Days of Their Lives
Australia's own refugee soap opera

by H.H. Foale

Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of their lives.

I've been watching for two years, and nothing's changed. The same stories are being told, over and over again. Same plots, same characters.

Two years it's been, and they're all reading from the same scripts. Last week there was a wedding, this week there will be a divorce. Tomorrow there will be a tragic accident, and even though we can all see it coming, nobody will be able to do anything to stop it.

Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of their lives.

Except what do they mean 'sands'? It should be, 'Like grains of sand through the hourglass,' not 'sands'. Unless there's more than one kind of sand in that hourglass.

I can only ever see one kind of sand, but maybe I don't know any better. Grains of sand takes too long to say, so the announcer just says 'sands'.

On television, speed is everything. Even if it takes the actors two weeks to have a conversation. Same as this place.

Why would you want to have the same conversation every day for two years in a row? After a while you stop talking, and just stare into the distance. And there's nothing to see except sand.

I can't stand to stay inside all day and watch the television any more. All those beautiful Americans. Now I understand why they call it a soapie - everybody looks so clean. But of course, they never go outside. They spend all day pacing up and down inside their expensive living room.

These episodes are two years behind America. Did you know that? We'll never catch up.

Even when those actors do go outside, they're still inside - acting on a set. That's because they don't want to get sand in their perfect hair.

In America, they build a fake outside inside, because it's cheaper to film there. The trees are plastic, but at least they have trees. The sand is real though. And the acting is really bad.

You can fake the moon landing, but you can't fake the sunset. That's what I tell the kids.

We're two years behind schedule now. We'll never catch up. You can't videotape your kid's childhood and show them highlights at their eighteenth birthday party. What will they watch?

Hunger strikes. Their friends forsaking their hair and drinking shampoo. Sew their lips together.

We begged for freedom, and you sent us a ping-pong table.

Like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives.

 

 

This poem was happily supplied by the producers of Meanwhile., a free zine that can occasionally be found in the nether regions of Adelaide.

It also appeared in Total Cardboard issue 3, see www.totalcardboard.com