November 24, 2004
my so-called diversion
BOOKS come unfinished, in threes at least, once a week. It is in identifying myself with the characters that I realize that somehow, a book is ugly. I oftentimes find myself driven to answer the questions hidden between the lines, and often failing to arrive at a conclusion after the last page. The characters live in the mind, and they grow into you like some neophyte ‘you’. Sometimes I wish I could kill it right then and there. Give me a longer time digesting the words, and I will find myself speaking in the author’s tone; that absorption disappoints me greatly – I want to use my own words, speak my own language, play around with my own thoughts. In a way, books pollute me. I can only win the game by jumping from one author to the other.
THE lure of theater catches me in its hook. Dancing comes as a release, sweat all over the body, seemingly rippling its way down to fingers and toes, telling stories through motion and breathing. Acting is an excitement that brings out my deep secrets, simultaneously making me live in different places and different times. Most importantly, with a different name and with a different mind.