In 1989, I learned how to daydream. Before that time, my mind was a steel trap. Not a particularly fearsome steel trap, mind you; probably one of those mouse-denters that ordinarily retails for about eighty cents at your local hardware store, but a steel trap nevertheless. But in the year of my matriculation, my ability to concentrate was officially cut loose from its moorings, only to drift helplessly over the horizon.
In 1989, I learned how to daydream. Before that time, my mind was a steel trap. Not a particularly fearsome steel trap, mind you; probably one of those mouse-denters that ordinarily retails for about eighty cents at your local hardware store, but a steel trap nevertheless. But in the year of my matriculation, my ability to concentrate was officially cut loose from its moorings, only to drift helplessly over the horizon.
I blame Shakespeare. This is something I say often and for a dazzling variety of reasons, but blame him I most certainly do. But in particular I blame Shakespeare for teaching me to daydream. For it was whilst attempting to commit large slabs of the Bard’s ‘Hamlet’ to memory in preparation for the VCE English exam that my mind began to wander. Before I knew it, my brain had strapped on a pair of sturdy hiking boots, packed a lunch and declared it would be back in a couple of days. I have rarely seen it since.
Given that the examination was of the ‘open book’ variety, there was probably no need for me to attempt to memorise a Shakespeare play in its entirety. In truth, I did this only because I thought that it would impress girls. Under what circumstances I thought being able to recite a soliloquy from ‘Hamlet’ would act as some kind of teenage aphrodisiac, I couldn’t say. Opportunities to recite Shakespeare rarely arose at ‘The Dava’. It was more a ‘Death of a Salesman’ kind of place.
I used to do it all the time. Hours would be spent committing choice passages of Walt Whitman, Patrick White and Emily Dickinson to memory. At a moment’s notice, I was ready to unleash either a verse or portentous sentence that could not help but impress those within earshot. Trouble was, such heightened circumstances never really arose. It is true, I think, that there is rarely a moment when someone races into a room and says, ‘Quickly – does anyone know the opening stanza of ‘I Sing the Body Electric’?’ My efforts went to waste.
The irony, however, is this. When in the midst of memorising large pieces of text, my mind would generally wander off and start grazing in the nearest paddock. The resulting daydreams often including me reciting huge passages of poetry in the company of other people, all of whom were so impressed that they were rendered slack of jaw as a result. People fawned and women swooned. Some even burst into applause. However, such events existed only in my imagination. All those memorised chunks of verse have largely since withered on the cranial vine.
There is, it seems, a significant difference that separates the world between my ears and the one that lies beyond it. In my imagination, I know pretty much everything. I speak several languages, have mastered all major martial arts and have a memory that is photographic rather than one based on caricature. This, of course, is a stark departure from reality. But in spite of the gaping chasm between the truth and imagination, I have always believed the day would arrive whereby these worlds would collide and suddenly, without warning, I would be the sophisticated, erudite and charming person that I have always imagined myself to be.
Perhaps it’s time that I reconsidered. Having endured yet another birthday, perhaps I should grudgingly agree to face reality, before grabbing it firmly by the shoulders and slapping it, demanding to know why it’s so cruel to me. There are certain truths that must be faced, even if the face in question is now beginning to display the ravages of time. As the years march ever onward, certain things are now becoming less likely. I will not become a master of various foreign languages. Nor I will never ‘get’ wine beyond whether it’s white or red – no matter how often I sniff the cork and pretend otherwise or talk of cellaring, corkage and ‘hints of kerosene’. I am unlikely to be conscripted into Nick Cave’s ‘Bad Seeds’ minutes before a huge outdoor festival show, nor am I ever going to be anointed monarch of a small pacific nation because of my exceptional egg poaching skills. And the chances of discovering that I have a superpower other than my ability to recall where in the apartment Kate left her glasses are not so much remote as they are utterly hopeless.
The simple truth is this: I know barely anything. Whilst in years gone by, this has been something I have attempted to hide from others, it’s time I came clean. Oscar Wilde once told American customs officials that he had nothing to declare but his genius. It should be just fine for the rest of us to nominate our lack of brilliance when the occasion calls for it. That’s not to say that I shouldn’t try and be a little more daring into the future. Maybe if I took a few more risks, the distance between my imaginary self and reality would be far less stark. It will, of course, require a major change in attitude on my part. But I will allow myself no excuses. It’s time to take a deep breath and really apply myself. Of course, I am not the first person to feel this way; compelled to choose that which is and that which could be. As Shakespeare and, more importantly, Mel Brooks once put it, ‘to be or not to be’. That sounds about right.