SHOW...

Tally ho!

Today I bore witness to a shameful display of ego and unprofessionalism.

Leaves a foul taste in the mouth and a twitchy feeling in the fist, you know?



In other news, I'm still not sure what to say, but, hey, neither does the other. And that makes me happy, in a vague, blurry sort of way.

In an empty, comforting sort of way.

I don't know what to say.

I don't like this.

EDIT:

"What words ensnare?-captivate-enchant-rape-suggest-amuse-interest-stun...

(To her) Lovely day!"

Steven Berkoff

Lunch

Today's Muse: Ham. Cured Ham.

A few years back Ma proposed making temple visits a regular affair, like them church-going folks. It was discussed, plans were made for the following Sundays. It never really took off, though.


So, today we went.

We parked on the slope, walked past all the boarded-up shophouses to the gate. A little man with rotting fingernails came up with his palms pressed to each other and asked for two dollars, just two dollars so he could go see the doctor. The money was given. Amituo Fo, Amituo Fo.

Whenever we go to the temple, my parents take every opportunity to point out whatever and offer a brief history or cultural lesson. "There, that's a carving of Buddha when he was just born. See, his fingers? One pointing to Heaven, one to Earth." "Do you know who these people are? The Aluohan, The Arhats."

And Kim and I nod and say, yes, we know. We know. We've devoured the books, the scriptures, the children's introductory comics. We know the Arhats, the thirteenth Master. And we're unfailingly polite here, for some reason. But once we get back in the car it's free for all.

As we walked along the granite carvings depicting stories (Sun Wukong, Monkey King, battling Princess Iron Fan) various animals, mythical and real, always in pairs for some reason, I think about sharing this world. With someone else, you know? Bringing an outsider in and pointing and saying "There, the Buddha when he was just born. He walked twelve steps, and every step in the dirt he made, sprung a lotus."

But I feel like an outsider, myself. In the hall with the statues and offerings of flowers and fruits, I'm either too young or too old. There are less people now, kneeling with their prayer beads or just sitting and talking with each other. They're mostly elderly people. When I walk into the kitchen there are children, young, young children, in Pokemon t-shirts and flip-flops.

I can't read the books in the library. I can't carry a conversation - I can't speak Chinese, or dialect.

I love this world, but I can't paticipate, other than light a joss stick and bow three times.


That may soon change, though.

Earlier this year the entire family went to the large, sprawling temple up. There, a Buddhist Youth group were handing out flyers, friendship bands. Something I was familiar with, what with attending a Christian school most of my stay in Singapore. But it made me slightly uncomfortable; I didn't see youth camps and meetings with Buddhism.

Is this where Buddhism is going? Away from the open-air kitchens and bald lightbulbs and the red halls and tables groaning with fruit and candles and the gold-painted statues and the chanting and the tapes and the

I don't know how I feel about it.

Apathy, maybe.

Buddhism, religion.

I don't pray, really.

Today's Muse: Cataglottis. Diaspora. Subaltern. Oh, I do like big words.

It's the game, the chase.

It's the fact that the ploy worked, and that, hey, never had that string o' numbers in the first place.

And we both know it, and we're both know that the other knows it, and we're both pretending that we don't know it because that's the whole point.

I missed this game.

Today's Muse: Soggy Tennis Balls

Thank you, Jo, for not drawing attention to me tearing. I'm sorry I imagined bashing your head in with the drumming stick-things. To be fair, I imagined throwing the various bits of the Bonang Barung at everyone else, because I am petty.

Thank you, Spenc, for the silly shit you were pulling during class.

Thank you, Aaron, for reminding me it's only Gamelan and getting yourself hit with a tennis ball.



You know, at this rate I might as well take up crack, what with the highs and the crashing.

Gah! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS FRIDAY IS?

Today's Muse: Nnngh My Eyelid Won't Stop Twitching

We're already smack centre, chups.

Look at it this way: Although it's only been two weeks, assesment is in five weeks. That's five lectures or rehearsals for each component.


I have an essay due Monday. "What is Art?"

Fucksicle on a stick!

EDIT:

"Everyone working in theatre has a streak of idealism, a yearning for perfection, and a tendency towards single-minded pursuit of their personal specialty.

Everyone, in the nicest possible way, is in it for grabs."

Francis Reid

The Staging Handbook

What he said.

Today's Muse: Still along the lines of RAPP RAPP RAPP

I wandered into the comic section and felt so disillusioned.
Curious.

Why am I not at comic-con? No, don't answer that, just let me wobble a bit. Wobble.

Not even those amusing rating communities cheered me. Read Jung. Still in a funk. Ought to write out proper sentences. Oh dear. Why am I not in San Diego, getting into trouble with the rest of 'em? Itchy. Should go and do laundry. Argh I just fucked up my shoulder. Argh.

Let's try this again.

You ever have one of those days when you wake up and everything, and I do mean everything suddenly takes on new meaning - double meanings - triple meanings? You're walking down the street and you can't stop seeing the poetry in every bloody little thing. The careless way the guard holds his rifle at the pearly gate. The light glinting off the cars whizzing past. How a tree branch seems to frame the sky. How you slip and nearly land in the mud. And you can't turn it off! You just keep waxing lyrical about fuck-all.

And your brain seems to be floating at least a mile up above your skull, and you bump into lamps and small children and you can't stop smiling and generally giving off creepy vibes. And small children pee in their fright at your creepiness. PEE.

But! You wander into the comic section and your brain comes crashing back to earth. SPLAT. SPOOSH. PWISHOOM.

And you come home and try to put it all into words and you read what you've written and realised it's a load of crap but publish it anyway and go off to do the laundry like you should have.

Today's Muse: Pan Left, zoom in on the steeple of the church

You know, I can put MSI or the Seventh on at full blast (in my futile bid to strike back at the dude downstairs with EVERY FUCKING radio compilation ever spewed) and for the niece to dance to, and no one bats an eyelid.

Then I put on the RENT soundtrack and people come down to my floor asking me to turn it down.

But - Nnngh, I can't get enough of that thing. So, suffer, family!


Hm.

Okay: At the end of last week LASALLE calls and asks if I'd like to take part in a last-minute workshop conducted by a foreign lecturer who was in town to take part in the women's theatre - can't remember the name - festival. Naturally I jumped at it.

It's a bit surreal; watching Christina speak in Italian gesturing violently, then turning to Bruna for the translation. They're part of a theatre company with rather unconventional methods: None of their plays are scripted or plotted. Instead, a series of improv exercises are used and are built upon each other until they... until they have enough for a performance.

Emphasis is put on using only the body. No interacting with the wall, the floor, other people, imagined and mimed objects. Convey the story using just expressions and movements. It's a lot more difficult than it sounds... How does one show the need for attention without pandering to an audience of some sort? How does one laugh at something if there's nothing to be laughed at?

Conventional movements and expressions are frowned upon. Don't show you're happy just by smiling. Swing your arms! Roll around on the ground! Gurgle like a baby!

And the story, the story... What was it that Christina said? "It does not matter if the audience does not understand. What is important is the movement, the things you do matter to you. To the actor. It must signify something important to you."

She likened it to Pablo Picasso's deconstruction of the human face. I don't know exactly how to put it into words. But at that moment, with Christina's face like a rubber band and thin, wiry arms waving around, constantly resting in her grey mane - "Like a lion!" thought I - you get it. You don't understand, but you get it. Do you understand that?

Ach. I'm still not sure where this is going. It's both unsettling and exciting. Who knows what'll happen in the next two days?

There's a great exercise we do before we dive into the improv bits. Working on reaction. Conditioning the body to react instinctively, instead of stopping to think about it. BOOM! Jump! BOOM! Get down! BOOM! Fucking ace, man.

Man, that was vague.


Ten theatre foundation students so far, ranging in age from 17 to 26. One has a driver's license and a huge vehicle. Sweet.

Three days to orientation. Woo bweee. Two weeks to the recital. Woo fuckery.