i wish my blog were private again. then again, it is hardly public, with the few readers it possesses (that word took me a long time, btw, feel hazy today. but the first try was the right try). perhaps its instinct. the body remembers what the mind forgets.

i refereed yesterday at london games. i promise never to scream at referees again. boys are boys though, they will scream, especially playing football. but i was in awe of the netball refs, who are treated with the utmost respect. they don't even have to raise their voices.

i want so much to gush about pie/spoilt too. really, i don't care what's going on, whatever undertones there are. i'm lazy like that. but as the narrator was going over the apocalyptic scene, with the entire stage drenched in red light (yes, red is the colour of the apocalypse) and the step by step description of burning metal and bodies crumpling in heat, i did agree with one point. yes. you should censor everything. you should keep these kinds of plays away from me. i need to be protected. my mind is warped and i'm going crazy, and it's all because in the world of art and fiction it is alright to have a schizophrenic imaginary companion. unfortunately, the world isn't fiction, and we only get to leave with a bang once.

but i am not crazy. because really i have this sense that there are still people out there to disappoint. that's why i am self-censoring. i am protecting you, after all. maybe i'm wrong and you find all of this entertaining, like tammy's sex video or something.

art is a bad thing. art is like swallowing panadol with bananas, or coating pills with sugar. and there's been more and more out around. it's all around us. it makes us want to write with good handwriting, or take those cute artistic shots with the camera. no. people can't be in the centre of the camera. there's a golden ratio, and somehow it looks nicer. art destroys your self-worth, and it makes you feel like nothing until you've created something. that's wrong. humans live. end of story.

ban art. now all one has to do is to have an applicable definition. is drawing twirly things on your lecture notes art? ending off a sentence with a smiley face? using hyperbolic language? using exclamation marks when you're thinking question marks? art is a lie.

therefore. take anything to excess, and you have gray walls and a 1x1 square in the wall, where the sun filters in between 3 metal grilles. cushioning on the walls is optional. i have been to detention barracks, and i thought that rather cruel. but they are right. having cushioning on the wall is good. suicide is bad. life is good. i think it's right that they try to stop someone making that foolish decision. but somehow, everytime i think about that legendary depraved prisoner who wants to end his life by smashing himself against the wall, the pathetic sight of seeing him run into cushioned walls would probably be the saddest sights one can dream about. no, imagination is more powerful than reality. it would cause much pain but he still can't die. what toothbrushes does he use? can he sharpen the end? would we have to give him plastic knives and forks to eat with, or maybe he has to eat with the hands. he could bite his tongue. why don't people think? that way, you can still invent time, because the length and angle of the shadow changes. would you be able to deduce though, that because of that, it meant your cell was somehow moving around the light source. or that the light source was moving around the cell? it would take a really clever prisoner to figure that one out.

i will continue my tradition of sleeping sundays away and remaining awake throughout the early hours of monday morning. i have a rehearsal tonight too. it involves walking down a catwalk.

1 comment:

helianthus said...

i like this post. any talk bout suicide jus excites me.