Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A Quick Prison Tour
It's made of a light wood, and quite durable. Doesn't wobble when I write anything down. On the shelf, there are loads of miscellaneous stationary that I hardly pay attention to. The super bright lamp on the right side provides me with all the yellow light I will ever need in a lifetime, and the wide, spacious nature of the table leaves me plenty of space to lay out my spare examination pads, notes, files and reading material, not to mention my dictionary and textbook. Right now it's litter with papers and pens and highlighters, but in 9 hours time they will all be gone, without any shadow of a trace of their existence. The chair is comfortable and obedient enough for me to feel like studying, and is able to swivel to accommodate all my fidgeting and stomping and general restlessness.
Beside me is an old discarded computer moniter flanked by three motherboard units that have become too outdated and have been replaced by a newer model gleaming black at me to my left, across to the other desk which we call the "computer table", for general family use. On that table in particular is a crappy book called the Secret, which I flipped through and found it to be another one of those fickle self-help books that I totally despise. I can never understand why people must read this particular genre of books to "improve" themselves. Better off going to read Aristotle, Socrates and Harry Potter. Heck, read about Aboriginal injustice, like I was doing just a few minutes ago.
Across the expanse of the faded pink of the carpet, there lies a bed, recently put there by the prison wardens for god-knows-what. All I can discern is the fact that it's supposed to be a day bed whereby one is supposed to lie down in and wallow in self-pity. Ok, maybe not
that extreme. I'll probably use it to read a book, since the heater being downstairs is also a plus in winter. But for the time being, it has come in handy during breaks between intensive writing, grouching and squinting at all the almost-one-dimensional surfaces filled with words and meanings my mind clambers frantically to understand. It is a place of respite in an otherwise dour prison of inescapable reality and emotionless entities.
Above me and in-my-face is the lamp-cum-chandelier used for my particular prison cell. It's wide flat plate-like glass surface and bulb in the middle reminds me of the planets orbiting around the sun, the solar system, to be precise. Due to this very characteristic of its nature, it has caused many of the previous inhabitants to leave dozens of CDs on its top, creating a somewhat modern-postmodern effect that I can't help but mull over, just for an excuse to be distracted from my work. Finally, to my extreme left, there are the windows, and the blinds that are so often drawn down by the prison wardens that I have to repeatedly draw them back up. Not surprisingly, my prison wardens and fellow inmates don't take too kindly to being rudely awakened by the morning rays of sunshine beaming through the slats.
The view provided by the drawn blinds is mundane indeed: a paved driveway of muddied red bricks flows down to melt and meld in with the cracked pavement outside. This gives way to a substantial strip of grass which then abruptly ceases when the road cuts a swathe through its luscious green ranks. What else mayhap be in the distance I cannot be too sure, for my mind wanders and is easily distracted from the tastelessness of suburban decor. From time to time my eyes alight on the mailbox, and I wonder about the mail and the package yet to arrive. And then my mind dismisses the notion, relegating that stray tendril of thought back into the recesses of my inner vault.
My one last thought as I turn away from the scene outside is how the hedge lining the rest of the front portion of the house feels remarkably similar to the likes of the one found in
I'm the King of the Castle. I can somewhat experience a semblance of what Kingshaw feels as I stare at those hedges. And then Mabo No 2 and the separation of powers and the rule of law filter into my thoughts again and my heart sinks with the recognition of the inevitable return to my accursed studies. I pick up my pen, and begin to write lines and lines of meaning that seem to not mean a thing...
Yep. This is as close as I hope I'll ever get to being in a real and proper prison. TT_TT In 9 hours I WILL BE FREEEEEEE. And somehow I know it will feel more liberating than the knowledge that Aboriginal land rights have been acknowledged by the High Court judgement in Mabo.
Cheers!
...is what I said. Savvy?
8:03 am
friends
June 2006