2002-10-11 - 10:32 p.m.
#114: No Need for a Holiday Pt. 3
Note to self: Ironic, that during the time that I'm supposed to be relaxing on my back and doing nothing, I'm actually at my busiest over this journal. Then again, I could always find a way to be lying back WHILE busying over this journal: but this computer isn't a laptop, and I'd rather not be crushed by a metal box containing delicate electronic components. Getting crushed by several tonnes cardboard boxes containing meat patties is a good enough experience for me. But that's a tale for another time, if I ever actually get around to writing a compendium of all the horrific things that have occured at my workplace. Often to me, specifically.
And once again, this entry was uploaded sometime after I'd finished typing it up. In this particular circumstance, I'm using my cousins computer in Melbourne to do so. His computer combined with his cable connection, I should say. And I gotta admit, it's pretty damn impressive. I never knew webpages could be downloaded so quickly before. My mind is simply blown. Anyways, here's the entry for "today":
Thursday, 10th October:
Well, today's my last proper day in Adelaide before I catch a flight over to Melbourne and spend the rest of the trip (and shopping spree budget) there. Quite frankly, the date couldn't have come sooner. I think I've ragged on the family we're staying with long enough, so I'm not going to say anything specific about them, their idiosyncracies or how their grandchildrens continued existence are currently annoying the hell out of me must kill them with lethal force now now now NOW-- ahem, sorry. But suffice it to say, I'm suffering just a WEE bit from cabin fever. I need to get out and away from here before I hurt something with my bare hands. I also need to get out of here before I put on any more weight than I already have.
See, the best thing about holidays is that you go out to big dinners all the time, or the family you're staying with feels obligated to feed you with huge dollops of home cooking. The worst thing applies, as well. Breakfast, lunch and dinner finds me stuffed to the brim with food, both because I want to be polite and also because it's all really rather good and I've been taught not to waste anything. I'm finding myself literally longing for exceptionally cheap, small and simple meals that can be prepared in a minute or less. Instant noodles! Microwave pies! Buttered toast! A bag of chips, my kingdom for a bag of chips! This must be some strange kind of hell or parallel universe I've stumbled into, if I'm refusing meticulously prepared cooked food for something that's only as tasty as the cardboard box it came in. Admittedly, my aversion to said meticulously cooked food could have something to do with the fact that I've sat down to these meals with the same people every single day for the past two weeks. And I'm not a "traditional family meal around a table" type person. I can take one or two of them every couple of weeks, but most of the time, I prefer to eat alone: with my food stone cold and requiring the services of the handy microwave to heat. Social creature of the family, I am not.
But there is another reason I feel leaving Adelaide right now is a good idea, there are just far too many old memories being dredged up while I stay here. Not to mention things that just make me feel plain old. Like last Saturday, where we were having a dinner with an old family friend who had some children who became my friends as well. There were two of them, and one was a boy and one was a girl, much like Tammi and Terence. And much like the case of Tammi, the little girl I met at the dinner was no longer a little girl, but a highschool teenager with breasts. It always comes down to the breasts doesn't it? Not only that, at her full height she towered over me. TOWERED over me. Was this the same little girl who used to be half my height, whom I bullied mercilessly just because I was the oldest and tallest one (she didn't remember any of that, I hope)? And as for the brother, well I for one wasn't surprised to find that he towered over me, as well. Sorry, TOWERED over me. And put on some bulk in the form of fat and some muscle. Now, he looks like a bouncer, but back then, I distinctly remember him when as a scrawny little kid who ate bugs. Okay, maybe not the bugs, but he was definitely scrawny, and he'd probably have 'et those bugs if I'd told him to. I exerted some kind of an unhealthy control over those younger than me, back then.
Then there was Terence, who I did go back and visit several times (well, he actually picked me up and we went around from there, but you know what I mean) and who was quite insistent of getting to the root of my problem. That problem being, of course, that in the five years I've left Adelaide, I don't seem to have moved on to anything different. Oh sure, there was university and the quitting of it; but when it came to me telling him about what I've done since we parted last, the sounds of my "umms" and "ahhs" was telling. Telling enough, that is, for him to try and tear down my well-established mental shields by bombarding me with more questions that either made my brain lock-up, or cause it to launch my mouth into a completely irrelevant spiel. He stopped after a while when he realised he wasn't getting anywhere with trying to dissect my psychological meanderings, but he promised he was going to take this up with me again the next time we met: to see if anything had changed in the interim. I can't say I'm not actually looking forward to it. Then again, I'd better have something to say the next time, otherwise I'm sure to tick him off. He DOES have a bit of an ego-driven, "go getter" attitude that seems to be predominant amongst Singaporean Chinese or those that live in Sydney; so seeing me so loose and relaxed with my currently success-less predicament probably drove him to distraction. Nothing like getting under the skin of your childhood best friend to make you wake up and smell the funeral lillies.
Terence left on Tuesday afternoon, but this was not to be an end to my self-doubt. Oh no. Not only was I receiving outside stimuli, but my own mind was playing psyche-soccer with my brain. On Wednesday, just yesterday evening, we were having dinner at yet another Chinese restaurant with the immediate family in this house, as well as another family relation and his wife and daughter. I watched, thoroughly amused, as Sarah and Michael fought for the attention of the daughter, Nicole, a thoroughly accomplished drama queen and social butterfly. She acted as the eldest of them all (I believe she was about the same age as Sarah) and wrapped the two younger children skillfully around her little finger. Whatever she ate, they ate as well; whatever she decided to play using the table cutlery, they did as well and subsequently got in trouble for while she got away scot-free. Tricky little cat, she was. Anyway, after watching her for a while, I realised that she reminded me most of myself when I was about her age. A confidence trickster who made friends easily and gathered little followers who apparently lived only to serve for my own amusement. Why, one day she might even grow up to be like me, someone whose little followers have grown up and moved on; while I wave my arms ineffectually trying to keep them under my power and in my static little world!
Adding all that up, no wonder I'm getting sick of this city. True self analysation should hurt, and this does. I want to get away from all this and live, once again, in my own delusions of grandeur. Where I don't have to be ashamed of myself, and hanging around with people with my interests gives some temporary sense of self worth that is easily sustained by long periods of not thinking. Oh yeah, now THERE is a life worth living all right. And now I need to figure out whether those last two sentences were sarcastic or utterly genuine. Speaking of behavioural patterns influenced by self delusion and the need to inhibit thought, I've recently discovered an alcoholic cocktail which I think is perfect for my rather lightweight slant: Midori melon with lemonade and soda water. It's basically alcholic green cordial, and I think it'd be a great drink to start with for those who've never had alcohol before. Terence introduced this drink to me (although I thought it was simply Midori mixed with soda water, at first) while we were busy making use of the free drinks at his aunts restaurant. I also tried a Bloody Mary (which didn't go down very well) and we both did a Fruit Burst (which went down a lot better) and a Heaven (which didn't go down well at first, but got better as it went along. Maybe because I was drunk and didn't care anymore). I've come to the conclusion that I prefer fruity style cocktail drinks over others, most likely because of the sweet tang that goes with it. And now that I've sufficiently redirected the topic like I often do, I'll go on to talking about other trivial stuff. Like my shopping.
I've currently filled my bag to maximum capacity, which is not so good considering I have several more days to shop in a completely different city. I always pack too much clothing on these trips, and most of the time I only alternate between three or four sets of differents outfits. About the only time I'd expect myself to break into all this spare clothing is in case of some kind of fashion emergency, which has never happened thus far on any trips I've taken overseas. I should probably learn something from this. Still, my bulging bag manages to hide the fact that, overall, I haven't actually bought very much. Oh sure, they may be somewhat bulky and take up a lot of space but the number of DIFFERENT items is quite small. I put this down to actually thinking about purchases before buying them, which is quite shocking: considering I'm a male and prone to make impulse buys without considering that they may be on sale in some other store.
What was worse was the fact that if I really, really, REALLY thought about it, I really didn't need any of the anime figures, DVDs or statuette that I'd decided should be added to my collection. What I really needed was some new clothes and shoes to replace ones handed down to me from my parents: a symbol of my own personal sense of fashion and breaking free from trying to mix and match my curently existing wardrobe to fit that sense. But I ignored these little cries for independence in that corner of my mind and decided to splash out on merchandise aimed at people with far too much money and very little sense. Excuse me while I go beat that bitter rebuking voice in the back of my head to silence with a balloon hammer. Back, you fiend! My infantile devotion to a hobby that takes my mind away from more important matters is not for you to judge! Back, I say! And take that smug attitude with you!
I just can't let go of this subject on my belittlement, can I? There's more, if you want to know. I noticed far too many people willing to talk to my parents about their children (or grandchildren) and what they've done. For example, one person I knew started up a cleaning business which he ran for two years to get enough money to get into university, another has gone overseas to work, and yet another person had even gotten hitched to a girlfriend he left behind in Malaysia! A person two years my junior and he's found love, commited himself and gotten married! And all these little stories were just passing out of the lips of the people to my parents, and what could my parents tell them about me? Nothing except for, "Oh he WAS doing a University degree in Computer Systems Engineering" or just plain nothing at all. What am I doing? Where am I going to? Isn't there some place I have to be? Or have I reached the plateau of my existence and it's all downhill from here? I don't like thinking in absolutes, but I know I'm not finished yet. I just CAN'T be. I mean, the driving lessons, getting my first job, they have to count for something, right? Other people may think they're nothing but I can believe that they're a start to something that I really want to go into. But what's that goal I want? That's what I need to sit down and figure out.
This entry is going to get all silly and whimsical at this point, so if you usually read this journal for the purpose of laughing at my description of my (or other peoples) pain, feel free to skip to another entry. Go on, push off. Try reading my review of Daikatana, I think it's quite brilliant meself. The entry, I mean, not the game. One of my finest hours in the written word. I should submit it to a game review site or something. If you're still reading this, then you're obviously the kind of person who gets some perverse joy out of seeing someones inner thoughts displayed for all to see online. Keep reading then, 'cause you may be in for a treat. A short treat perhaps, since these thoughts of mine don't go very far, but a treat nonetheless. Right. Metaphorical deep breath at this point.
At the MOMENT (which may change on a whim or a breath of air) I want to go into the business of voice acting. You have no idea how difficult writing that previous sentence was. Despite establishing it as a hobby to most of the people I'd like to know this (well, to people I know who are reading this anyway. Anyone else is just a voyeur) I still find it a little embarassing to admit it. It's like coming out of the closet and admitting you like your bread buttered that way. By "bread" and "butter" I mean, of course.... Well, nevermind. I'm sure those of you old enough to get that joke will get that joke and those who don't will be wondering what exactly is so wrong about "butter"ing "bread". Anyway, since I'm off track and need to get on again: voice acting. I love it. Well, maybe not love it, but I certainly enjoy doing it. I have a knack for certain roles, but I can extend my range to a variety of different ones if required. I can even do accents, although most may find them rather horrid. Overall, I think it might just be a line of work I wouldn't mind doing for long hours and minimum wage, just because I like it that much and would be willing to suffer for it. I think. And that's a very shaky thing to base a future career on.
See, maybe it's not the acting that I enjoy, per se. Oh sure, I'm good at it, but maybe what I really enjoy is the creation of the voice that I think suits the character I play best. Terence posed me this puzzling little dilemma when I told him about this hobby and how I had every intention of pursuing it until he inserted those roadblocks of doubt in my mind. There were the roadblocks of procrastination and over-criticism in there as well, but what's a couple more? Now I have to ask, is that true? Is this little stint I have in voice acting something I want to do, or is it just diverting attention away from what I want like a lot the little things I do? Maybe it is. There are times when I audition for a role just to see if I can make a voice to match a character; but when I get that role, I drag my heels, half-heartedly record my lines and turn them in late. And I can't really think of any recent examples where I leapt into the role with an excited step. Maybe when I first started in the whole business, but that was the honeymoon period and that's the time when you're least jaded. I guess this stems from an axiom most actors seem to use, "What I really want to do is direct" or in otherwords, to have creative input in the realisation of the product, but not necessarily to be up there on stage doing all the work.
I've always been predisposed towards doing.... creative stuff. Like writing. I've had plenty of experience at writing (polish is another thing entirely) which all started from high school with plenty of emphasis on creative writing and essays. I always had some kind of story rattling around in my head, most of which never made from pen to paper. Then there's when I first arrived in New Zealand, where I spent most of my free time in newsgroups writing round-the-robin fanfiction and posting half-assed joke posts to the amusement of the e-denizens. Then I discovered voice acting, left the newsgroups due to certain unpleasant circumstances and for a while my creative outlet was my voice and not my written word. And then this journal came along, and voice acting took a dive for a while. Now the journal and voice acting seem to be sitting about the same position in my creative tarmac: Updated once in a while just to let people know I'm still alive. So just what the heck does this mean? I'm never too far away from something that lets me exercise my creative juices (the irony of trying to find a computer with internet access just to write and upload this entry does not escape me). Even though I may be less than regular with them, when I DO get into it, I really find it fun. It's just the getting started part that's difficult.
But is it being creative that I find most rewarding, or getting the fame and praise from doing it? I have to admit, praise is good. I like being given the proper credit for the hard work (errrr.... yeah) I put into what I do, but is that really what I live for? To be famous, not necessarily because I'm good at something but JUST to be famous? Be still, my raging egomania, lest you give yourself away. What is it that I'm thinking, anyway? What's being locked away inside of my head that'll help me decide on what I truly want out of this life? And what are the keys that will open those doors? Or lockpicks? Chainsaws? I can even imagine myself bursting through those doors face first and saying, "Heeeeeeeeeere's Johnny!" Sorry, I just had to take that tangent. All this analytical talk was just getting too serious. Anyway, I don't really trust myself when it comes to deciding my own future. How can I put my life into the hands of someone who spent four years of his life doing a degree he thought he wanted to do but turned out he didn't like that much at all? I mean, I have a feeling most of you reading this wouldn't. That kind of man is not the kind of person you can trust with commitment, especially if it involves copious amounts of cash. Sure, he liked computers and thought maybe that interest would drive him on for four years, but that "liking" just wasn't enough. What happens if that "liking" also applies to voice acting, writing or anything creative he might have enjoyed as a leisure activity? What the heck am I supposed to do now?
Oy vey, I need a vacation from this vacation when I get back. I'm not supposed to get this stressed out BEFORE going back to work. Time to call it quits on this entry, I think.
