Tuesday, September 26, 2006
The Crown Incident
I took a walk along Crown and the Yarra river last night at about 9pm. It was cold, I didn't feel good about myself, and the hourly fire display (where enormous orange balls of fire shoot up from tall black towers into the sky) digusted me with its excessiveness, tackiness, uselessness and waste of good fuel in a time where fuel isn't exactly the most abundant thing in the world.
I had to go to the toilet. So I walked into Crown and went to the toilets on the Queensbridge road side of the complex. On the way out, I hurried past a security/ valet guy and nearly slammed into two people. One was a pretty, skinny girl in jeans and a sparkly top - she had beautiful wavy hair and make up on. The other was a guy... oh my Lord. Same build, same height, same hair, same features. My mind might have been playing tricks on me. I only had a split second to take his features in. Who knows. It might have been a doppelganger. It might have been someone who looked similar but wasn't. It was dark. It was bright. It was cold. A hundred different reasons to explain an extraordinary coincidence.
But I choose, in retrospect, to think that it was him. Because then, and only then, everything makes sense. I walked home, struggling with an emotion that was neither grief nor anger nor misery. But defeat, it was defeat. It was me saying "I give up, as I rightly should, on what I should have given up a long time ago." But it was also "I give up on myself, I've been a fool."
I went home to take a shower. I mock cried, twisted my face into misery-releasing expressions and pawed my non-teary eyes to release miserable emotions. I was really upset, mind you, but I couldn't shed a single tear. Then I dried my hair and went to watch Transamerica.
Last night, I had another strange dream. I sat next to Queen Elizabeth II and had to read out words on a piece of paper to her. We were at some world conference, but it was arranged such that the poorest of the poor could interact with the richest and most influential (so don't think I'm harbouring any delusions of being the Queen's best friend or anything like that; I sat next to her due to luck of the draw, representing one of those with no political power.)
Odd dream.
I lay in bed after waking up, and the whole Crown Incident came to mind again. I started to think that maybe it was him and maybe he told the (most probably) girlfriend "Oh hey, you know that girl who just walked past? What a fucking loser, she... ... ..."
Then I firmly told myself, "STOP IT. There is no point in imagining things, especially hurtful things that serve no purpose."
I feel as if blinkers have fallen off my eyes though, and it is a wonderful and wretched feeling at the same time, to feel empty and lost and yet know that I am beginning to heal and move on. If last night hadn't happened I might have pined my life away. Maybe it was him, maybe it wasn't him. Maybe I am deluding myself, maybe I am lying to myself. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm not lying to myself if I see things for what they are (or are not) and place myself in a state of thought and mind that protects me from pyschological harm. Like Alfieri says in View from the Bridge , "The truth is holy... but sometimes it is better to settle for half". I know the truth is holy, and at one point in time in the shower I wanted to know the goddam truth, everything that no one in the world could possibly know except for a divine higher being. But, now I'll settle for half, because there is no way I could know every single detail or circumstance. I'm also not going to imagine anything else, because there is a difference in lying to protect yourself and creating lies to hurt yourself. Both are piece of shit things to do, but I need to do the first.
Tim Winton (!) has a short story entitled "Holding" that I have no idea is about because my mind was wandering while we were reading it in class, but the last thing my teacher said was, "What are the characters holding on to? They're holding on to life itself." For sure it isn't that extreme in my case, but I am holding on too, to my sanity, logic, reason and being.
I'm being fucking melodramatic, aren't I?
I look forward to the day I can read this and laugh and say, "God, I was so fucking melodramatic, it''s disgusting." That day will probably come next week. Maybe Wednesday.
I had to go to the toilet. So I walked into Crown and went to the toilets on the Queensbridge road side of the complex. On the way out, I hurried past a security/ valet guy and nearly slammed into two people. One was a pretty, skinny girl in jeans and a sparkly top - she had beautiful wavy hair and make up on. The other was a guy... oh my Lord. Same build, same height, same hair, same features. My mind might have been playing tricks on me. I only had a split second to take his features in. Who knows. It might have been a doppelganger. It might have been someone who looked similar but wasn't. It was dark. It was bright. It was cold. A hundred different reasons to explain an extraordinary coincidence.
But I choose, in retrospect, to think that it was him. Because then, and only then, everything makes sense. I walked home, struggling with an emotion that was neither grief nor anger nor misery. But defeat, it was defeat. It was me saying "I give up, as I rightly should, on what I should have given up a long time ago." But it was also "I give up on myself, I've been a fool."
I went home to take a shower. I mock cried, twisted my face into misery-releasing expressions and pawed my non-teary eyes to release miserable emotions. I was really upset, mind you, but I couldn't shed a single tear. Then I dried my hair and went to watch Transamerica.
Last night, I had another strange dream. I sat next to Queen Elizabeth II and had to read out words on a piece of paper to her. We were at some world conference, but it was arranged such that the poorest of the poor could interact with the richest and most influential (so don't think I'm harbouring any delusions of being the Queen's best friend or anything like that; I sat next to her due to luck of the draw, representing one of those with no political power.)
Odd dream.
I lay in bed after waking up, and the whole Crown Incident came to mind again. I started to think that maybe it was him and maybe he told the (most probably) girlfriend "Oh hey, you know that girl who just walked past? What a fucking loser, she... ... ..."
Then I firmly told myself, "STOP IT. There is no point in imagining things, especially hurtful things that serve no purpose."
I feel as if blinkers have fallen off my eyes though, and it is a wonderful and wretched feeling at the same time, to feel empty and lost and yet know that I am beginning to heal and move on. If last night hadn't happened I might have pined my life away. Maybe it was him, maybe it wasn't him. Maybe I am deluding myself, maybe I am lying to myself. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm not lying to myself if I see things for what they are (or are not) and place myself in a state of thought and mind that protects me from pyschological harm. Like Alfieri says in View from the Bridge , "The truth is holy... but sometimes it is better to settle for half". I know the truth is holy, and at one point in time in the shower I wanted to know the goddam truth, everything that no one in the world could possibly know except for a divine higher being. But, now I'll settle for half, because there is no way I could know every single detail or circumstance. I'm also not going to imagine anything else, because there is a difference in lying to protect yourself and creating lies to hurt yourself. Both are piece of shit things to do, but I need to do the first.
Tim Winton (!) has a short story entitled "Holding" that I have no idea is about because my mind was wandering while we were reading it in class, but the last thing my teacher said was, "What are the characters holding on to? They're holding on to life itself." For sure it isn't that extreme in my case, but I am holding on too, to my sanity, logic, reason and being.
I'm being fucking melodramatic, aren't I?
I look forward to the day I can read this and laugh and say, "God, I was so fucking melodramatic, it''s disgusting." That day will probably come next week. Maybe Wednesday.
Labels: Boys
# posted by me lah @ 9:07 am 
