Frozen monks harm no one, boiled eggs, now that’s another one…May 25, 2008 at 1:21 am | Posted in Outings, Thoughts | Leave a comment
Tags: Bangsar, Book Reading, Poetry, SekSan
I only had three hours of sleep last night. I mean this morning. Class as usual. I wanted to retreat to my room, perhaps throw myself into an artificial coma. Maybe smacking my head on the wall would work- it seems to help get rid of headaches. No luck there. I got kidnapped (legally, don’t worry), to an art gallery somewhere in Bangsar, called “SekSan”. Har. God of consumption? Odd name. I’d have chosen something more grandiose. Then again, maybe it’s supposed to symbolize capitalism. Eat. Consume. Buy my art. Money goes around. Multiplier theory and all that economic claptrap. So the name might work.
It’s not my fault I keep thinking of that pudgy golden statue Chinese restaurants display on their counters- blame the name. Also there was food in there. 4, 5 cans/tins/pole like containers of cancer inducing sodium encrusted fried chips. Wine too. I was tasked with opening two bottles- stupid corks. All I could think of then was how those F1 winners splashed each other with champagne- would that happen here? I did not want to cover myself in froth. No Schumacher moment for me, luckily…
Shall I be mean and nasty and do a review of the people I saw there? I was tired and as how I normally am, couldn’t be bothered to initiate conversations unless there happened to be a pretty girl in my sights. No luck there. No worries- I don’t know (or remember) any of their names- so if any of those who were present there happen to be reading this and don’t like what I have to say of them- that is, if they know who I’m talking about- they can’t lay a finger on me. Well, mean and nasty probably wasn’t the right choice of words- not everything I’m gonna say will be satanically giddy without a piddle of kindness. So here goes:
~The hostess seemed like a nice person. End story.
~There was a Nigerian guy who did a book reading of his book. Couldn’t get everything he said due to his accent, but it was rather cute, in an odd, disemboweled I-don’t know-what-the-hell-you-just-said way.
~There was this guy I remember from the poetry slam over at Zouk earlier this year- his recital of Keats was plastic then, I don’t know if he performed this time since I exited early due to a call from a certain. chipmunk (He know who he is). Anyway, plastic figure Keats was red all over. Too much wine? Tsk tsk.
~Some guy- a (onetime?) reporter/columnist for the Sun read a bit of his book. Some sort of love story. The ending was R.L. Stine’ish- a sudden twist. Sorry, the Electra complex thing just doesn’t shock people that much as it used too. We’re not Puritans roasting stolen Indian turkey in Boston. Anyway the writing was elementary- good enough to get an A for SPM, but we all know the standards for that…
~This lady who somehow reminded me of a white version of a certain tort lecturer. All she seemed to do was drink and look at people oddly.
~There was one Japanese guy who did a rap poem- which makes it a song in my book. But that wasn’t really important- he actually reminded me of Michael Rosenbaum from Smallville, in all his bald glory (Bawanie you interested?) – I miss that show…
~Another poem rapper, also one I remember from Zouk- Some egocentric poem about not wanting to hear love poems unless they’re directed at him. Nice. But still a song. Nothing much to say about him here-
~Except that it relates to the next poet, who did a… love poem. Which I couldn’t hear at all. And it was filled with techno-babble. Didn’t feel no love, so sorry there.
~A guy who, surprisingly got my attention and my vote for best performance- simply for the fact that the prologue for the short story he read was in English (Tolstoy in fact), but the story itself was in Malay.
~Some guy who read some essays on love stories in 5 different cities. Ashley would have loved him- I think they were full of sex, or almost-sex. Nice enough, in a dreamy sort of way- were they real experiences, I wonder? I really wouldn’t like him if he’s one of those meat poles with eyes who boast about their sexual experiences. Then again he doesn’t seem that type- and my judgments on people are often right. Not that it concerns me anyway. I went out at city two- phone call. So maybe the last 3 cities had him levitating over Chomolungma, turning petroleum into Earl Grey tea, or planting Sequoia’s in PJ. Wait- PJ’s no city… hmm.
~And there was a guy called Nicholas. Male. So off my social radar unless he continues talking to me. Which he didn’t after we shook hands. Oh blast I’ve divulged a name- on second thought, Nicholas is generic enough… no problems there, then.
Well. I think I’ve covered most everyone. Went home and found out that one of the people who might have been there- was there on previous occasions, some fella called KG? KJ?- is a ex-schoolmate of Naomi. Well well. Some interesting facts about him, which I’m not gonna bother entertaining the plebes with.
I couldn’t help thinking how I didn’t really like any of the poems at all- I didn’t feel anything at all. Maybe it’s just because I’m fussy. Anyway that got me started, about how I could trump them all with a simple little ditty- meaningless yet seemingly deep enough to confound:
“Purple shoes, prissy and prim- I seek a hand that fits no seam”
Definitely one to confuse. So blame Beckett for giving me a genre to place my nonsensical ramblings in. Yes. So If you happened to be thinking too hard about the title, and were hoping for a revelation at the end, too bad for you.