{"pageProps":{"article":{"name":"Scenes from a Night at the Opera: A Poem Cycle","image":{"_type":"image","asset":{"url":"https://cdn.sanity.io/images/wcs514e0/production/b9e78d840b993202552b83944ce79bdd2b6bcdc1-1000x653.jpg","uploadId":"BHYutwXOoF03MTf30bHtMK0COS5EMLac","_rev":"oStG4c5NLkINbHoaUQP7n4","_type":"sanity.imageAsset","extension":"jpg","_createdAt":"2023-12-11T01:35:26Z","_updatedAt":"2023-12-11T01:35:26Z","metadata":{"hasAlpha":false,"lqip":"data:image/jpeg;base64,/9j/2wBDAAYEBQYFBAYGBQYHBwYIChAKCgkJChQODwwQFxQYGBcUFhYaHSUfGhsjHBYWICwgIyYnKSopGR8tMC0oMCUoKSj/2wBDAQcHBwoIChMKChMoGhYaKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCgoKCj/wAARCAANABQDASIAAhEBAxEB/8QAGQAAAgMBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAcDBAUI/8QAIhAAAgEDBAIDAAAAAAAAAAAAAQMCAAQRBRIiQQZhIVHR/8QAFQEBAQAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAwT/xAAZEQACAwEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAQIDEhH/2gAMAwEAAhEDEQA/AOeNHs1XTUsnLEAeWOqYWuxsJeMgIfvuox4CJ+c/lKO2uXWshNEzE/VW363eMXsMwB6FSWUSlNS6Uq1Z4yV0FxYQ9m5nZBorILJE5JyfdFPgLZ//2Q==","dimensions":{"aspectRatio":1.5313935681470139,"height":653,"_type":"sanity.imageDimensions","width":1000},"isOpaque":true,"blurHash":"V68DkDIV03?Z--~ARk9b%L%K4;of-nV@j[E2ozxtRPNG","_type":"sanity.imageMetadata","palette":{"vibrant":{"background":"#baac26","_type":"sanity.imagePaletteSwatch","foreground":"#000","title":"#fff","population":0.01},"dominant":{"population":1.74,"background":"#805c13","_type":"sanity.imagePaletteSwatch","foreground":"#fff","title":"#fff"},"_type":"sanity.imagePalette","darkMuted":{"background":"#6b5439","_type":"sanity.imagePaletteSwatch","foreground":"#fff","title":"#fff","population":1.66},"muted":{"background":"#a08b5e","_type":"sanity.imagePaletteSwatch","foreground":"#fff","title":"#fff","population":1.74},"lightVibrant":{"background":"#e8dc6c","_type":"sanity.imagePaletteSwatch","foreground":"#000","title":"#000","population":0},"darkVibrant":{"foreground":"#fff","title":"#fff","population":1.74,"background":"#805c13","_type":"sanity.imagePaletteSwatch"},"lightMuted":{"background":"#d1bfa8","_type":"sanity.imagePaletteSwatch","foreground":"#000","title":"#fff","population":0.64}}},"mimeType":"image/jpeg","sha1hash":"b9e78d840b993202552b83944ce79bdd2b6bcdc1","path":"images/wcs514e0/production/b9e78d840b993202552b83944ce79bdd2b6bcdc1-1000x653.jpg","size":836752,"assetId":"b9e78d840b993202552b83944ce79bdd2b6bcdc1","_id":"image-b9e78d840b993202552b83944ce79bdd2b6bcdc1-1000x653-jpg","originalFilename":"kazuo-ota-1XvZeGVLQyU-unsplash.jpg"}},"_type":"article","seo":{"title":"Scenes from a Night at the Opera: A Poem Cycle","description":"Poet Cadence Chung brings us a series of vignettes about music and young love."},"categories":[{"_id":"category-8","_type":"category","name":"Literature","handle":{"current":"literature"}}],"content":[{"_type":"articleLongquote","description":[{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"940c04eb4f940","_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Alternate title: Seliger Augenblick"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"f1159d48aa9c"}],"_key":"2b8daf34741b"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"71072ffd5aa0","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"be8f0564418c0","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"Overture"}]},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"1bdf0093819b","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"","_key":"47868b9f6512"}]},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"b3781370b52c","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"f4fdd734b5360","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"On the path to the bus stop there’s\nthe outline of a bug-wing in the concrete —\nmaybe dragonfly, maybe cicada. I\nthink of what a cellophane delight it\nmust have been, a wax-paper treasure\nfallen from the sky. When I came home\nthat night after the opera, the house\nsuddenly seemed so neatly compacted, with\nits humming fridge-song and glistering tiles.\nThe mirror showed a piece of dry skin\non my lips and I wasn’t sure if it was mine\nor if it was hers, transferred. All night, she\nlooked at me with a want in her eyes\nthat scared me. It was only afterwards that\nI realised I must have done the same."}]}],"_key":"12886bd0e228"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"514aa41848b8","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"Arrival","_key":"21a1798e75110"}]},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"0fcd25b66d06","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Your hair was wet: I smelled, as always, of\ndress-stored-in-the attic, too strong for even\nperfume to cover. The refurbished theatre\nglowed nauseously red, the foyer swelled with\nfootsteps, I avoided your kiss, etc. The strangely\nangled subtitles made us all flick our heads, and\neach time I saw the corner of your chin I knew,\ninstantly, what all those old men meant about\nBeauty, and why all those old statues were posed\nat such an angle.\n","_key":"abed7882c7f0"}]}],"_key":"3cf5cb573fc6"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"bfded08ccec6","markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"Debit","_key":"5f7ba7a482be0","_type":"span","marks":["strong"]}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"We forgave each other for our purchases:\nyour new trousers, my blue satin dress. At\nhalf-time, we discussed the opera in such\nmodern terms — misogyny, fetish, stereotype.\nWhat was that little tagline from Act 2?\n","_key":"540aad611d8a0","_type":"span"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"All women are our debtors, but we must\nforgive them anyway","_key":"f7056f85762a0"},{"_key":"f53d02a285321","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":", or something close\nto it. I didn’t like that — reminded me of\n"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"debit","_key":"cd9d7dce075e0"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":", like debit card, like the new perfume\nI bought last week because it was named\nafter Duchamp. Or maybe ","_key":"cd9d7dce075e1"},{"marks":["em"],"text":"debit","_key":"0b6eeb1454df1","_type":"span"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":" like the\nRequiem Mass","_key":"0b6eeb1454df2"},{"_key":"cbc3098371781","_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":": cum sedebit, agnus dei"},{"marks":[],"text":".\nOn principle, I liked the big show of guilt, the\nrhapsodising in Latin, the church choirs, the\ncamp of it all. But in practice, it was boring.\n","_key":"cbc3098371782","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"0ff2c8598b99"}],"_key":"bace79780aac"},{"_type":"articlePoem","description":[{"style":"normal","_key":"e27c7546a1aa","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"Question","_key":"0fa1090d8d1f0"}],"_type":"block"},{"style":"normal","_key":"7ca22423f3d7","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"In fact, it was all so boring —\n ","_key":"09f697e6b9830"},{"_key":"2867cc76b055","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":" the white foyer, the"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"\nold white people —\n","_key":"dfdceb20750b"},{"marks":[],"text":"that the question of drinks,","_key":"e02713df0cb9","_type":"span"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"\nof ","_key":"1a8cf8de941f"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"afters, ","_key":"c01699e696b11"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"seemed like it fell from Heaven.","_key":"c01699e696b12"}],"_type":"block"},{"style":"normal","_key":"dd7ff52bec7d","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Even in the plastic-lipped light\nof my near-empty checking account\nand my embarrassing over-18 card,\nthat question was holy. \nIt killed me\nand resurrected me just so I could say\n","_key":"943cbda63199"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"yes again and again.","_key":"1e19f97694b60"}],"_type":"block"}],"_key":"9ab60a07243c"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"47a74cc06fb8","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"Drinks","_key":"84d120cebff10"}]},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"28ab04c0752d","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"As the waiter gave us our menus, I rambled\nineffectually about the opera — some","_key":"a94f43f72f8a0"}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"tired analysis of the final quintet that I’d\nvaguely heard in theory class. You wanted","_key":"36cce7902e7b0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"869af6e67fb9"},{"_key":"4bc42f3894db","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"to know what I liked to drink, interrogating\nme on all the cocktails I’d only really heard","_key":"6cd7aba97b880"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"_key":"27f1835f8125","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"about from more popular friends. I lied about\nliking negronis, hoping the allure of bitter orange","_key":"a4918cbc4b980"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"c73788bc0ed8","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"would make up for it all. You stated all your likes\nand dislikes with such earnestness that my dishonesty","_key":"cb8638c332570"}]},{"children":[{"_key":"e556deac55f30","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"seemed like some sort of crime. But still,\nthe drinks arrived, we found things to say"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"6e10e5600be0","markDefs":[]},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"6d9a8b1b68ec","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"2deae5c247b30","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"to each other. "},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"What was that about the soprano?\n","_key":"2deae5c247b31"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"you asked, politely. I didn’t answer. I was","_key":"0326f80e32f50"}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"thinking about pink gin.","_key":"521a24c8a0db0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"9a27d124d254"}],"_key":"61dc91b4ecda"},{"description":[{"children":[{"marks":["strong"],"text":"O, the night","_key":"20c33a82c9f50","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"2e60b08e8bfe","markDefs":[]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"","_key":"ec04c5fe241c"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"ca36f1103eff"},{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"O, the night that stretched before us!\nThe cool lamp-light of it, glistering\nlike cicada-wing.","_key":"8fafb854d9c70"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"6b435f495937","markDefs":[]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"2ef605e87e720","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"The way you bit into the orange\nslice that came with your drink —\nthat was what changed my mind\nabout it all. It was the most natural\nthing in the world."},{"text":" I","_key":"2aa41bf6941c1","_type":"span","marks":["em"]},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":" would have waited.\nI would have let it melt into candied\ndust before I’d even show my teeth.","_key":"2aa41bf6941c2"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"b6ba557088d0"},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"115807bf12c7","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Around us — Monday evening’s silence,\nthe schoolboyed streets,\ndefaced with chip packets. Ghosts of\nCapital hid themselves everywhere: the\nalleys that smelled of magazines,\nthe purple-corporate smile of Farmers,\nstill aglow with light. The Whitcoulls-","_key":"ed2c081c18d40"}]},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"33e4eeb7ebfe","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"4f7de1c07e860","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"And you paid for my drinks and my fries\nand everything."}]}],"_key":"a1a00255000b","_type":"articleText"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"style":"normal","_key":"4983b831a820","markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":["strong"],"text":"First sighting","_key":"1676f94e27830","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"\nI noticed him when you were onto martinis and I was onto that gross cherry thing. Through the dim light and fake balustrades, he appeared — the man who looked like Mozart. He had no powdered wig or Rococo costume but something in the oil-paint glow of his cheeks was undeniably classical. I couldn't help myself from glancing at him between egg-white-whipped sips, wanting to congratulate him on the opera we'd just watched. You asked me what I was looking at, perhaps thinking I was daring enough to be checking out another woman. ","_key":"b6313e46de14","_type":"span"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"I'm thinking about how you didn't bring a bag tonight, ","_key":"b5bfc1de41141"},{"marks":[],"text":"I told you, surprising even myself. But it was true — all you had was the outline of a phone and a wallet in your corduroys. I liked that you were willing to give yourself into the night with so few possessions. You could even call it transcendental. But anyway, it seemed like the right thing to say, because you smiled with that slight head tilt towards your right shoulder. I didn't know you well enough to decide if this was a habit or not, but it charmed me. It was like a little flourish at the end of the cadence. Across the tables, Mozart looked back at me. I could see the flicker of Time in his eyes.","_key":"b5bfc1de41142","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"bceaf41b1f0a"}],"_key":"c516f4cc9636"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"Mozart","_key":"0d69fb304a2c0","_type":"span","marks":["strong"]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"0b0bff1fb81b"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"When you left to order another\nround, I couldn’t help myself — I\nwent up to Mozart, wishing I had worn\na slightly less low-cut dress. ","_key":"0d39928a34800","_type":"span"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Forgive me\nfor intruding, ","_key":"44fb49bafa931"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I said, ","_key":"257c41806d661"},{"text":"but how did you\nknow you were destined for greatness?\n","_key":"257c41806d662","_type":"span","marks":["em"]},{"marks":[],"text":"He turned and replied, ","_key":"762118bb83d90","_type":"span"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"It was when they\nplayed my Requiem for the thousandth\ntime ","_key":"762118bb83d91"},{"text":"—","_key":"fa77c61857811","_type":"span","marks":[]},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":" that was when I knew I wasn’t.\n","_key":"fa77c61857812"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"What an answer! Before, I had a million\nquestions about art burning holes in my\nsatin breast, but suddenly they all seemed\nso stupid. For instance, ","_key":"a9fd19f149910"},{"_key":"8d4b93034ce31","_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"how do you make\na sonata sound like it could last a million\nyears, "},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"or, ","_key":"0a6e36a5136d1"},{"text":"how do you make a baritone\nactually sound good, ","_key":"0a6e36a5136d2","_type":"span","marks":["em"]},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"or even, ","_key":"c71f0aac21be1"},{"marks":["em"],"text":"how do you\nmake art that matters?","_key":"c71f0aac21be2","_type":"span"},{"text":" But his eyes were\npaua shells — filigree buttons against\nhis silk-white face. Their glittering\nmade me uneasy. ","_key":"b590fec56d021","_type":"span","marks":[]},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Well, what can I do? ","_key":"a8f18c5a0f5f1"},{"_key":"a8f18c5a0f5f2","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I burst\nout — not the question I wanted to ask at all.\nHe gestured to where you sat, scrolling through\nInstagram on your phone. "},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Go to her, ","_key":"17219f530c6f1"},{"text":"he said.\nCompelled, I sat back down with you,\nyour olive skewer already empty. The\nquestion simply came out: ","_key":"17219f530c6f2","_type":"span","marks":[]},{"marks":["em"],"text":"So, what’s your\nfavourite spot in town? ","_key":"e6fe26833bb41","_type":"span"},{"marks":[],"text":"You grinned at me\nlike you thought I’d never ask.","_key":"bdd1b20f98421","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"f15f4ac96505"}],"_key":"8f225d4aa4eb"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"children":[{"marks":["strong"],"text":"Balcony","_key":"a7b2a155df120","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"93726771fee4","markDefs":[]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"You took me to a dive, because\nof course you did.","_key":"02b5ebfd8ee20"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"980487b12e9a"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"That’s alright — I kind of liked it —\nhalf unbothered, half out of my\ndepth, the corner of my eye fixated\non you leaning over, wristwatch\non forearm on table.","_key":"d42d4ccf70a90"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"7bf3a11127a7"},{"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"I was surprised at such a crowd\non a Monday, surrounded\nby sweaty pits and heavy eyeshadow\nin a cheap-Clinique-Diet-Coke\ncacophony.","_key":"dd979809b1e20","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"4178bc05a89b","markDefs":[]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"This is my scene, anyway, ","_key":"abc935fdbc640"},{"marks":[],"text":"you said, and\nin all the mess I only noticed your smile.\nYour smile after you\ncame out from the bathroom and saw me\nagain — it was a Turner painting. Your\nteeth were a perfect harmony.","_key":"abc935fdbc641","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"959d2f69c926"},{"_key":"49bc427471ca","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"5d9265bba1290","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"After a while we went out onto\nthe coughing balcony, cigaretted\nwith noise, and we didn’t talk\nabout music. We talked only\nof idle things —\nfriends, jobs, family, public\ntransportation."}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"The orchestra was gone. I needed\nto get it out of my head. No more\nviolins. No more timpani.","_key":"79aa168db35a0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"254727362363"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"de269b22ab170","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Just girl, in front of me, waiting."}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"097fbcfb0893"}],"_key":"9dd25185f2a9"},{"_type":"articlePoem","description":[{"children":[{"_key":"4b7d8c78c223","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"Why I am not a painter"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"13d81c1e6851","markDefs":[]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"It had come to some bitter\n","_key":"6985af318277"},{"text":"hour all burnished-silver.","_key":"19f23ef90908","_type":"span","marks":[]},{"_key":"a9bfee4492b8","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"\nUnder the wet rubbish-bag\n"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"of sky, we walked to my","_key":"a4b18ca2407b"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"\nstop, shielded from stardust,\n","_key":"12a652640f56"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"avoiding each other’s eyes.","_key":"301ece247678"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"34c3beabf025"},{"style":"normal","_key":"bb5047c007dc","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"That’s why I could never be\na poet, you said, though","_key":"34dd6f52bad6"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"\nI hadn’t heard what\nyou’d said before then.\nI’d just remembered that all\nnight, I hadn’t even asked you","_key":"49018866aaed"}],"_type":"block"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"to show me one of your paintings.\nYou’d shown me Notes app\ndrafts, little sketches. I should\nhave asked you all about it —\nhow your coat-buttons were\nreadymade sculptures of","_key":"2323f33c88ea"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"82669ff7561e"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"beauty, or how effortless\nthe night seemed in your\nrhythm: the head-nodding at\nthe dive, the polite giggles\nat the show. ","_key":"b62101e9f947"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"O’Hara wrote\nsomething about painters,","_key":"1bb33d1f2385"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"3ad56ddc0746"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"f0ffaa7b5479","_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"didn’t he? "},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I asked, not\nexpecting you to know,\nnot being a poet or a loser.\n","_key":"ac18450147c5"},{"text":"Something about how terrible\nlife is, and orange. Lots\nof orange in that poem.","_key":"e18402ae1c69","_type":"span","marks":["em"]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"c6ff846043b6"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"Thankfully you didn’t\neven pay attention, or\nmaybe you were polite\nenough to ignore me.\n","_key":"0b6cf2ef6b07","_type":"span","marks":[]},{"text":"Do you even think about\nhow moral it is? you asked.","_key":"c990e4ddd446","_type":"span","marks":["em"]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"c8f54439d46d"},{"children":[{"text":"You put it all into a poem and\nexpect it to just stay there?\n","_key":"76d663482fdf","_type":"span","marks":["em"]},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I felt accused somehow, but\nyour tone was gentle, quiet.\nIt, like many other things you’d\nsaid that night, was a question.","_key":"1162f0d6c018"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"e261d2f919db","markDefs":[]},{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I could have said, ","_key":"7dafdf925c4e"},{"text":"I put it into\na poem so it stays — but I","_key":"e26b54ad8e3a","_type":"span","marks":["em"]},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"\nheld my tongue instead\nand leaned against you. It’s cold,","_key":"b515bb490b6d"},{"text":"\n","_key":"4671e1226d6e","_type":"span","marks":["em"]},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I said. ","_key":"10503cbe5634"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"I know, ","_key":"fe3922e499d8"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"you replied. Down the road\na car backfired like a drum.","_key":"84467c664db6"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"c358e66a18f7","markDefs":[]},{"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"We stopped walking for a moment.\nI adjusted my heels, my ankles\nrubbed red-raw. With a stray\nnapkin pressing its white body\nagainst ours, we kissed like an orchestra.\nWe drew apart like applause.","_key":"a45f6fdddaf6","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"ead49b51f2b3","markDefs":[]}],"_key":"3bac887a8e53"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"children":[{"marks":["strong"],"text":"Finale","_key":"f4e538b4e2180","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"20454f26aa1e","markDefs":[]},{"_key":"b9e3b9e8b5e3","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Mozart’s dad, ","_key":"5b2dae4224350"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"you said suddenly, reading my mind. ","_key":"5b2dae4224351"},{"marks":["em"],"text":"Leopold Mozart, right? Wasn’t he the one that went crazy? ","_key":"5b2dae4224352","_type":"span"},{"text":"I wanted to laugh but some part of me didn’t find it funny at all. I was thinking of the poem I’d write when I’d get home, and struggling to figure out how to describe your hair. ","_key":"5b2dae4224353","_type":"span","marks":[]},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"They all went crazy, ","_key":"69573c5d3b070"},{"marks":[],"text":"I replied eventually, fingering the city-stained edge of the bus stop bench, always unsure of what to do with my hands. ","_key":"69573c5d3b071","_type":"span"},{"_key":"69573c5d3b072","_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"What from, "},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"your gaze seemed to question, so I said, ","_key":"69573c5d3b073"},{"_key":"69573c5d3b074","_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Art"},{"text":" — such an uninspired answer that I grimaced right there. But then again, what else could I have said?","_key":"69573c5d3b075","_type":"span","marks":[]},{"_key":"69573c5d3b076","_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":" Love, life, time, poetry?"},{"text":" As you left, I watched the city stumble back into place, tripping over its greasy paper bags. The buses glowed like neon angels. They were quiet saviours, their Requiem humming me into the morning.","_key":"69573c5d3b077","_type":"span","marks":[]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"}],"_key":"d26405c254d2"},{"mode":"default","_type":"articleRule","_key":"b2336e2a8fa0"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"0cf99cae7a1b","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Author's note:","_key":"9c1574df43e50"}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"This poem cycle is a pseudo-autobiographical account of a night out at the opera. The alternate title to this cycle is ‘Seliger Augenblick’. This translates roughly to ‘blessed moment’, comes from Strauss’s opera Der Rosenkavalier. It is sung when the two young lovers meet and proclaim that “all of eternity rests in this blessed moment”. I wanted to take this idea as the model for a cycle of poetry, which follows a narrator and her lover as they traverse desire and young love, rendered in small, intimate vignettes — “blessed moments”, as it were — that span the course of one night. Both interior and exterior spaces are examined (an opera house, a dive bar); both real and imagined people fill them (a lover, an apparition of Mozart). But perhaps the space that is most at question throughout the cycle is psychological: How much of ourselves do we give away in love, and how much do we keep? In the process of asking these questions, the narrator becomes confronted with the choice between idealising art and experiencing life.","_key":"13a4bc455568"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"405af28ecfa2"}],"_key":"8a79b28c3d4c"},{"mode":"default","_type":"articleRule","_key":"7db24f6abe19"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Header photography: Kazuo Ota sourced from Unsplash","_key":"4d1ec64c111e"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"59dfb0b2e5a8"}],"_key":"534067aa2d13"}],"isFeatured":true,"authors":[{"firstName":"Cadence","_createdAt":"2022-07-07T00:11:44Z","lastName":"Chung","role":"Kaituhi Tūtahi | Contributing Writer","excerpt":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"0001","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Cadence Chung is a poet, student, and musician from Te Whanganui-a-Tara.","_key":"0002"}]}],"name":"Cadence Chung","description":[{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Cadence Chung is a poet, student, and musician from Te Whanganui-a-Tara, currently studying at the New Zealand School of Music. She draws inspiration from Tumblr posts, antique stores, and dead poets. Her debut poetry book 'anomalia' was published by We Are Babies press in April 2022.","_key":"eee5e2ae37620"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"eee5e2ae3762","markDefs":[]}],"_id":"author-663","seo":{"description":"Cadence Chung is a poet, student, and musician from Te Whanganui-a-Tara, currently studying at the New Zealand School of Music. She draws inspiration from Tumblr posts, antique stores, and dead poets. ","title":"Cadence Chung is a poet, student, and musician from Te Whanganui-a-Tara."},"_rev":"klew05S92G2K1WM03eIBRA","_type":"author","status":"writer","handle":{"current":"cadence-chung"},"_updatedAt":"2023-04-05T02:01:43Z","image":{"asset":{"_ref":"image-0255114c1b886acb2cd6dbf2e6cf156d9ac10f9f-2000x1500-jpg","_type":"reference","_weak":true},"railsData":{"id":"image/10336/attachment/a7bc308eec2873443e11c0125939e42a","storage":"store","metadata":{"filename":null,"size":649840,"mime_type":"image/jpeg","width":2048,"height":1536}},"_type":"image","alt":null,"_key":"2b41a9d42e91"}}],"publishedAt":"2023-12-11T19:56:09.994Z","readTime":"15m","handle":{"_type":"slug","current":"scenes-from-a-night-at-the-opera"},"tags":["PIJF","CARVINGSPACE"],"_updatedAt":"2024-01-31T04:55:23Z","_rev":"r8QI4XsJMHUG6h19HlaeE4","excerpt":[{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"A series of small intimate vignettes between young lovers over the course of one night. Cadence Chung poses the question: How much of ourselves do we give away in love, and how much do we keep?  ","_key":"78c18c050782"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"8dc7cdad2836"}],"articles":[{"_rev":"eh8WaMy4J3TxNBIX1clCRH","publishedAt":"2022-03-13T22:09:00.000Z","videoUrl":"","readTime":"15 mins","_updatedAt":"2023-04-20T14:40:17Z","excerpt":[{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Cadence Chung on being autistic, and the problems with clinicalising human experiences.","_key":"0002"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"0001","markDefs":[]}],"handle":{"current":"on-being-autistic"},"_id":"article-1933","categories":[{"_id":"category-14","_type":"category","name":"Society","handle":{"current":"society"}}],"tags":["Heatwave"],"_type":"article","content":[{"description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"bce4c3662861","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I have been in so many waiting rooms in my life that existence sometimes feels like a lobby. You sit on the cheap chairs and observe the hand sanitiser slowly dripping gel from its plastic mouth, the debatably fake plants with their verdant green shine. The receptionist’s keyboard clicking and clattering through endless people all asking the same question ‒ what is wrong with me? Perhaps it is wrong in a small way ‒ which extra bacteria in their throat makes it ache, and what fungus has blistered their skin. Maybe wrong in a bigger sense ‒ wrong in the way that I was always asking. What is wrong with ","_key":"bce4c36628610"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"me","_key":"bce4c36628611"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":",the concept of me, this mess of nerve endings and synapses that calls itself a human?","_key":"bce4c36628612"}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"This is your life, and it’s ending one name-call at a time, or something like that.","_key":"d318f7d66ab00","_type":"span","marks":[]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"d318f7d66ab0"}],"_key":"row-7991","_type":"articleText"},{"_type":"articleShortquote","description":[{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I was 13 when I first suspected I was autistic, though when I look back, I think I always knew that I was strange in some way","_key":"3f4d5ec9bf7d0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"3f4d5ec9bf7d","markDefs":[]}],"_key":"row-7993"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"faeeb0a69839","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I was 13 when I first suspected I was autistic, though when I look back, I think I always knew that I was strange in some way. The thing was, it was something to praise for a long time. One of my earliest memories is writing a short story through a nosebleed, not realising that I was bleeding until the droplets started falling onto the page. Even then, I don’t think I stopped until the teacher had to wrench the paper away from me and hand me a tissue. She turned to the boy next to me and said, “Cadence has written three pages even with a nosebleed. What’s your excuse?” I felt so special. It was a source of great pride to me, my ability to create so readily, to concentrate so absolutely. It was this pride that, unfortunately, sometimes led me to be a snobbish child. I never told him, but I used to silently judge the boy who sat next to me for his crude, wonky letters that he spent the whole lesson trying to form while I was asking for extra paper. When I look back, he may have had dyslexia, and could have been autistic too. But I learnt from that early validation that my scholarliness was my redeeming quality. I used it to pull myself away from any question of otherness, which included separating myself from those deemed ‘inferior’.","_key":"faeeb0a698390"}]},{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I learnt the parts of myself to keep, which also meant knowing which parts to discard. My eagerness to learn, my excited listening in class, my insatiable urge to write and my unwavering focus ‒ those were all things to keep. My lack of eye contact, my shyness, my confusion at others’ jokes, my panicked hiding at loud interactive museums ‒ those were things to crush deep down into my sinew until they didn’t seem like a part of me. When I was around eight, I learnt that flapping your hands when you’re happy is only cute until you reach a certain age, so I stopped. I taught myself to try and stare into people’s eyes, although it’s almost painful to even now.","_key":"bed97048b8df0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"bed97048b8df","markDefs":[]}],"_key":"row-7992"},{"_type":"articleShortquote","description":[{"_key":"3198dd1fac2b","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"The terminology that autistic people often use to describe the struggle of pretending to be ‘normal’ is masking","_key":"3198dd1fac2b0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"}],"_key":"row-7995"},{"_key":"row-7994","_type":"articleText","description":[{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Even with all of this, when I think back to those primary-school days, I see myself uninhibited by the constant questioning that comes with my present social interactions. In many ways, I wish I could go back to the child I was. People now call me an introvert, and I agree with that ‒ but I wasn’t then. Children aren’t expected to fit their thoughts around the rigid form of small talk like adults are. I would memorise bits from my favourite novels and recite them, or make up these elaborate stories that had all of my friends laughing. It seems strange to me now that I could talk that much. That I hadn’t learned to be embarrassed yet.","_key":"739c42215c5c0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"739c42215c5c"},{"style":"normal","_key":"0f62f13dcd8a","markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"The terminology that autistic people often use to describe the struggle of pretending to be ‘normal’ is ","_key":"0f62f13dcd8a0","_type":"span","marks":[]},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"masking","_key":"0f62f13dcd8a1"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":" ‒ that the mirroring of neurotypical traits is much akin to wearing a mask. But I think it’s almost more than that. It’s like wearing a mask and, at the same time, asking yourself if the paint is just right. If it’s sitting against your face at the right angle ‒ if the porcelain lips are placed in a perfect semi-circle smile. Being autistic makes you hyper-analyse every aspect of interaction.","_key":"0f62f13dcd8a2"}],"_type":"block"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"During my high-school years I went to about three parties, completely sober at all of them. I watched everyone around me get drunk, all knitted together so tightly in their little circles, dancing so effortlessly, their bodies moving exactly how they wanted them to. At one of the parties, there were strobe lights, and the music was loud enough to vibrate through the bottoms of my shoes. For 20 minutes, I had the time of my life – when we all sat outside in the cold and talked in the silent, starry night ‒ but inevitably, they all wanted to dance and went back inside.","_key":"80110b44893c0","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"80110b44893c"}]},{"_type":"articleShortquote","description":[{"style":"normal","_key":"b6d483a5ca40","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Being different is okay as long as you don’t tell anyone. If you don’t let anyone catch on","_key":"b6d483a5ca400"}],"_type":"block"}],"_key":"row-7997"},{"description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"72a7e3764359","markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"I stood there in the glittery makeup I’d done, especially for the occasion, wearing a scratchy waistcoat and dangly earrings and lipstick and everything, looking and feeling like some alien creature under the lights, too visceral to ever be able to slip into these people’s lives. The birthday girl told one of the boys, “You’re annoyingly sober. Drink some more.” When he protested that I hadn’t drunk anything either, she said, “Yeah, but at least she’s quiet about it.” I thought that was a funny idea. That I was quiet about it. That being different is okay as long as you don’t tell anyone. If you don’t let anyone catch on.","_key":"72a7e37643590","_type":"span","marks":[]}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I’ve never been drunk before, but I’m not really opposed to it. It sounds ridiculous, but the main reason I don’t drink is that I don’t really know how. What am I meant to drink? How am I meant to hold the cup? And how much do I fill it up? And if it’s disposable, what am I meant to do when I’m done with it? Everything is another way for me to show my incompetence, so I eliminate that by doing none of it at all. I told one of my older white cousins once that Asians don’t often drink, trying to claim the ‘Asian flush’ as the reason that I didn’t like to drink. He asked, “Then what’s their vice?” That question struck me instantly ‒ the word ","_key":"49b0d4cb6d180"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"vice. ","_key":"49b0d4cb6d181"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"It seemed that everyone had a vice, a sin, a transgression, except for me, because I didn’t do anything that had even a chance of embarrassing me.","_key":"49b0d4cb6d182"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"49b0d4cb6d18"}],"_key":"row-7996","_type":"articleText"},{"_type":"articleShortquote","description":[{"_key":"094ac9f84db1","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"It is impossible to know what autistic joy would truly look like, uninhibited by cultural norms","_key":"094ac9f84db10"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"}],"_key":"row-7999"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"It’s no wonder that many of my poems focus on curios, natural-history museums, and specimens. I often feel like a specimen myself. Some curio, each quirk to be laughed at or pondered over. I once told some friends in my music class that I’d never been able to ride one of those electric scooters ‒ I always fell off. They all thought it was hilarious, and it became a little joke, something to light-heartedly make fun of me for. I was this strange exhibit of a prim, proper girl in their eyes, and when I complained about the speakers being too loud, it was all part of my properness, my Victorian good-girl aesthetic. An acquaintance of mine recently asked if I’m British ‒ apparently, I’m so polite and proper that I seemed like I was a ‘Londinian’. If you like, I could list these characteristics from the diagnostic criteria ‒ lack of co-ordination, sensitivity to sensory input, unusual speech patterns and behaviour. But, just as easily, they can be considered simply different traits ‒ as indeed they have been by people throughout my life.","_key":"a24936b51a270"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"a24936b51a27"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I almost wonder if much of this perception has stemmed from the changes in media surrounding representation. I’ve never seen ","_key":"41a9ad8812590"},{"marks":["em"],"text":"Rain Man","_key":"41a9ad8812591","_type":"span"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":", nor do I intend to, but it seems that there is now a character type emerging – the emotionless savant, the quirky, awkward dork. One character that comes to mind is ‒ and you’ll have to forgive me for mentioning the Harry Potter universe ‒ Newt Scamander from ","_key":"41a9ad8812592"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them","_key":"41a9ad8812593"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":". He’s clumsy, incredibly focused on his creatures, terrible at interacting with others, and walks around with his eyes down, fiddling with his hands. He represents a digestible form of nonconformity, a lovable weirdo who compares his crush’s eyes to CGI lizards. Yet I watched that movie and loved him, so much so that I went online and searched to see if other people thought he was autistic. I instantly found people disproving anyone who dared claim so.","_key":"41a9ad8812594"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"41a9ad881259"}],"_key":"row-7998"},{"_type":"articleShortquote","description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"ad095eef2419","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"It’s no wonder that many of my poems focus on curios, natural-history museums, and specimens. I often feel like a specimen myself","_key":"ad095eef24190"}]}],"_key":"row-8001"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"A popular Reddit post stated that he was simply adopting the non-threatening position to animals, hence the lack of eye contact and hunched posture. He was too talkative to be autistic, people said. He was too intelligent. He didn’t struggle. You can’t diagnose a fictional character with a mental disorder, especially by observing him in a film. But, undeniably, I and many other autistic people saw ourselves in him. Does being autistic, or disabled in general, always have to equate with struggle? Why must my way of existing be thought of in this way ‒ a thing to diagnose, a thing to slap a label on, a disorder? Why can I not recognise that this character acts like me and I connect with him because of it? It seems that people only want to listen if you talk about struggle. And especially in a society with such a lack of accommodation for differences, many of us end up only ever talking about the struggle, because it is impossible to know what autistic joy would truly look like, uninhibited by cultural norms.","_key":"c05eb0eb556b0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"c05eb0eb556b","markDefs":[]},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"2080e6581243","markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"Yet this very logic also prevented me from getting a diagnosis for so long. I was diagnosed at 18 ‒ I knew at 13. When I first asked my GP all those years ago, she supposed it was possible, in a tone that leaned heavily towards rejection. She told me that autistic people can live happy lives, aren’t bad or broken, get married, have jobs and do everything normal people do. You’re functioning fine, she seemed to be saying, and you’ll go on to live a normal life. I remember thinking how redundant this all was ‒ of course, I knew that I could fit into the standard mould of suburbia like everyone else. But that wouldn’t change the constant alienation I would feel doing it.","_key":"2080e65812430","_type":"span"}]}],"_key":"row-8000"},{"_type":"articleShortquote","description":[{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"In cultures other than this one, or even times other than the modern era, I might have been considered a changeling child, a mad genius, a strange recluse","_key":"9b97c8b6b4970"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"9b97c8b6b497","markDefs":[]}],"_key":"row-8003"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"9f7fd4851a1d","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I was rejected from the public system after that ‒ they claimed that I probably just had anxiety. I didn’t try again until my last year of high school, when I paid a private psychologist who finally diagnosed me. At the end of the session, she asked what I even wanted a diagnosis for. “It’s a part of you,” she said. “It just makes you a different sort of person, but I think it makes you a very interesting person to get to know.” Again, that reassurance ‒ that I was ‘normal’ enough for my autism to be a non-issue. If I didn’t need help with it, why would I need to know about it? I couldn't explain it to her: that, yes, labels are ultimately futile explanations, but they are also the explanations we use in this society. To live without the correct one is to never have a name for what has always felt strange about you, especially in a world that so often shuns strangeness when it doesn't present in a certain way.","_key":"9f7fd4851a1d0"}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"Many people claim that I am too high-functioning to know about autistic struggles. In fact, the diagnostic criteria themselves require the existence of these traits and that these traits impede normal functioning. But tell me this ‒ what is normal functioning? Disability exists in the context of its environment. In cultures other than this one, or even times other than the modern era, I might have been considered a changeling child, a mad genius, a strange recluse. Sure, you can say that these are merely explanations for the clinical phenomena we now understand on a psychiatric level. But I say that psychiatry is merely another means of explanation for something we will never fully understand.","_key":"d3473e8f889d0","_type":"span","marks":[]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"d3473e8f889d"}],"_key":"row-8002"},{"_type":"articleShortquote","description":[{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"What if I told you that piece of music my teacher praised meant that I sat at the computer for six hours, blind to everything, forgetting to eat or drink or do anything else but write","_key":"254f9b96c8230"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"254f9b96c823"}],"_key":"row-8005"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"style":"normal","_key":"fddc7d6fcf7c","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"You may tell me that I function fine because I write poetry, write songs, put on shows and take care of myself independently. But what if I told you that the writing you consider proof of my functioning is also a detriment? If I told you that piece of music my teacher praised meant that I sat at the computer for six hours, blind to everything, forgetting to eat or drink or do anything else but write? What if I told you that I was meant to be practising the piano right now, but once this essay got in my head, I just had to write it down?","_key":"fddc7d6fcf7c0"}],"_type":"block"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"62c8a2b8cc980","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"I would say I have a fairly unconventional approach to writing because I honestly don’t enjoy it any more than someone would enjoy something like sleeping or breathing. It’s sometimes annoying, trying to enjoy my day and, instead, having a poem come into my head, a complete poem in there clawing at me until I write it down. One of my most recent poems, which I would consider this essay’s poetic equivalent, was written on my computer’s notes app at a scenic lake on a road trip. I didn’t get to enjoy that beautiful view because the poem was there and screaming, and I had to just take it."}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"62c8a2b8cc98"}],"_key":"row-8004"},{"_type":"articlePoem","description":[{"style":"normal","_key":"cf5bb6dabbde","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Taxonomise this. Translate these papers into every jargon you have in the hopes that even one word might make sense to somebody out there. The dog submerging its body in the lake does not know it is an animal. You know you're an animal, and you also know you're trying not to be one, which causes all the problems. The problems. You'd be unstoppable if not for the problems, you say, but the trouble is that there will always be problems, and none of them have easy fixes, easy diagnoses to tuck away into, which is to say, the animal thing to do would be to kill. The human thing to do would be to want to, but to nail-file away at your incisors until they only grind with molar dullness.","_key":"cf5bb6dabbde0"}],"_type":"block"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"– Cadence Chung, ‘appointment transcript no. 55’","_key":"7a623a939acb0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"7a623a939acb"}],"_key":"row-8006"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Even as I write this, I know that some may tell me how ‘brave’ it is that I am addressing ‘stigma’, like so many other people are told when they talk about any sort of mental nonconformity. But that way of thinking reveals how people feel about these topics. The idea that it is brave to talk about my existence shows that being who I am is considered some radical act. And yes, I won’t deny it ‒ often, I hate being like this. I am not without my struggles. But I cannot hate the ‘autism’, because there is no part of myself that I can separate from my psyche. People are controlled by their brains, and if the difference is within my brain, does that not make the difference something inseparable from what I consider myself? My feelings are symptoms of my disorder in the same way that you might consider sadness a symptom of the human condition. It can be disabling. Sometimes it becomes too much and does need clinical help. But to remove it would be to remove a core part of the human experience, and to pathologise it is as futile as it is painful. If my life is a series of symptoms, I suggest that you look back into the mirror that you hold to yourself and examine the normality that you contrast with my abnormality. Do I make you sane, or do you make me special? 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given\nto me by the boy i thought i loved in Year 5\nback when it was all as simple as PE-shed\nconfessions, sword-fighting with cricket bats\nand falling on one another, dumbstruck. i\ntell people this now as a funny anecdote, but in\ntruth i think the mark might just be a freckle.\nstill, it’s the idea of it ‒ that somehow, through\nenough violence, love might leave a stain."}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"a7ac1500511f"},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"97dbedd44272","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"97dbedd442720","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"2."}]},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"0b94cd2e8e4e","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"0b94cd2e8e4e0","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"an invisible boy follows me around at all times.\nhe’s there when i’m in the kitchen, and demands\na half of each sandwich, always taking the\nbigger piece. he’s handsome in a no-nonsense way,\nface flushed from football, arm around me\nin the way you hold a kitten to stop it from wriggling.\ni am meant to love him ‒ sneak over fences for\nhim, talk across balconies, carry my desire on\nthe East Wind, eulogise to him, make him fried\nrice and eventually, live in a trendy little apartment\nwith him. i’d be his most prized trophy, his "},{"marks":["em"],"text":"chinoiserie","_key":"0b94cd2e8e4e1","_type":"span"},{"_key":"0b94cd2e8e4e2","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"\ndelight. my eyes bright. hair tar-black. hands folded.\nlips painted into tiny red petals."}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"3.","_key":"6ccc2e3beee80"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"6ccc2e3beee8"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"an invisible girl follows me around too, but\ni’m not allowed to talk about her.","_key":"a12f102f95a70"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"a12f102f95a7"},{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"4.","_key":"36f209b5b4170"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"36f209b5b417","markDefs":[]},{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"a man on the bus calls me exotic, asks me where\ni’m from. another man, uncomfortably close while\nthe bus jostles our knees together, calls me\n","_key":"90fb533930f40"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"beautiful ","_key":"90fb533930f41"},{"text":"with ferment on his breath. in them i\nsee the boy, mirroring their movements. i see him\ngrown up and rotted into bitter fizzing.\nhe takes both halves of the sandwich and bites\ninto them with sharp canines, like a wolf.\n\n5.","_key":"90fb533930f42","_type":"span","marks":[]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"90fb533930f4","markDefs":[]},{"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"the invisible boy puts on a beard and presents\na philosopher’s conundrum. he shows me\nTheseus’s ship and a trolley track. he asks\nwhich is better: to be wanted, but only as an\nornament, or not wanted at all?\n\n6.","_key":"e87f81204ff60","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"e87f81204ff6","markDefs":[]},{"children":[{"text":"if my body is made of my mother and father\nand all the bodies that have touched it\nsince, is it still the same ship?\n\n7.","_key":"e924ed4cf1020","_type":"span","marks":[]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"e924ed4cf102","markDefs":[]},{"_key":"4a1a13ae16cd","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"the same ship, so far away from my\nexotic motherland, the one that gave\nme these bright eyes, this doll’s face.\n\n8.","_key":"4a1a13ae16cd0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"style":"normal","_key":"ffdbb3808750","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"ffdbb38087500","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"i thought i loved her, because Tumblr\nhad told me that love was all poetry and\nannotated books and buying each other\npretty, useless things and writing love\nletters. i relished it all, of course i did. the\nglamour of walking down the street in\nmatching skirts, holding hands. the\ncorners of our desires, perfect to cut into\nsquares and paste onto mood boards.\ni loved being a lover / muse / wanted person,\nmore than i loved the wanting itself.\n\n9."}],"_type":"block"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"my grandfather, when the oxygen\ntubes were permanent, still hid a\nbox of cigarettes under his pillow,\nand i understood.","_key":"5907d06b7c3a0","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"5907d06b7c3a"},{"style":"normal","_key":"df5e11a8f854","markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"maybe i didn’t\nat the time\nbut boy, do i get it 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the cap on something\nfor too long?"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"d69d836429aa","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"my brother watches these videos\nof a man opening WW2 rations\nand each can hisses open\nwith the green stench of botulism.","_key":"d69d836429aa0"}]},{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"12.","_key":"f7e2e25935940"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"f7e2e2593594","markDefs":[]},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"7a813c31e1b3","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"in your wet hair\nyour boyish sweatshirts\nyour dirt-brown eyes\nchipped nail-polish\nand smell of shampoo\ni am trying to find\nsomething that reflects back\nsome sense that i could\nstain you","_key":"7a813c31e1b30"}]},{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"but i’m always so scared\nof being wrong\nof a confession being met\nwith quiet disgust","_key":"131b66d4c1d60"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"131b66d4c1d6","markDefs":[]},{"_key":"1d8c36d94842","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"creepy\npredatory\nwoman’s\nwant-\non","_key":"1d8c36d948420"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"_key":"4a80c3a70651","markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"13.","_key":"4a80c3a706510","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"i am trying to be slow with myself\ni tell my reflection she is beautiful\nbut she only turns away\nso i can see the back of her head\nwhere i didn’t quite brush away\nthe stray hairs.","_key":"821bde549a300"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"821bde549a30"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"14.","_key":"9ba930b2deab0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"9ba930b2deab"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"in the ","_key":"1dece2eae18a0"},{"_type":"span","marks":["em"],"text":"Symposium","_key":"1dece2eae18a1"},{"text":", Aristophanes\ntalks about soulmates\nhow humans were made in bundles of\nlimbs, then cut in half, seeking each other\nforever.","_key":"1dece2eae18a2","_type":"span","marks":[]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"1dece2eae18a"},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"80f0179dbfec","markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"what a perfect speech\nto cut out and quote\nwhat a pretty way to frame\nlove: barefoot, dancing,\na youthful, transcendental,\nuniversal thing.","_key":"80f0179dbfec0","_type":"span"}]},{"_key":"64a75b3a6c15","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"but Socrates ‒\nhe says that if love\nwas already beautiful\nthen it would not seek beauty\nif it was already youthful\nthen it would not seek youth","_key":"64a75b3a6c150"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"marks":[],"text":"that love is poor\nand ugly\nand has no place to sleep.\n\n15.","_key":"064b1f7c13450","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"064b1f7c1345"},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"875ee02ef364","markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"what a wretched, unfortunate thing.","_key":"875ee02ef3640","_type":"span","marks":[]}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"16.","_key":"e37cf75917ea0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"e37cf75917ea"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"i suppose i have no choice but to let it in.","_key":"8d820a4b90b60"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"8d820a4b90b6"}],"_key":"row-9614"},{"_type":"articlePoem","description":[{"children":[{"marks":["strong"],"text":"i mistake friendliness for something else and crush poems into 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In a way, I quite like it ‒ such\nstrict categorisation of a human, divided into neat\npieces and parts to marvel over, each limb a wheel\nin a fleshy and cumbersome machine. But when I first\nsaw you, I noticed your chipped-polish nails, your shoes\nwith the laces fraying at the edges. I don’t tend to notice\nthe big picture, but find the little details. A freckle on the\nedge of a lip. The shape of a crease on a neck. Each\nhighlight of sheeny skin that would take a painter\nhours with a fine brush dipped in white paint, made so\neffortlessly with nothing but sebum. Every time I get\nall moonstruck like this, I look back and laugh, endless\ncycles of myself laughing at my foolishness, only to\nturn around and do the same thing. Someday I will not\nremember writing this poem. 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Naomii Seah reflects on the festival’s beginnings as she attends its diverse spread of offerings as part of Auckland Pride.","title":"Queer Magic and Queerevolutions"},"_updatedAt":"2023-04-22T05:15:39Z","handle":{"current":"samesame-but-different"},"authors":[{"_weak":true,"_ref":"author-556","_type":"author","_key":"556"}],"image":{"_key":"d478f4847a71","asset":{"_weak":true,"_ref":"image-3ce537ad978cbcbaf4c9425c95af6646cf5c4d1e-1723x1080-jpg","_type":"reference"},"railsData":{"metadata":{"filename":null,"size":2819995,"mime_type":"image/png","width":1723,"height":1080},"id":"image/10594/attachment/cd44e586972d9de7e9cca2b3e65f2758","storage":"store"},"_type":"image","alt":null},"publishedAt":"2023-03-26T19:40:00.000Z","categories":[{"_id":"category-8","_type":"category","name":"Literature","handle":{"current":"literature"}}],"content":[{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"style":"normal","_key":"c0a030997d97","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"“It’s about creating a space for our own kōrero, our own Queer kōrero,” says Michael Giacon, a poet and long-time board member of the samesame but differentliterary festival.","_key":"c0a030997d970"}],"_type":"block"},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Established in 2015 by the late, great Peter Wells, the samesame festival was conceived of as an explicitly Queer counterpart to other literary festivals – such as the Auckland Writers Festival, which Wells also co-founded in the 90s. Establishing samesame was perhaps unsurprising for the literary giant, Wells already had a decades-long career of breaking barriers for the LGBTQIA+ community in both the publishing and film scenes of Aotearoa.","_key":"b4b7963ae1860"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"b4b7963ae186"},{"_key":"2f5b46620c88","markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"In the programme for the first event, hosted in 2016, Wells reflects on how his sexuality was instrumental in building his identity as a writer:","_key":"2f5b46620c880","_type":"span","marks":[]}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"}],"_key":"row-10429"},{"_type":"articleLongquote","description":[{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"“I was always a very timid boy. This was after I was bullied at Mt Albert Grammar. 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Wells writes:","_key":"21cf647d26610"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"21cf647d2661"}],"_key":"row-10431"},{"_type":"articleLongquote","description":[{"_key":"530d9dc227ef","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"530d9dc227ef0","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"“We started samesame to give ourselves – our words, feelings, frustrations, our opinions, outrage and even our contemplated silences – a very special space in which we could communicate.”"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"}],"_key":"row-10432"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"style":"normal","_key":"3bac223e8d04","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"Five years on, Wells’ vision of the festival remains alive and well.","_key":"3bac223e8d040"}],"_type":"block"},{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"On one of those quiet, grey sort of days that is so typical of Tāmaki, I headed along to my very first event at samesame – the poetry speakeasy, held in Grey Lynn Library. 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At the event, there was an unspoken welcoming, the unparalleled acceptance of Queerness in all its forms, iterations and disguises. Any Queer person will recognise this magic as hard won. For one of the first times in my life, I felt like I didn’t have to perform Queerness, or hide it. I could simply exist in my Queerness, whatever that meant to me.","_key":"b198138d0f010"}],"_type":"block"},{"_key":"a9790c90efab","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"a9790c90efab0","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"This diversity of Queerness was present in the poems, too. There were quiet poems, loud poems, angry poems, poems about the end of the world, poems about being a dyke on the street, poems about migration, about religion, about home and belonging, about mothers; long poems, lyrical poems, comical poems, poems that drew on antiquity, on the long and often unspoken traditions of Queerness, and poems that dared to forge new futures."}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"_key":"267106b9a329","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"As Wells alludes to in his 2016 address, there’s something about writing and creating that is fundamentally “Queer”. Good writing often breaks norms, explores boundaries, explodes worlds and creates new ways of seeing, thinking and feeling. But as Giacon says, there’s something special about being immersed in a Queer space. Even now I can’t put my finger on it. 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Giacon says one way they’ve achieved this is to keep refreshing the board – adding new members, new perspectives and new ideas. Yet they “always come back to the community”.","_key":"06e8af492ea00"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"},{"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"a8ffca2e92c0","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"“We want to keep on the pulse of what is happening in the Queer literary world, and evolve and incorporate our past. There’s a sense of ever-widening circles, with a core kaupapa.”","_key":"a8ffca2e92c00"}]},{"markDefs":[],"children":[{"text":"Sitting in the audience that Saturday, during the main line-up, I certainly felt the themes of evolution reverberating through each speaker’s words. 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But other panels also spoke to the theme of evolution, echoing and amplifying its meanings along the way. In We Are All Writers, chaired by Grace Shelley, panellists interrogated the evolution of writing and storytelling itself – does a story need to be written down to be valid? 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At samesame, certain writers, authors, poets and performers come back year after year, whether as panellists, performers or board members. This year, one notable recurring guest was Honoured Writer Chris Tse, our newly appointed Poet Laureate. His evolution is a remarkable one, becoming the first Gay Chinese poet in the role. 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In their lecture, ranapiri explored the many poems about Hinemoana, teased out recurring themes, and asked why Queer Māori poets are so drawn to Hinemoana.","_key":"afeda60b34220","_type":"span"}],"_type":"block"},{"children":[{"_key":"1a9c6ecc49070","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"“There’s something to be said about fluidity,” ranapiri said. They talked about the unwritten history of Queerness, and how Hinemoana was overlooked in favour of the male atua of the sea, Tangaroa. Perhaps modern poets are drawing on Hinemoana as a way to allude to that unspoken, hidden and overlooked history, suggested ranipiri. At these words the room rippled with recognition. The ocean is vast and ancient and mysterious, always changeable yet a constant presence; Hinemoana is an atua that has been overlooked, forgotten and buried in post-colonial times. There is little oral tradition to reconstruct her with, and that’s precisely what makes her Queer, said ranapiri. 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It’s evident in the expansion of the festival in recent years. At this year’s event, there was a sense of anticipation, of being on the precipice of a great movement in literature. This year, samesame truly embodied a Queerevolution of literature in Aotearoa. And judging from the excellent work of Queer writers being released non-stop of late, there’s no sign of slowing down.","_key":"c88c2d4e8d010"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"c88c2d4e8d01","markDefs":[]},{"style":"normal","_key":"bbaa19982bcf","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"When asked what his vision of the future of samesameis, Giacon says he believes the festival will continue expanding, moving away from Tāmaki to the wider reaches of Aotearoa. In fact, it already has, with events in Pōneke, and the introduction of live-streamed events due to widespread demand.","_key":"bbaa19982bcf0"}],"_type":"block"},{"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"“The community is reaching in as much as the festival is reaching out,” says Giacon.","_key":"8dbed698753f0"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"8dbed698753f","markDefs":[]},{"_key":"933ba573e34f","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_key":"933ba573e34f0","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"As the event moves into its eighth year in 2024, we can only imagine what samesame will evolve into next."}],"_type":"block","style":"normal"}],"_key":"row-10445"},{"_type":"articleRule","_key":"row-10446","mode":"default"},{"_type":"articleText","description":[{"markDefs":[{"rel":"noopener noreferrer nofollow","href":"https://samesamebutdifferent.co.nz/","_key":"f2c5611c836f","target":"","_type":"link"}],"children":[{"marks":["f2c5611c836f","em"],"text":"samesame but different","_key":"e4d8034469470","_type":"span"},{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"literary festival\n21-25 February 2023\nTāmaki Makaurau","_key":"e4d8034469471"}],"_type":"block","style":"normal","_key":"e4d803446947"}],"_key":"row-10447"},{"mode":"default","_type":"articleNewsletter","_key":"row-10448"}],"videoUrl":"","viewCount":255,"excerpt":[{"_key":"0001","markDefs":[],"children":[{"_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"samesame but different is one of the most exciting Queer literary festivals out there! 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