Skip to main content

Tales from the Down Under: #16- The Haunted House

Categorically I dislike melodramatics. People devote to melodramatics to perfect their creation. The purposefully-furrowed faces some adopt when boasting about the piquancy of a severely-tragic story which influences their creation. The faces that are teemed with wrinkles and creases, on they put an unworldly veil. If I happened to be an ant I would take refuge in one of those crisscross lines and guarantee the longevity of my inhabitation.

I used to hold the receiver conventionally like how everybody holds, but now I have the natural inclination of holding it lateral, does that make me admirably histrionic? Vacillation is the commonest and dreariest symptom of a young adult who is trying too hard to assert himself. I’ve been vacillating like a tumbling ocean whose tides are already fizzled with cloying foams. The result is a doubtlessly exhausted body causes by constant rotundity. Headaches also occur occasionally.

But my soul is never exhausted. It is generally believed that vacillation spawns a creative mind. Resembling to a form of a spiral, when a person vacillates all her spirits swirl around the body with a red-and-golden hue that almost makes that person statuesque of a goddess. Presumably that is why people coveting for vacillation before worshipping creativity. They believe creation is something that can be put behind a glass cabinet, or on the mantelpiece flanked by your grandpa’s photo frame and your father’s gong. Creation is something that is best exhibited and admired by all the dropping jaws.

It is not too warped to suggest that searching for inspirations or gleaning materials is like cohabitating with strangers you stalk on the street. It is double-edged, hence the unrevealing dangerous side. Some stories or people you stumble upon like when stumbling upon a haunted house on a most wholesome jaunt. You peek inside. You judge the interior and the exterior. You purse your lips like a detective and decide to cast this haunted house into your story. Then a man with disguise ambushing in a corner you fail to inspect. He almost prances to you and confronts you with some weapon of not telling anyone of this house and this incident.

You then escape unwound and for your friends, most normally unruffled but who knows you are truthfully unruffled? Something does happen in that house and oh my, what a great actor you are concealing your bewilderment. And what happens between you and that mysterious man? How he let you walk away if he is so dogged about keeping the house a secret? How a mutual agreement is made that you’re be able to go scot-free?

A story or how some still insist, a “creation,” is therefore born. Hopefully the readers will find the answers to all their suspicions and if not, they still possess the irresistible joy of reading the story or, more perversively, fabricating their own story of the protagonist’s harrowing yet enchanting chance encounter with a haunted house and an unidentified man.

How will the readers say if they found out something much contrary to their naïve fabrication? They close the book impulsively before throwing them out and say, “It’s warped!” I ceased to be that inspector or protagonist when the aforesaid staged in my head. I hold the firm belief that life is itself a contested battlefield and nothing can be easily disciplined by any of your high-minded aphorism. I became eventually, that haunted house, with which normally you know absolutely nothing about.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Honore Daumier

“If you shut up truth and bury it under ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.”- Émile Zola
Exited Honoré Victorin Daumier, 10 February 1879, in an impoverishment that many of his contemporaries, especially his foes, would have thought was his long overdue retribution- the painter was blind, heavily in debt, and later relegated to a pauper’s grave. His friends, upon visiting his resting place, would, I imagine, see it a chance to admonish their children: “Now that’s a lesson for you cheeky devils whose tongues rattle off things that should better stay unspoken.” But Daumier devoted his life in revealing those “unspoken things.” His lithography ink proved sharper than most writers’ pens. He vented his rage and stigmatised others’ infamy in his satirical and, oftentimes, side-splitting cartoons. The tone was relentlessly acerbic but only because Daumier was exposing truths that, in the time…

Review: Late Spring (1949)

As a storyteller, Yasujiro Ozu insists on an implausibly objective stance that refrains from direct commentary or criticism; his camera customarily assumes the role of a detached observer, to whom the characters in the film, staring or talking straight to the camera, occasionally address, with an intimacy akin to that between a host and his guest, a closeness that is underpinned by a mutual recognition of the psychological distance that separates the two. The audience, whose perspective, in this case, conflates the camera’s (the director’s), an invisible character’s in the film (to whom the other characters address) and their own, is thus situated amidst this spatial complexity which, as a rule, every work of art necessarily creates.
In Late Spring (1948), the camera serves in part as an underlying comment to the story, which is noted by its economy of details. A prolonged shot of a departing train, on which the father and daughter travel to the city for a one-day excursion, prefigures…

Review: Come Back, Little Sheba (1952)

Every adversity in life is a test of one's fortitude, the occasion of which, as proved invariably in the past, man is capable of defying destiny, of reversing the inexorable course to which life is doomed to tend. Too often we sympathise with the travails of the dogged, indefatigable fighter, whose hard-on victory we shed tears of relief and admiration, and whose stories and examples we evoke when in need of a boost of morale or motivation, that our notion of heroism has come to be hallowed with a glow of divinity peculiar to those who triumph in their fights. Those who fail – the martyrs who labour for nothing, who die without fulfilling what they die for – they are regarded with no less sympathy, but to recount their stories we averse, refusing to be reminded of what ultimately makes us humans – our inherent and infinite capacity to fail.
To face up to one’s failures, especially with the forlorn hope that such failures can ever be remedied, requires a special kind of courage. Wil…