As Bystanders we are Exposed.

We enter a room that's plain and simple. We automatically sit opposite the mirrors, looking at the performer in the eyes. She's just sitting there, with her stare fixed on a distant spot. The way she sits, at first, makes one think she is lost. Not lost in a physical, directionless, sense; she's lost in her thoughts. What is she thinking?- that's up to us to guess. Her pose also makes her look vulnerable, her passiveness makes her somewhat sacred and unapproachable.
The usher cuts the tension by snipping the actress' dress. Only a small triangle of cloth is cut off, the second usher does the same and leaves the scissors to us. Instead of a monologue or a dance the room falls silent again, as the echo of the snip (a reminder of our game) fades away. We all stare at the small triangles of cloth, at the scissors and at the missing sections of dress. We also stare at each other, through the mirror. We can see one another and try to stare someone into moving, psychically making them take the first step. We also see the actress, her dress and the scissors again. What are we meant to do? we ask ourselves. It is a dumb question, we are all secretly curious... At last someone gets up to pick the scissors. We can see his expression, his intention on his face, through the mirror. This way we are distant from him, yet somehow intrusive. He hesitantly nips the sleeve.
Slowly we all undress her and her skin becomes more exposed, like the landscape of a painting that bit-by-bit is filled. At first the borders, hen towards the center. The artist is still sitting there and her gaze hasn't shifted. It doesn't shift at all despite our encroachment: though she seems oblivious of us we are trodding below her gaze and stealing augmenting glimpses of her skin.
Is there not something wrong, here? Are we not violating her being. We are shedding off her veil of protection without asking ourselves why. We just are, because we are curious, yet isn't this macabre? Not yet.
Soon the ushers lose their patience. While we watch, they stop the"un"-curious snipping and begin to tear and rip and throw the cloth away. They start to bully her. Why isn't she doing anything? This is no play! They push her and prod her, the dress' straps fall leaving her breasts exposed. We can see it all and hear it: from in-front and behind, through mirrors and echoes. They mock her, wet her, spit on her; they hit her and make her watch her hair fall before her eyes. All the time we watch, and all the time she recomposes herself. She brings herself to the same position, sometimes after a loud fall, without opening her mouth. We are still unnoticed by her gaze, she hasn't started to plea yet- though her eyes, for a second, looked flooded in anguish. Why must she ask for help?
One spectator covers the girl up, another cleans her face and dries her back, a third tries to stop the usher-turned-violent. Meanwhile the rest of the audience just stares. Some aren't even looking, others just sit there in silence.
The performance highlights what is commonly known as bystander syndrome: when someone refuses to help someone in need of aid in belief that somebody else more qualified will do it. The audience here too remains passive, possibly staring at others in hope, or accusation, or watches down in shame. I found my breath piercing the air with each blow. This is no puzzle of a Constable landscape, it has become a scream by Munch. Like the painting though, the victim is muted. She screams only in our head, are they loud enough to pierce our tranced and passive reality? She is tortured, dragged naked, in front of us and our cowardice is exposed much more than the body we see.
The audience only shouts once: when the usher is chipping off the paint of a ladder with a buckle. However the room is silent when her gaze snaps out of its lock for the only time. We nonchalantly forget to notice her sole plea for help as the usher cracks the belt beyond her eyes- where she can no longer see, nor can we.

We forgot to ask ourselves at what point this was just a performance, or how true it is to reality.

29 ways to stay creative.

Normalcy

He walks down these midnight streets, he

hears echoes through dim-lit Normalcy.

While one wonders in unison

more self-exposed lies that soul alone.

It is that breath we hear,

that drive -a call- to run,

that wont for all things fun,

that gut-wrenched laugh shame fear.

Hooded and hidden this psyche,

here;

seeks no further idiocy-

secretly- for normalcy.

But under specs of gold above,

(though looketh not)

transient patience. See self dissolve. 

Threatening the status, a man coup-coup.

The sky was darkening and there had been a layer of high fog over the city all day. I walked past the Octagon again this evening. Last night I was there roundabout the same time, with hundreds of others in expectation of the eviction of the local Occupy. Rumour goes the police wasn't even aware of an eviction until the rag had told them, which strengthened the occupiers belief that the media was forcing the event -in hope of tomorrow's fresh splash. That is possibly all it was, though a trespass notice had been given to the group, the bells eerily chimed eight resonating in an air crisp with electrifying anticipation. In contrast with a few minutes beforehand, when the 300 or so protesters had been chanting and marching around the Octagon; everyone was now quiet, prepared media crew were in their vehicles and the speakers' words rang hollow. For minutes at a time the sound of sirens forced people to instinctively turn. False alarm, nothing. I stayed til two philosophizing and talking politics, and helping to protect tents and protesters from a relatively paced onslaught of negative public feedback, including a headbutt which has since gone viral.

Today the tents were still there, though typical of midweek at the site, the new public forum of the square held few people after dinner. Instead of staying I thought I'd make my way to the uni library.

"Talking about foreign policy... Dan! how are you?"

I quickly dived into the depths of memory to remember him -"uh, wasup bro, having a good night?"; ah yes, from uni.

"Good mate, just come from the Octagon? Going to uni, exams? Good night?"

What a barrage of questions, I noticed he was slightly intoxicated. "Yeah, finished though. Just off to write some e-mails to the family. It's the only place I can do it, the library..."

"Oh, you must've been one of the first! I've been celebrating uhm ah Malbas we.."

"So you've finished too! For good"

"Yeah, na na. Just a coup hoping for a better place"

A coup!? Celebrating..? I couldn't quite understand what he was talking about. His demeanor was confusing, his words came flustered but also mumbled. I felt quite alarmed.

"Wait, a coup where?"

"... enough lack of equality, corporate greed..."

"Where has this coup been" And why the hell was he talking about it so personally!? I was becoming impatient.

"Look man, where..."

"These politicians have blood on their hands and... Here."

My mouth hung gaping, by the second I was becoming more confused. I looked around, was this a joke? Who's in that car behind me? I looked up the street quickly before looking at the man. The whites of his eyes had light red cracks and his gaze was glassy.

"Wait, what?"

"In Invercargill, come down to the quarters and... so many murders in their hands these politicians it is really quite a scary thing. So enough, equality all. From Invercargill, South Island going up from here, or down because Invercargill is up and it's all good". 

I stood staring at him still while he talked. I felt like a train had hit me, but equality and military... but New Zealand? We are in New Zealand. My thoughts rushed as fast as the adrenalin through my veins. I just realized I had seen an army truck, with its massive wheels and high motor, driving quickly not even five minutes ago. From the Naval HQ just down the road. It's benches were empty.

I was still in disbelief, I felt like this was an incredibly transcendental moment. How do I stop this.

"But it's all good" he repeated. "I'm off down now, maybe you should check the news more often". 

"Yeah... I'll uh, cool." I turned around and started walking to the library.

I was feeling incredibly paranoid. Everything around me was a sign, I felt like a hawk ready to dive on the smallest piece of evidence. I couldn't believe him, but was it true? There weren't many cars around, bars and restaurants were open, but empty. I took notice of my phone, nothing. For a second I told myself it was all normal, then I decided to look into Malbas.

It was also empty. Though nothing pointed to the drunk words of my friend, I still felt hawkish. When my phone went I jumped, thinking it may be a more political friend- it was just work. I now heard someone shout and round the corner someone looked to be superstitiously texting. My ears turned to any conversation i could pick up on and walking I stared into restaurants hoping to catch a glimpse of a news report.
At last I arrived to Uni, busy with exam study as usual at this time of the year. I was called to by a political friend to participate in my usual political conversations. This was ridiculous, but I checked up the news as quickly as possible, with nothing new.

This post has been cross-posted to speakingsavvy.blogspot.comhttp//:speakingsavvy.blogspot.com.

Her personal craving.

She had her hoodie up, but unlike most youths, she could rave about not being plugged in to the mainstream ticks. Often she'd be holding a book in her hand reading whilst walking. Like a bat relies on echo she had an intuitive feel for her surroundings. The book was weighing down her hoodie, but this time she was taking it all in: the cars, the trees, the contrast between the brown of that building and the beige of this one. Just as she was looking at a child play with his balloon she was forced to jump back dodging a car with this year's beats blasting out. Alright... maybe her sense of space was not all that great Chloe thought to herself as she got up from the ground. "Gah that's shiiite", the sound as she often called what blurted out of the radio lately sounded like glass shattering to the floor. Or worse... Chloe shuddered at the thought of her nails being filed. Yuck, that imperceptible sound of her nails grinding against that sandpaper like surface was not one she ever liked.
Chloe was walking down the street with a spring in her step today. She was carrying a paper bag, neatly tucked under her arm. In it was her treasure, her guilty pleasure. She knew she bought them in excess, but we've got to satisfy our cravings don't we? she told herself...

Her cupboard was bare though and if only she could sustain herself on the contents of her paper bag. Old wrappers, almost identically folded, lay across the floor of her room. What harm can one more do?

She arrived home and hid it behind her back as she quickly wrestled with the lock in her room. The last thing Chloe wanted was for her flatmate to hassle her about it again. The problem is it wouldn't only just be that, Chloe could laugh at herself but Jack was clingy and would ask to see what it was today. Opening it, her treasure, was worthy of a routine. Like a Mayan sacrifice she followed a protocol. This after all was hardly food for thought.

Chloe opened the fridge, there was a carrot - was that even hers? An old lettuce, with a dark green slimy shadow underneath it. As she stared at it with her eyebrow raised she suddenly got hit by the foul stench of it. Reflexively she turned and coughed, she slammed the fridge door. "Right, I'll try go to bed early tonight..."...

With a light and milk-less cup of tea she managed to brew from a teabag she had noticed trying to hide under the pot of sugar, and with plenty of sugar in it, she sat on her bed with the carton-coloured treasure in front of her. She smiled. Her eyes were fixed on the object; it looked like she was devising a plan as to how she would open it this time. Rip the plastic first? Take it from the edge? Quickly or should she take her time, taste every last second of her fast... Hell, when would the next one be?
Chloe noticed  the last wrapper she'd opened, it was tucked under one of her many piles of books. Hardcovers and second-hand gems no-one had heard of lay across her floor as well. It hadn't been vacuumed for months, but how could she vacuum dodging the books and wrappers? This was her room anyhow, she could do whatever she wanted.

She sipped the cup of tea once more before balancing it between her pillow and a copy of Heller's Catch 22 she had yet to start. Fragile white hands picked up the package, she tapped her nails on it, she turned it around so the logo was facing down and patiently unpicked the piece of cellotape. This was her ballet, the only choreographed dance she practiced- but like a jazz musician, there was never a set routine. She turned it round again and broke open all four corners, then the paper crumpled as Chloe, almost in one go but slowly, tore off the wrapper which she threw on the floor. There it was facing her now, reunited at last! she picked it up and inspected it, she smelt its fresh aroma. Then she turned over the cover and read the first line:
"There was a thin child, who was three years old..." before dozing off to sleep.

Dunedin winter 2.

It's those deadlines dampening my imagination..
It reeks of mould!
I live in it but can scarcely afford to.
I'm forced to eat a thing green too but less tasty.

It's that lack of wretched money,
which we no longer see.
How can we depend on this immaterial God called one?
Not three or you and me...
It's 1001011010111.

For me it's 000010, account error and declined.

My imagination will dress up in black soon to dive.
Can i riot too?
Will I be bad?

Though justice and morality I hold dear,
They're too dear for me,
but my clothes mismatch.

Dunedin winter 1.

My mind has been fixed frozen in this permanent state of permafrost.
The words don't hibernate, too busy being stressed they've been subdued.
A dew too cold to move me out of bed again.
Again and again this cycle of exhaustion maintains my mind awake.
A paradox or paradigm?

Imagination tortured by Siberian guards,
My thoughts are bare naked- exposed.
Like the shelves.
Void of essence to sustain me.

Why clink that coin if it doesn't rattle?
Why work to tire?
Oh how harsh is sleep's suspire.