This is Of Common Clay, a love-letter-like documentation in pursuit of grounding myself to the common clay we walk on and are made of.
“Don’t talk to strangers,” we’d always been told.
It’s simple. Pay no mind to the business of people around you, avoid cornering yourself into situations where you’d have to approach or be approached by chatty people on the street, and take care of your own affairs.
I had not been brought up in a culture that valued small talk and casual greetings, and ignoring strangers was probably the wisest course of action I could take if my goal was to stay away from danger. I don’t ever really recall being the reserved kid at school, but beyond it, I kept quiet. I stayed within my circle, never asked questions whenever it felt like an inconvenience to others, and maintained an impractical level of independence in retrospect, making sure I always (looked like I) knew exactly what I was doing. I couldn’t say the same for my dad who had the habit of drawing out strangers’ stories whenever we’d travel.
I want to ask you (and myself) a question:
At all the seminars and sessions you failed to ask questions in, with all the people you hesitated to talk to because of internal monologues, and to all those who shared in that disaster platter: Why did we make it so difficult for ourselves?
This question, in no way, strives to water down the complexities of social anxiety or the context of being in dangerous, predatory environments where you’ll hear the hard realities of people who opened their mouths. I mean I once listened to an elderly man at Botanical Gardens because he only seemed to want to share good stories, but that resulted in me running the opposite direction when he started offering dinner. However, that question of hesitation still stands. In my recent years, I’ve come to realise that, simply put, I like to learn through people and experiences. Sure, Google’s also my galaxy-brain-sized best friend on my pocket-sized device, but the specificity of answers out there has sometimes actually only returned results I wanted to hear.
I’m a believer in occasionally subjecting yourself to situations that allow you to hear opinions you initially wouldn’t want to hear or learn stories you wouldn’t have bothered to look up yourself. You open yourself up to critical evaluations of what matters to you or what doesn’t, what you’d consider venturing into or what you wouldn’t bother with. While I’m all for developing confidence, I’m against the kind that isolates you from paying attention to what others have to offer. You’re not infallible, and you could save yourself the trouble of finding that out. That being said, don’t feed the hungry fiend in your brain that thrives on comparison—remind yourself of personal priorities and don’t drive yourself mad rivaling against people who have had situations different to yours.
I’d like to share a small collection of all the nuggets of wisdom and stories I’ve heard from strangers who’ve lived colourful lives. I’d spoken to most of them on public transport on afternoons where I’d (hardly ever) decided to detach from the reels on my phone [Shoutout to all the food content creators, Niamh Adkins and Joe Ando, YouTubers, and graphic designers that keep me occupied.]
#1
I met a retired Irish veterinarian in his 70s on a Saturday train home departing from Redfern. He had a cane that slipped off his hand when the train accelerated, and upon handing it to him, he recognised the UNSW bottle I had. From there, he strangely started talking about how both his daughters had gone there, but he’d gone to Trinity College in Dublin. I’d recognised it from watching the show Normal People and praised it for its prestige, to his delight.
“My life had felt so contained in that small country,” he said. “I knew I wanted to explore.”
He went on to practice his career in South Africa, Thailand, Myanmar, and Singapore which he liked the most. He lived through political unrest in all these regions, his eyes lighting up in recognition whenever I’d name past political figures or dog breeds he loved caring for at the shelters. He’d told me to read up on why Myanmar had been called Burma then circled back to the struggles of Ireland. The Great Irish Potato Famine by James Donnelly was what he recommended me, saying it was a comprehensive recounting of the death of a million and the mass emigration of two million.
“The moral of the story is to grow some dutch potatoes, they’re the best kind. Parsnips, too. They’re $12/kilo.”
He went on to complain about the surging lettuce prices and showed me pictures of his daughters, chickens, pigs, and a farm out in Pinjarra, a small town in Western Australia. Though it made nowhere near as much veterinary did, he’d grown tired of tending to rabid animals and wanted to deal with “gentler organisms.” It required a different side of his brain, which kept him fascinated and occupied. As I hopped off the train, a sharp tap on the floor with his cane jostled me out of his dream-like narrative.
“Nurture your aspirations and calling… and nurture a farm!
#2
My family and I were waiting for the bus home after going for a picnic and thrifting at Marrickville Sunday Markets. This lady I’d bought a blazer from handed me my bag because object permanence is clearly a joke to me. I’d spoken to my dad in Filipino, expressing relief for it being returned to me, when this Spanish man playing the recorder recognised the language. My dad said he was from Manila, and the guy shot back with excitement, going off tangent about Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier III’s Thrilla in Manila. He introduces the guy beside him as his recorder teacher. Apparently, they were bandmates in the 80s in New Zealand, and they’d only reunited after 40 years. He jokingly told me not to romanticise going into the music industry, but he also said he didn’t entirely regret the path he’d chosen, rich with experiences. Rather, he wished he’d focused on quality over the hundreds of people he’d met, not tied down by romantic partners (“Not that you need any.”)
“I wanted to try everything in my younger years, but somehow forgot I had a whole life ahead of me to do that too.”
#3
When train cancellations were at their peak in May with unending rains and industrial action taking place, I had to get off at Redfern instead of Central and a middle-aged lady had asked me to accompany her. She asked where I was headed, I said UNSW, and she went on to talk about how she was also a former student there too. She had lived 2 hours away and would make the commute every day, catching the NightRide every so often. She had glossed over her really fast-paced life all throughout uni and in the early years of her career, but now she simply wanted to go home to her children after a night shift and cook them pasta. I asked her about the grander things she’d had in her past, and all she said was:
“Things were only grand and exciting when I made them out to be just that, dear.”
#4
I’d bought a monitor off Facebook Marketplace from a man at Maccas Enfield. One quick message, and I’d bagged myself a $50 gaming monitor. One look of struggle on my face, and I’d gotten myself a lift to Strathfield station with his baby on board. (Don’t ride a stranger’s car blind, assess the circumstances!) He’d told me about his family’s trip up the northwest, along Perisher Valley. How floods this year had struck so hard that they’d almost teetered off the road. How torrential rainfall our east coast’s accumulated thus far has been quite ground-breaking—a year’s worth of rain packed into three days. He mentioned areas he thought were great to live in, mentioned his wife being Filipino Australian, and went off tangent about a poetry book he’d been reading lately. Continuous Creation by Les Murray reads:
We bring nothing into this world
except our gradual ability
to create it, out of all that vanishes
and all that will outlast us.
July Recap
Consecutive museum dates, healthy care packages, winter food trips, throwback karaoke, melty campfire marshmallows, numb hands being the new normal. Now building up to assessments and finals season. Once again grateful for the strangers turned friends I’ve made. To more moments with you!
On Repeat
I’ve simply been revisiting and rediscovering artists this month! Nothing grand, nothing with crazy lyrics, just vibes.
An artist I found
Hilma af Klint was one of the first women known to paint abstract art in Western art history. She had requested her later works be hidden from the public and revealed only two decades after her death. She believed the right audience for her work would be found in the future. Check out more of her work here.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you again for listening to my ramblings and musings. I’m always grateful to have a space to share the jumps and dives my brain makes.
Wavering worries on warm winters,
Kristen <3
ganda nitooo ngl!! ☹️❤️
my FAVORITE post so far!!!! seriously so comforting and loved reading all the anecdotes you’ve come across