Just a few words from Fang here...
Feb. 25th, 2002 03:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
camwynFang's my current character at Ashes to Ashes, for those of you who don't know already. Chinese opera performer. Been at it since he was six. This sort of started cropping up in my head a few days ago, and finally wanted out today, so - here's some stuff he wanted to say. Blame him, not me.
In my dreams, I can fly. And I'm good at it. I don't know how much that means to you. . . maybe I had better explain. I'm not even sure how to put this properly in my native tongue, so if English fails me, there's not much I can really do except let it ride. But it's like this:
I was born by mistake. My parents thought there weren't going to be any more children. If they'd been a little more careful for a few more months, I would never have happened. I was a total surprise to them, even though they had five whole months to prepare once my mother realized what was going on. My father's not – okay, my father wasn't – a man who could handle surprises very well. He had everything in order, just the way he liked it, and he was just starting to come out ahead on all of his plans, and then he found out I was coming. You know what his response was? "What are we going to do with him?" No screaming, no yelling, no worrying about the future, just – "what are we going to do with him". I didn't fit. The fact that I even existed didn't fit. So they had to find a way to make me.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened to all of us if we'd had a slightly different father. Hong was the first one to find Dad's room under the stairs. Nobody ever knew what was going on in there... anyway.
They handed me off to my brothers, who weren't all that fond of the idea. I know they always said it was because they were busy, they'd gotten to the point in their lives when they'd started working on things other than new children, but . . .I think they did it because Dad couldn't change his course enough, and they didn't know what else to do with me. He was proud he'd managed to sire one last son, of course – I mean, name me one Chinese man who wouldn't be, at his age! – but proud of your accomplishment and able to deal with your accomplishment are two different things. Mom's hands were full looking after my sisters and Yu, of course. One more child was more than I think she knew how to handle. Nobody really understood what to do with me, so they . . . just didn't. I guess. I don't know how else to put it. They decided to look at me and say 'oh, here's the baby of the family' or 'oh, here's the adorable little scamp' and that was what they dealt with instead of me. I think… I think sometimes when they looked at me, there was a screen between them and me. Something wrapped around their heads like the emperor who tried to block out the world with a jeweled hat and ear flaps. They would speak to the outside world, and I would speak back, but it all had to pass through the screen and by the time it reached the other side it was not the same at all...
So even before the teacher tapped me for the song when I was six I was already playing parts, although I didn't know it. No wonder it felt so comfortable when I put the costumes and the harness on later in my life. I'd been doing it since the day I was born, and never even knew.
But there's a difference between that and what came after. One's a game of expectations, and one. . . one you take on yourself. When your parents look at you and see your name instead of you – when they see the version of you they know how to see, and nothing else – and you have to dance to that tune if you're going to be heard at all, that's one thing. When they point you at the stage and say 'watch and learn', and then they tell you after that maybe one day you'll be good enough to be the general, or the scholar, or even the Monkey King – that is something else. You can't rip the jewels or the screen or the curtain or whatever you want to call it away from anyone's eyes by force – believe me, I've tried! The hardest thing in the world is forcing someone to see what's really there. It gets so hard sometimes that you give up trying and go along with it, that you stop doing or saying anything that won't make it through, just because you're tired of wasting your time. They'll never appreciate it anyway, or understand any of it. You do that, and they've won.
But say to them, tonight there will be a performance- say that to them, and stand back. You'll see a thing beginning, a miracle. There's no other word for it. The miracle starts when they think to themselves, "Ah! He is going to put on another face tonight. I would like to see what he is going to do next." And they step out from behind the curtain and wait to see what happens, just the way you step out from behind yours. They want to put the jeweled hat aside. They want to see you – or, at least, they want to see who you are that night, in that space and that time, and to know you then and there. Even if they never see or hear or know you again, they want to see you, and for that length of time they're utterly and completely yours.
When that happens, you're making the rules. You've brought them out of their world, and now it's time for you to bring them into your own. You might never be able to do it on your own strength alone, but that's all right. They want to believe in you now, and if there's a script writer somewhere, or a lyricist, or a group of musicians and a crew of lighting technicians or anything else – so what? The people want to believe in you now. They want to hear what you have to say. Give it to them. Make it as powerful and as beautiful and as heartbreaking as you possibly can – or as ridiculous and silly and pants-pissingly funny as you have the power to do. You may never get the chance to reach past their protection again. Punch them while they're down. Make them remember you. Make them believe in you. Show them that you are the King of Chu and that the sins of mistrust you've committed all your life have finally brought themselves down on your head. Reach out from the land of the dead to the scholar who's found the place your spirit was bound and give these people reason to believe your passion is more powerful than death and magic. Make them want to be you. Pull them into your world as hard as you possibly can, like you're never going to let them go – and then let them go when it's all over. Drop them back into their seats and into the rest of the world, let them sit there stunned as the comfortable curtains come down again between them and you. Make them realize just how much they've lost, how very much they're missing out on because they only ever see exactly what they want to see, only ever believe what they know how to believe.
Make them understand that you can fly. Make them see that. Give them the world you live in, where you have it in you to fly. Ride the wires if you have to – we all have to, sometimes, there's no help for it- but make them believe in something more than wires. Make them believe that every last bit of it is your own, because inside your head it is. Inside your head, where the only rules are the ones that you accept as rules, you can fly. For as much time as you have with the audience, what lives and breathes and sleeps inside the darkness of your skull is what lives and breathes and fills the world. For that much time, they believe in your dreams, and in you...
And in my dreams, I can fly.
In my dreams, I can fly. And I'm good at it. I don't know how much that means to you. . . maybe I had better explain. I'm not even sure how to put this properly in my native tongue, so if English fails me, there's not much I can really do except let it ride. But it's like this:
I was born by mistake. My parents thought there weren't going to be any more children. If they'd been a little more careful for a few more months, I would never have happened. I was a total surprise to them, even though they had five whole months to prepare once my mother realized what was going on. My father's not – okay, my father wasn't – a man who could handle surprises very well. He had everything in order, just the way he liked it, and he was just starting to come out ahead on all of his plans, and then he found out I was coming. You know what his response was? "What are we going to do with him?" No screaming, no yelling, no worrying about the future, just – "what are we going to do with him". I didn't fit. The fact that I even existed didn't fit. So they had to find a way to make me.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened to all of us if we'd had a slightly different father. Hong was the first one to find Dad's room under the stairs. Nobody ever knew what was going on in there... anyway.
They handed me off to my brothers, who weren't all that fond of the idea. I know they always said it was because they were busy, they'd gotten to the point in their lives when they'd started working on things other than new children, but . . .I think they did it because Dad couldn't change his course enough, and they didn't know what else to do with me. He was proud he'd managed to sire one last son, of course – I mean, name me one Chinese man who wouldn't be, at his age! – but proud of your accomplishment and able to deal with your accomplishment are two different things. Mom's hands were full looking after my sisters and Yu, of course. One more child was more than I think she knew how to handle. Nobody really understood what to do with me, so they . . . just didn't. I guess. I don't know how else to put it. They decided to look at me and say 'oh, here's the baby of the family' or 'oh, here's the adorable little scamp' and that was what they dealt with instead of me. I think… I think sometimes when they looked at me, there was a screen between them and me. Something wrapped around their heads like the emperor who tried to block out the world with a jeweled hat and ear flaps. They would speak to the outside world, and I would speak back, but it all had to pass through the screen and by the time it reached the other side it was not the same at all...
So even before the teacher tapped me for the song when I was six I was already playing parts, although I didn't know it. No wonder it felt so comfortable when I put the costumes and the harness on later in my life. I'd been doing it since the day I was born, and never even knew.
But there's a difference between that and what came after. One's a game of expectations, and one. . . one you take on yourself. When your parents look at you and see your name instead of you – when they see the version of you they know how to see, and nothing else – and you have to dance to that tune if you're going to be heard at all, that's one thing. When they point you at the stage and say 'watch and learn', and then they tell you after that maybe one day you'll be good enough to be the general, or the scholar, or even the Monkey King – that is something else. You can't rip the jewels or the screen or the curtain or whatever you want to call it away from anyone's eyes by force – believe me, I've tried! The hardest thing in the world is forcing someone to see what's really there. It gets so hard sometimes that you give up trying and go along with it, that you stop doing or saying anything that won't make it through, just because you're tired of wasting your time. They'll never appreciate it anyway, or understand any of it. You do that, and they've won.
But say to them, tonight there will be a performance- say that to them, and stand back. You'll see a thing beginning, a miracle. There's no other word for it. The miracle starts when they think to themselves, "Ah! He is going to put on another face tonight. I would like to see what he is going to do next." And they step out from behind the curtain and wait to see what happens, just the way you step out from behind yours. They want to put the jeweled hat aside. They want to see you – or, at least, they want to see who you are that night, in that space and that time, and to know you then and there. Even if they never see or hear or know you again, they want to see you, and for that length of time they're utterly and completely yours.
When that happens, you're making the rules. You've brought them out of their world, and now it's time for you to bring them into your own. You might never be able to do it on your own strength alone, but that's all right. They want to believe in you now, and if there's a script writer somewhere, or a lyricist, or a group of musicians and a crew of lighting technicians or anything else – so what? The people want to believe in you now. They want to hear what you have to say. Give it to them. Make it as powerful and as beautiful and as heartbreaking as you possibly can – or as ridiculous and silly and pants-pissingly funny as you have the power to do. You may never get the chance to reach past their protection again. Punch them while they're down. Make them remember you. Make them believe in you. Show them that you are the King of Chu and that the sins of mistrust you've committed all your life have finally brought themselves down on your head. Reach out from the land of the dead to the scholar who's found the place your spirit was bound and give these people reason to believe your passion is more powerful than death and magic. Make them want to be you. Pull them into your world as hard as you possibly can, like you're never going to let them go – and then let them go when it's all over. Drop them back into their seats and into the rest of the world, let them sit there stunned as the comfortable curtains come down again between them and you. Make them realize just how much they've lost, how very much they're missing out on because they only ever see exactly what they want to see, only ever believe what they know how to believe.
Make them understand that you can fly. Make them see that. Give them the world you live in, where you have it in you to fly. Ride the wires if you have to – we all have to, sometimes, there's no help for it- but make them believe in something more than wires. Make them believe that every last bit of it is your own, because inside your head it is. Inside your head, where the only rules are the ones that you accept as rules, you can fly. For as much time as you have with the audience, what lives and breathes and sleeps inside the darkness of your skull is what lives and breathes and fills the world. For that much time, they believe in your dreams, and in you...
And in my dreams, I can fly.
