I’m sweating like a pig. Like the many times during NS, or at some coffee shop drinking, or at some gig. Very uncomfortable, but yet reassuring. The many times where i moved my arms around the past hour, i could feel the cloth of my yellow giordano shirt ooze with sweat. Quite reassuring that something is getting squeezed out of my system.
Is it possible to disconnect totally from yourselves? From fanatical born christians, teenagers with nothing to do, retrenchment from a once secure job to pay off kidney dialysis, a nagging academic paper that needs to be handed up tomorrow: Disconnection from someone else inside you. Peter Lorre played many roles, but none could shake away that face while he was confessing to murdering and molesting children, in Fritz Lang’s M.
The sweat, the discomfort could very well make me another person. I used to pick on my nose and my ear, building up from clearing whatever dirt to causing a sore, and then a cut which bleeds profusely. Whatever that person is, i think that you might be that person.
Peter Lorre’s trial under the abandoned factory, which doubles up as court and headquarters for criminals in berlin was a memorable one. Laying himself out in an underground cellar, in front of criminals (both in real-life and reel-life, Fritz Lang hired actual criminals for that scene.) as ready as the foreskin of his being exposed, he was on his side sweating in black and white. It could be the same arabesque pose of Marilyn Monroe while someone is undressing her in his/her mind; It could be Jesus Christ lying against a stone in the garden of Gethsamane, hands in prayer and eyes to the clouds above.; It could be the latest local heartland hottie or another gay poster boy who wants the gates of his anus massaged.
Just awhile ago, i was walking to the nearest 711, along Thomson Road, drama was at hand. Teenager decked in ace clothing was quarreling who to send the drunk one home. The taxi driver, had a son, fought with his wife and fended off chinese prostitutes (not to mention 4-D and TOTO money) only to reason in present tense with teenagers. After the cab left, the girl in the group was circled by the rest of the guys, she shone so brightly as she held handphone in one hand, the other hand swinging involuntarily in the air telling the rest something that i cant make out. It could easily be a scene that’s been played all over Singapore now. I felt an itching to take a photo with my camera phone and send it to STOMP, but then its not really newsworthy.
This eternal circle. I could very well spent that minute watching everything that was happening, living all of them, boy, girl and taxi driver. Expending my imagination, the same way one does stargazing and watching the newest Osim commercial on television. Mystical and wonderful the same way Harry potter indirectly makes every trendy person look like Prof Tommy Koh more, than Woody Allen. If Brabara Streisand had a dick, it would be big. Why? look at her nose. That’s what everybody is into now.
The sweat could very much be a pool of water or a pool of blood, where diviners drink and tell you what people can’t tell. Where you can imagine yourself getting chased by newspaper headlines, the newest bands in the world and that work colleague’s girlfriend. It doesn’t run, it just stays there waiting for you to swallow between rhyming advertising copy and honest confessions (you’re so going to tell Sarah what happened to Andy.).
here’s a picture of my sweat.
This is the first time ive posted a picture of my room and what i treasure.
see my sweat saves. Remember Paul Muad’dib and sweat. didnt wank i’d guess.
