UCC Theatre, Backstage
For my birthday, I was up on the UCC Theatre at last, speaking as Prof Bernard Tan (The Golden Record 2). I say speaking because I didn’t act per se, I had nothing to base it off and I was spending so much effort up there presenting my monologues that I couldn’t be any character without stumbling over my lines. So there. I had 3 monologues and they were 5 minutes-ish.
I had quite a few happy birthdays and the love I got was material and verbal and huggish and roll about the floor-able.
Mel and Ariane got me a bottle of wine, which was nice because Mel doesn’t reply very often, which makes me think she hates me, which is a stupid teen girl line to draw, but that’s what brain chemicals do to you. And Ariane’s quiet. And they’re busy people who went out of the way to get this blip on a radar something.
Xue Min got me a tiny notebook with a cat doing yoga on the cover.
An got me Tiramisu, my brother came which was an incredible gift on its own.
Wendi wrote me a card with a painted flower on it, where she mentioned that I always gave flowers and this was her version of it, which happened to be exactly what Sophie did for my show as well a while back.
(Sophie and I are writing each other on snail mail! I remember when I saw her the first time last Halloween and asking her to join us for a party because she was so cute. And now we’re writing and I’m a card on her wall in Seattle.)
The Comminions got 6 fans with my face on each of them, and assorted snacks, and of course their beaming smiles.
The assorted RV people got me a card, cauliflower and headphones, which was warm because I knew that both these groups of people who only knew each other via Sankar probably created a WhatsApp group for this purpose.
People have too many WhatsApp groups, and yet there’s at least 2 dedicated to me.
Probably with a weird pun involving my name too.
That’s nice, isn’t it? Somehow, it feels nicer than a tangible gift. A WhatsApp group without you in it, just for you. You’re a topic, chief.
–ASIDE–
The idea of Living in the Present is an dead horse I’ve flogged continuously, skin sloughing off its decomposing muscles and dripping liquified fat. And like that shitty metaphor, I don’t really practice either of those.
I woke up thrice today (ed: this part was written last week) checking my phone, checking for a reply to an earnest, honest, drunken rambling. I caught myself at my screen over and over the course of the day and getting mad at whatsapp messages that weren’t what I wanted. Sounds so very, very present.
I’m listening to The Man by The Killers right now, and boy, it actually feels like I’m wrapping duct tape over a skinned heart.
I don’t know what I wanted, like maybe the desired end goal was that they’d punctuate all their sentences with Thank Yous and I Love Yous and You Are The Best You Do Know Rights. That’s not gonna happen. When it does, it’s not sustainable.
Maybe I thought that I would be the Robin Williams to the Matt Damon (good will hunting reference!) and help this person realise their potential and be able to rub one proud chub out so massive that I might end up loving myself at last and believing myself to be lovable as I am (as I type this it’s hitting me that that is exactly what I am doing and that’s what graduates it from a hypothesis to a theory)
Push the lever, get affirmation, sometimes.
I recall five years ago, sobbing before my numb-lipped friends after two Long Islands, knowing that there was something wrong with me at that moment and that I should be doing something about it. I’m more honest about my condition now. 7 years is a long time. I’m getting others to speak up about their own mental health too. That’s worth something.
A week ago, I came to an explicit realisation that I didn’t ever need to explain my actions if they were meant to be kind. Which is kind of a huge weight off my shoulders, because I get to ignore that kindness always comes with a motive, and the clouds can part a little more if I didn’t think that I was being selfish, right?
So say it.
Are you okay? How are you now? Go you! I’m glad to hear. I want you to know that no matter what, we still love you.
Stuff like that.
Don’t be sad if they don’t reply. They probably don’t hate you. Be there for them like how you needed it all those nights. All these nights.
Don’t think about it. Okay, back to about being 24.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be approached by brands after being dubbed an “influencer”. To know that you’re deemed influential enough that when I finally get decapitated by a side-mirror on a very fast moving bus, you’d be remembered for being more than “that scorch-mark on the toilet”.
Maybe a few tributes. “He loved the drums!” “He would want us to play his ‘The Definitive’ playlist for his funeral” “He wrote really well” “He was going to be my best man”, etc. Okay, enough jerking myself off.
Fame or being remembered is not a particularly big festering thought on my mind, but hitting 24 is like carving another stroke on a prison wall.
No, even before wondering “will I be remembered”, I should be asking “what do I want?”. I mean, I already do all the time.
[probably something to revisit in the future]
I think my writing isn’t as good as I think it is.
God, I can’t act either, and my drawing is shit.
But I’m trying the drums out and loving it. I’m writing? I’m doing exercising every day (2 days in a row)?? I’m trying to be better? I’m taking my fluxotine? I’m taking the Chinese medicine that makes me shit and accepting that it might help? And I still sketch Instastories don’t I?
People get medals for participation.
When do people write blog entries anyway? Do they write them at their laptop on a plastic-lined glass dining table, sitting on a mismatched wooden chair, with a “huff! okay it’s writing time” mindset?
I write my blog entries over several nights, lying in bed, before sleeping, ever aware that tomorrow-me will lament about never getting enough sleep and tonight will be different.
Okay, I’m tired. I’ll write at a table next time. This is ruining my back.
They say your brain peaks at 24 and God, that is disappointing.
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