Regeneration

I am alive; I have just been neglecting this blog terribly.

The holidays seemed to last forever this time around – it was a rude shock when I realised I had to come back here in a week or so, and sort everything out. As a compromise between being here and not being here, I’ve cut my enrolment to 25 points this semester; hopefully this time my results will actually be worthy of bragging!

Other than all that, I finally got a lead role – I’m playing Yum Yum in The Mikado (yes, I have already heard every single joke about my character’s name, thank you!). My character is basically the lead soppy teenage romantic heroine that everybody is fighting over – she sings a couple of very high, fast and tricky songs, wears pretty kimonos (something like the three girls on the right – a photo from a random production), cries a lot and has some of the most delightfully conceited lines in the show. I will definitely post details of when it’s on (October 12-20th) and I expect there to be a small army of Melbourne Uni folk waiting for me in the foyer afterwards for champagne and gossip. Another thing that is exciting about the show is that my real life little sister will be playing my sister in the show; she’s one of the three little maids. So, come and see her too!

Over the holidays I was trying to find a job. At first I set my sights high, but continual disappointment led me to work at Baker’s Delight. It is horrible; I have been informed that even McDonalds is better. It’s a snobbish distinction to make, but I can’t help but notice how many people work there who have made it their career. They treat it oh-so-seriously and delight in exercising their authority in any way they can. In contrast, for me it’s just the kind of job I will take until I get a real job.. and I’m not sure they understand. A woman I work with is constantly making comments like this: “Why are you studyin’ English at uni for? It’s just a waste of time, everyone can write English. You should drop out and learn somethin’ useful, like baking, or fixin’ cars, or hairdressing or somethin’.” My fingers are disgusting – I keep getting my fingers caught in the bread slicer, and they are then exacerbated by the harsh detergents and cleaning agents that I’m using constantly. It’s driving me insane; a combination of the mindbogglingly frustrating people, the horribly rude customers, the huge number of hours they shove at me constantly, the paltry pay, the repetitive and physically hard tasks (try scrubbing a floor with bleach, no gloves, on your hands and knees for three hours)… I’m fed up. Here’s to finding a new job!

In about 45 minutes, I’m off to my first creative writing workshop – so nervous. We had to do a writing exercise during the week, and I’m not sure if we have to present them or not. I decided I’d include mine here – it was supposed to be an observational piece of prose or poetry that notes the more exciting aspects of the your visual frame as seen in a public place. Or something like that. Here it is:

From my perch, a split burgundy vinyl stool, I nod and smile on cue. Some hurried scribbles attract attention: “What are you doing?” Homework, sans all the negative connotations from high school. Three shades of amber in glasses, on a table sticky with more of the same and raspberry streaks. My glass is predictably the palest, and fuller than the rest. The small table is round, topped with burnt orange laminex, the same as the benches from the house my father grew up in.
An enormous white blonde girl floats nearby, triggering a nasty mental image of an inflated jigglypuff; she laughs loudly at Morgan and his hat, shooting scowls and glares in my direction. The object of her unrequited affection has his arm around my waist, laughing flirtatiously at my little sister’s jokes for effect. The iciness is palpable; his lips curl into a sneering, petulant smile and he draws me closer, causing me to squeal with indignation. Jigglypuff’s eyes peek from between unrelentingly severe lines of black, then narrow until they turn into empty slots, radiating burning-cold scorn.
Glenn stands rigid against the wall; with his stillness, sullen mouth and protruding cheekbones, he could easily be carved from wood. Same as the dilapidated yet ornate archway which frames the sunken throng of rowdy trivia participants.
The Nash, in Geelong, on a rainy Tuesday night, after rehearsal. Every person unfamiliar to me looks vaguely animalistic; the man serving hard alcohol to my underage sister sprouts a steel wool goatee, jutting out as a rectangular appendage below his lips.
Someone is staring at me from the mirror behind the bar; I notice her lack of makeup, tired eyes and winter weary hair. All night old friends and new friends have expressed a sort of admiration or reverence for the leading-lady-of-the-moment, but she really doesn’t sparkle like they are meant to.