Monthly Archives: February 2016

There’s been a moment in the process every tattoo that currently adorns my body wherein I freak the fuck out.

I think: “oh, shit. Oh shit, this is on me for life. Fuck, I can barely keep my mind straight about REGULAR things, let alone ‘stuck in you for life with a needle’ things.”

When this moment comes, I usually want to abruptly stand up, upend the table, and run for the hills.

So far, I’ve been successful in that I’ve managed to not do this. Look at me, kicking strangely specific life goals.

I got my first tattoo at age 21 after a particularly rough night.

It’s covered up, now, but:

I went through a particularly depressive stage as a young homosexual – don’t all young homosexuals? – and really and truly considered taking my own life several times. I didn’t get so far as to actually try, thankfully, but it was like “suicidal-light” – the thoughts were quite legitimate, but the actions were not willing.

In the way that brains so often do; I intrinsically linked my discovery of the musical Hedwig & the Angry Inch to my pulling myself – with psychological help – out of this depressive hole. In actuality, of course, it was probably just the fact I was actually seeing a real-life medical professional; an outside party who didn’t know the inner dramatics of my brain but who did know how to metaphorically slap said brain upside its melodramatic and metaphorical face.

I had been toying with the idea of getting the tattoo from Hedwig for about year or two, as a kind of marker for the end of my mental turmoil, but felt intrinsically that I needed something big to push me into it – I needed not a reason but a Reason. If this was to be on me for life it needed to be Deep and Meaningful and something I could Look At Every Day and Feel Proud About My Decision For.

The night before I’d drunkenly hooked up with a friend who was in a relationship. What followed had been a lot of pain, self-loathing, histrionics (some justified, some not; some performed by me, some not) and many emotions. All in all, it seemed like a big enough Reason as any.

I don’t remember much from this time, but I do remember the immense pain this 15-minute long tattooing session caused; seated in the back of some particularly dingy “goth” shop I used to frequent some years earlier with my fellow goth friends. (Now that I’ve been tattooed by wonderful & talented tattooists, I can’t help but think that this immense pain was mostly due to the tattooist in question not being a particularly good one.)

I remember the immense pain, and I remember the feeling that came with it: the feeling like this came with some sort of internal retribution, that there was something coming out of this pain.

Getting a tattoo is somehow both one of the most constructive and destructive things you can do to your body.

On one hand, you’re getting a piece of artwork attached to your body for life; you’re memorialising something through the creation of something new; in a sense you’re collaborating with your artist to find something that suits what you both want to do. And then sticking it to your body.

On the other hand, you’re literally injecting ink into your skin, and, shockingly, bodies don’t tend to like or appreciate that.

When I first began to get tattoos, I felt determined: whatever I got had to have Meaning and Consequence, I had to be able to look at it and immediately be reminded of the reason why I’d gotten it. I thought I was being very deep. Of course, if that’d been the way I’d continued, I would’ve probably gone quietly insane, as it seems that every tattoo I’ve been inspired to get for a Reason has come out of trauma.


1.     Because a close friend took his own life and I felt this needed memorialising.

2.     Because, as a young child, I used to call myself “Christopher Robin” after the character from Winnie the Pooh, and I felt pretty shitty about being an adult.

3.     Because I thought it looked fucking cool.

4.     Because my heart got royally fucked over and I wanted to remind myself to be more careful, next time.

5.     Because I very nearly died (and I wanted to celebrate my first year of sobriety.)

6.     and 7: because I very nearly died and before I very nearly died I’d been planning to get tattooed by this artist anyway – having the unexpected opportunity to do this again felt like a wonderful second chance. (And also because I fucking love and am fucking inspired by John Waters.)

And then, overall:

1.     Because I fucking wanted to.

In the year and a half, nearly, since my car accident, getting tattooed has become somehow both intensely personal and intensely impersonal.

Confusing, right?

To explain, let’s go back. Way back:

As a kid, and growing up, I had major weight issues.

I fucking hated my body and I fucking hated myself. I was hit, punched, insulted, taunted, teased and so on, relentlessly and endlessly, by people at school and by members of my own family. Unsurprisingly, this created a sharp and heady dissonance within myself; a veritable hatred of self that only in the last two or three years has begun to subside.

By getting a tattoo – by choosing unequivocally what will be placed on my body, where and by who, I’m regaining a bit of my own mental strength. I like the way that I look – and this is the first time in a long time that I can say this – but I really like the way I look with tattoos.

Despite the fuckery of 2014 and my year at NIDA; while I was incredibly cruel to myself in certain facets of myself, I was also weirdly, rather kind. I had always gone to the gym pre-NIDA, but mostly just did cardio in a constant attempt to reduce the imagined obesity that hung about me. As I threw myself into NIDA (and alcohol), I also threw myself into working out on a much tighter regimen, and with a lot more resistance-based training, enjoying and appreciating the new facets of my strength and body that I began to see.

Smash cut to me, somewhere, on a Berlin road, then a Berlin hospital, then a rehab facility. The plugs. The wires. The drugs I was given in secret, the medical additions to my body, the catheter and resulting testicular infection I received and my inability to walk. Aside from this, I gained a casual five kilos, which doesn’t sound like much, but for someone who relentlessly monitored his own weight for the ten years previous, it definitely was.

I’d lost ownership of my body; something I still don’t feel I’ve wholly regained.

There are still problems. Still things that don’t work, and still things that may never do. I’m trying as best as I can, and it gets slowly easier, but there are still problems, and forever things to work on. But, as above: it’s a way to regain ownership of my body and of my self. Each piece of artwork brings me back into the world and hands me back one of the pieces I’ve lost. I get to exercise the power of choice over my body; exorcise my trauma in whatever way I want to and shape myself in whatever way I want to. For someone who hasn’t been able to do this – ever, really – who’s been told that his body is wrong and disgusting or who has simply been unable to even make his body work as bodies should, someone who – like so many others – isn’t afforded the basic liberties and freedoms of most of the people around him, tattoos are a way to get his own back.

So, you want reasons? Well, here you go:


That’s more than enough. That’s fucking everything.



“Life’s not a party, and that’s okay.” – a note from a 2015 dramaturgy meeting.

My childhood bedroom, August, 2014: repatriated back to Melbourne after nearly losing my life overseas, I sat down with the words of my doctors ringing in my ears: “you’ve got a brain injury. Don’t be surprised if you never write again.” Being stubborn, I took this as a challenge, and began to write Intoxication.

Intoxication is a play about the ways in which technology and anxiety have seeped so far into the everyday that it now seems strange to not be anxious – a play about a world where questions like “am I being weird if I text this person twice?” and “you liked my profile picture from 2012 – what does that mean?” are the norm, and overthinking reigns supreme. It wouldn’t exist had I not been hit by a car, but it isn’t about the fact I was hit by a car.

Every single member of this team is kind, intelligent and strong. They’ve worked so hard to bring it to life and pushed it to be the best play it could be, and I’m endlessly thankful and humbled.

We are part of the most connected generation to date; yet we’re all unequivocally alone. We can download an app and find somebody to have sex with in less than five minutes flat, but our hearts still race in fear every time our phone bursts to life with the prospect of face-to-face interaction. We’re endlessly constructing and reconstructing ourselves based on who we’re with, who we want to impress, what website we’re on and how much we want to be loved. Maybe it’s time we talked about that.


There was only about an hour of doubt in the first iteration of Intoxication. Not in the script itself – I mean, I suppose it’s riddled with doubt and anxiety and insecurity, even if this isn’t particularly what it’s trying to discuss – but in the writing of the first iteration.

Beginnings are hard, you see. They’re really the hardest part of writing and life; with endings coming a close second. I began to write it in early spring of 2014, without any real conception or idea of what I was going to write, only that my head was bursting with a lot of things that needed to be said, whether anyone was going to listen or not. I sat down at my laptop in my parents’ house. I’d only been back in Melbourne for two weeks at this point; two full-on weeks that had involved a lot of jetlag and a lot of time spent on my parents’ cross-trainer, attempting to shake the spare five kilograms I’d managed to pick up during my time in hospital. I had just recently – like, half an hour earlier – arrived back from my initial neurologist’s assessment as I began rehabilitation.


“You’re looking at probably around two years of rehabilitation, give or take.”
“Avoid alcohol for at least a year.”
“Don’t be surprised if you never write again.”

None of the above.

This was an awful lot to process; to the point where even reading those statements makes my pulse begin to run faster; more anxious than before. While I could deal with the alcohol thing fine as you please, after a month or so – and indeed, am now a perma-sober Sally – the others wouldn’t do.

At all.


This has been the safest I’ve felt in a production, ever, really, and that speaks tomes about the quality of the people involved – especially considering the subject matter; how the act of me performing in it required me to conjure up my least favourite version of myself: 2014 Chris, the one with the drinking problem and the self-esteem problem and the anxiety problem.

I’ve learnt so much from everyone involved; more than I think I can ever put into words – unless I write a play about it, maybe – but I couldn’t think of a more perfect cast or crew, and it honestly feels like a gift to have been able to work with them. Stupid and awkwardly genuine, but true.


So, back to me sitting at my childhood desk, staring blankly at the page in front of me, tears in my eyes, stuck with myself – somebody I didn’t really like, at all – and by myself.

What did I want?

– to be okay.
– to be happy.
– to be secure.
– to be able to run.
– to have a working brain.
– to drink, probably.
– to take back the entirety of 2014.
– to see my friends.
– to apologise.
– to write.


This has been the first time I’ve finally crossed over, too, from “caring immensely what you with the blog thinks about my work” to “actually not giving a single fuck whatsoever.”

To quote a friend: “You have to think, what can someone say in 500 words – less than 500 words – that you don’t already know about your play? If they manage to come up with something, you’re doing it wrong, but chances are, they don’t have anything new to say.”

To quote a contemporary: “Fuck that! I know whether or not I’ve done good work when I come out after the show. I don’t need someone to tell me otherwise.”

To quote myself: “Yeah, postdramatic theatre has actually existed since the 1960s, so that’s a bit embarrassing for you and your blog.”


The original draft of Intoxication was nearly sixty pages – the one performed, a much slimmer twenty-nine. I have the dramaturgical and directorial prowess of Jess to thank for that, but I think, in some way, there was a lot – an awful lot – running around my head; so much that I had no choice but to let it explode out onto the page. That first draft may not have made good theatre, but it made good therapy, especially when fuelled by my innate stubborn streak:

“Oh, you think I’ll never write again?

Fucking watch me.”


Blank page. Me, sitting at the desk. Verge of tears. It’s all very dramatic, but please realise, at this point, I’d also been told by NIDA that if I didn’t finish my course later the next year – in eight months’ time – I’d have to do the whole thing again, and it felt, at that point, like a sink or swim situation. Like I was, for once, really and truly feeling the fucking devastation of my actions – the devastation of stepping out onto that road without looking; of years spent buying that extra bottle of spirits and blasting my way through it; of being ‘that guy’; embarrassing myself and trying to kiss that boy or pining needlessly, stupidly after another; of regularly blacking out several times across several (hundred) nights; of convincing myself I was okay because I’d gotten into NIDA – the NATIONAL INSTITUTE! – based on an application I’d written while drunk; of convincing myself this was normal and okay and just what being an artist was.

It wasn’t.

I wasn’t.

Time passed. May have been five minutes, may have been an hour. But finally, I began to type; taking stock of how far I’d managed to fall in such a small amount of time.

What was I doing?

What was I going to do?

Who even was I?



without a subject, restrictions or fear.”

Fuck, wouldn’t we all?