Sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for inspiration to strike, I suddenly notice that for a non-religious household, there sure are a lot of representations of Buddha around the place.
When I was younger, in a previous house, Mum put a statue of Buddha outside the door, hoping it would repel Johos.
Somehow, I don’t think a little clay monument would deter them from helping us look for Jesus, but no matter. I searched behind my couch, where most lost things gravitate to, but alas, no avail.
Anyways, I digress. It was my first day back at Uni today. I had a midday short story class straight off the bat, my holiday hangover ever apparent as 12 still felt too early to function and my attentions immediately wandered from the teacher to all the new and shiny people. Particularly some Byron Bay alumni, with a floppy, maroon beanie and dead straight, sun bleached hair, compelling me to note down that I don’t like it when guys have prettier hair than I do.
The guy sitting next to him had red rimmed eyes, and I unabashedly assumed he was stoned. When the teacher asked him to define ‘short story’ on behalf of his group, he replied ‘Well, we all agree that they are short.’
Anyways, he turned out to be some deep thinking, intellectual genius.
Here’s another one. ‘Short story is like a door, opened just a little.’
‘What does that mean to you?’
‘That life is like a door.’
‘Why do we study short fiction?’
Thinks I, ‘Because it’s impossible to write and mark novel length fiction?’
Unfortunately I didn’t turn out to be some deep thinking, intellectual genius.
Don’t get me wrong, I like short fiction, so in respect for the genre, let’s keep this post as short as possible.