The Inkwell Organ Did you know, there is a little inkwell that exists in all of us? It is located differently for different people. Personally mine is lodged somewhere between the right clavicle and spinal cord. The inkwell is small, but functions like a gland; thus it is able to generate its own secretions. When you speak, it is the inkwell that produces the ink that writes the words in your mind. It is a temperamental thing. Quality and quantity of ink vary greatly according to occasion. It gets tired too, especially when it has been used all night, and has been forced to generate a steady flow of charming, pleasant, coloured ink. Now some people may not agree, but if you asked my opinion, black ink is certainly the best type of ink to write with, for it is elegant, versatile and true. If my own inkwell could constantly supply me with it, I should be so happy. Unfortunately that is not the case. Many things can stimulate the inkwell and affect the nature of what is produced - its density, colour, etc. A kindred mind perhaps, or vodka abuse, or a memory, or a still and sticky night - the inkwell is susceptible to them all.  ¶ 11:00 AM 0 comments

  Bang Bang Slip this pass your tongue
Unknown to anyone
Inside you know it will never
Come to this
It is only a word sounding
Deep in the mind
Ending in sleep and another day.

Labels: B.A.P.

  ¶ 12:23 AM 1 comments

  Currently playing The things in my head:

Spy-holes,
Hiding holes,
The City In Which I Loved You, Li-Young Lee (Tip of the hat, G.),
The blessed anonymity of hotel rooms,
The yong tau foo man up the road
and his yong tau foo*, naturallement
Chanel lipstick,
Possible full-time jobs,
G.'s full-time job,
The nature of the marriage bond,
Earthquake,
Camoflague,
Cheap scotch,
Half marathon,
Anti-depressed mentality,
The horror of the non-no (pls see below)
and my possible over-reaction regarding,
Like anything else, it's all a question of confidence,
Drowning,
Drowning,
Drowning : The important thing is not to panic,
and
Money,
Money,
Money,
Money.

-

*For the round-eyes: Yong Tau Foo is a favorite dish. It consists of various vegetables and beancurdy things stuffed with a chunk of fish paste. Steamed, fried and served with sauce and sesame seeds.  ¶ 8:29 PM 0 comments

  Earthquake M.'s sister was affected by the earthquake in Jawa. She telephoned her husband in Indonesia for news. He went over to check and her house is no longer where it was. M. goes back to Indonesia on 16 June. She's been with us for 7 years.

Labels: sweet misery

  ¶ 4:10 PM 2 comments

  My city We flirt and we engage in a game of power. We pretend we do not love each other, but when I think of you I do so as if you were a lover. Difficult, sanguine, fickle, distant, savage - beautiful, compressed, irreverent, and occasionally, very very funny. You encourage the romantic in the poet, but such poetry is weak and sentimental. I will never write you a love song. I will use you as you use me, bleed you as you bleed me. I think that if I know more of your history and politics, I will understand better, know better. Knowing is a way of possessing. But I think, you should never be mine, just as you will never completely win me over. If we cannot be equals then let's forget about it! I could care less how sublime the food (supposedly) is. Rest assured I hate you with a passion. But not enough to pin you down, give you a name, to tell you what you are. You are a crazy city, and I am crazy to let you live in me.

It's obvious who will win.

written after a whole day spent in town, filming at various locations

Labels: sweet misery

  ¶ 10:03 PM 0 comments

  A foot in the light It is one of those rare days in KL - a very gentle day. Here, sometimes the sun shines so brightly that it is no longer pleasant. The brilliance mocks you, throwing shadows into sharper distinction, challenging, goading. But not today. Today the light is clear, and it beckons a tired, feverish mind to come and rest.

The dog is out sunning in the yard, head on paw. She is waiting patiently for me to throw off my black cloud and give her a scratch. I once knew someone whom I swore smelt of sunshine. You couldn't say what exactly it was - nothing like citrus, or flowers, or woods, or pine, or sand. It smelt like a clear colour, and it made you smile. After her sunbaths, the dog has it too.

B. says lets go eat something at a bourgeious little cafe, and indulge in all sorts of middle-class pleasures. See you there.  ¶ 1:05 PM 0 comments

  The Horror of the Non-'NO' Nothing sets my bile on fire more than when people end their sentences with 'no?'. E.g., 'well, all art is essentially about art, no?', or 'this casual tacking on of an affirmative-sounding negative to the end of my utterance has completely anticipated and pre-empted your response, whether it was to be in agreement or disagreement, no?', or 'my inability to use the essentially unambiguous 'NO' in a direct and non-paradoxical manner reveals my secret penchant for intense passive-aggression, no?' or 'I am pretty sure what I am saying is absolutely and catagorically right, but for fear of appearing overbearing and egotistical I must make a token attempt at self-effacement, no?' I am an axe-murderer, no? You'd look beautiful in handcuffs, no? Hello, no?

You see, even if you disagree with them, if you answer 'no', it is as if you agree with them! This is because they have asked you for confirmation of their statement with a negative, and if you answer in the negative it is actually an agreement with the negative that they have used!

When people use this in speech, I find I turn pale and must take a few moments to compose myself before continuing to converse with them. I confess, this little linguistic sna-foo can wreck a romance for me. And when people have the audacity to use this in writing it makes me fly into a unimaginable passion! Commentators in forums or blogs are particularly adept at the non-no.

Listen, no is no, and yes is yes, no? Stop it, no? Stop it stop it stop it, no? You know? No?

-

This is a sure sign that Betta is drinking, depressed and procrastinating. Get off yer' behind and do some work, ya lubber! I might have to lay off this blog for awhile, it is becoming too much of a crutch, an Ego Surrogate.  ¶ 11:25 AM 0 comments

  Derrida, What To Do With a Secret in Kuala Lumpur, and Censorship To do:

Bury Derrida's The Post Card somewhere in the ground in the city. Or plant it surreptitiously on the shelf of the National Library. There will be a circutious map provided to seek out this 'treasure' - a carte (map) is also a carte (card).

-

Someone told me that our city's sewer system is a series of man-holes interconnected by drains. These man-holes are about the height and width of a toilet cubicle. When I see one in the ground, I want to lift the heavy metal lid and whisper my secrets into it. So small a space for so big a lie, but the lie is not allowed to fester and grow stagnant. The words collect momentarily in a moist, nightmarish pool, only to flow outwards underneath the city and into the sea, ending at last in blessed evaporation. The telling of a secret is a vertical movement - downwards. Its dispersion is horizontal, a quick creeping way of travelling across distance. Travel induces transformation. Our city provides a thick, viscous medium of waste water for a secret to mix in. You cannot mix a secret in clean water, because it will dissolve only to create a secret of even greater volume, and then, well, you are fucked. It is in the nature of people to hold court and that is why a confession that needs no other person is infinitely preferable. It is cleaner. The night air, a hole in the ground, a sleeping city and the wide open sea - these things cannot judge, it is not in their ability. They are immutable, impersonal, which is why they lend themselves well to the secret transformation of a secret into...nothing.

-

Censorship does not cancel a thing out and leave nothing. Censorship is not the opposite of creation, in fact it creates a thing - a space. Let us say I have written a passage. Here it is: [


]. Well I have censored it, so you may not read it. But this censorship, as an act, has created a new thing around which there is discourse. It is in fact, a parasitical act of creation! Therefore censorship is wildly creative. The original content of the passage is now impenetrable, but its contours, outlines, mass, density - these are brought into sharp focus and are highly accessible. The act of censorship severs the shadow from an object and allows it to float around the room. As they say, a person who has no shadow is dead. The object dies but the shadow lives.  ¶ 8:56 PM 1 comments

  The mood can be described as : wry with whiskey Ugh. How utterly depressing it all is. I am in a high state of disgust and incredulity - at everything. I shall drink away my naif little illusions, and what shreds of ego and vanity I have left can go with them.  ¶ 7:56 PM 2 comments

  Unsatisfied Mind What is this? A verse? A neural snap gone wrong? Snippet of a unresolved scene in a dream? Result of reading about latent lesbianism in Henry James' The Bostonians?

I want a hip flask baby
A conversation with the ghost
of Jeff Buckley
And to kiss the lips of a lady
who kneels five times a day.
I want her...
etc.
*probably some vaguely erotic interlude here - colour fucking or something equally non-bodily fluid*
_

Lyrics to Satisfied Mind by Jeff Buckley, because it is the complete opposite of what I am today, and because I mentioned his ghost.

How many times have you heard someone say,
"If I had money, I would do things my way."
But little they know, that it's so hard to find
one rich man in ten, with a satisfied mind.

Money can't buy back all your youth when you're old,
a friend when you're lonely, or peace to your soul.
The wealthiest person, is a pauper at times
compared to the man with a satisfied mind.

When my life is over and my time has run out,
my friends and my loved ones, I will leave there's no doubt.
But one thing's for certain, when it comes my time,
I'll leave this old world with a satisfied mind.
But one thing's for certain, when it comes my time,
I'll leave this old world with a satisfied mind mind mind, mind mind,
Satisfied mind.

Labels: sweet misery

  ¶ 5:28 PM 0 comments

  Jester, joker, anarchist, tailor, sailor, tinker, toy NST (News Straits Times) May 18 2006 : EDUCATION THE NEXT SHIFT : 40 PERCENT ENROLMENT OF MALAYSIAN STUDENTS IN INTERNATIONAL SCHOOLS, UP FROM THE PRESENT 0.05 PERCENT. Two key reasons for the Education Ministry's decision: To stop the brain drain of the country's best and brightest. To promote Malaysia as a regional education centre.

-

Now, I will be the first to admit that I was a closet suicidal throughout twelve years of public school education, that I did not learn a thing facts-wise, that my brain was stunted and stifled by rote-learning, and that my coping strategies involved pretending I was an elf in The Lord of the Rings. It was and still is, a miserable excuse for 'education'.

But I was forced to share the same compound with the Ah Lian and Ah Beng kids from Sungai Buloh and Jinjang, the gangsters - both indian and chinese, and the middle classes, and even a rich kid or two. Spend enough formative years together, and you get to know people for who they are, not the 'type' they are. This is the one salvation of the Malaysian education system.

The last day of school was probably one of the happiest days in my life. To this day I refuse to step back into those gates, whatever the reason. Yet somehow, out of this, at least two good things have emerged, and ironically, they are exceptionally good things. One is that in spite of everything, I have survived and (in my mind) flourished somewhat by being exactly who I want to be, which is sort of an ultimate FUCK YOU to the school system. The second, and this is a much sweeter, gentle and tempering thing - is a few people with whom the understanding of friendship grows deep and true as the years pass, that I come to love with a practical, non-sentimental intensity.

But to bring us back to the rage at hand, I am appalled by the idiocy of this decision that 'comes after a year of much discussion and soul-searching, and should be welcomed by Malaysian parents'. Yes, Hishammuddin Hussein, you odious little man, you just happened to leave out what we all know : ONLY RICH PEOPLE SEND THEIR KIDS TO INTERNATIONAL SCHOOLS. So now instead of 0.05 percent of the student population being totally detached from the reality of the rest of Malaysian youth, it's going to be 40 percent! As for stopping the brain drain, you think the moment these kids step out of the warm, landscaped, multi-lingual, multi-developemental, computer-aided, reading-listed, oh-so-exclusive environment of a private school that they are going to want to stick around this dunce-infested rock of the rest of us Malaysia Bolehs? Explain that, ya infernal lubber!

In the end, there is the invidivual and the society. If I was a parent, of course I should want the best for my child. I should want them to be nurtured, encouraged to think, and to gain a sense of confidence though the growth of their own abilities - all the things that school should do for you. But I am not a parent, so I can only speak as a child, still a child - I would not want to have those things if they are confined within a wall built of priviledge, money and exclusivity. The developement of an individual is not complete if it is apart from society, no matter how well-rounded the education programme. In the end, I believe my parents made the right choice for me - yes they threw me into a vicious and impersonal sea, but they also fitted me out with a life-line of books - and I have sailed ever since. Poorly, I know, but with alot of knowledge that is my own.

The heart of my argument is that I grow both wary and weary of the proliferation of gated communities in this country. Physical walls are economic walls are mental walls are walls in the mind, in the person and the public. Is there a way to exist between the high and the low? So often we are aiming to bring down the high or bring up the low, and perhaps it is an ill-advised gypsy-trait in myself that is suspicious of such purposes because it is an exercise of power. Am I a socialist at heart? Or... gasp, communist? Sometimes I suspect the secret goal of my existence is simply to avoid being pinned down - forever, a jester to the grave.

Leaving you, dear reader, with a passage from Ursula Le Guin's The Dispossessed :

With the myth of the State out of the way, the real mutuality and reciprocity of society and individual became clear. Sacrifice might be demanded of the individual, but never compromise: for, though only the society could give security and stability, only the individual, the person, had the power of moral choice - the power of change, the essential function of life. The Odonian society was conceived as a permanent revolution, and revolution begins in the thinking mind.


This post dedicated to E.H. - If they caught us last night - kanasai. You're sick, no, YOU! YOU ARE SICK.  ¶ 10:50 AM 5 comments

  I want I need I will... oops! Fell over. @ Betta Bi-polar Strong desire to douse myself in alchohol until every single pore reeks of it and my liver dances in my side like a ferret on drugs. Must. Get. Drunk. NOW. Blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

This is worse than cake. Oh so much worse. Bring back the cake. CAAAKE. Sob.

Must make loud noises that have no inherent meaning but are able to convey full extent of existential (and financial) angst. MEEEWWW. MEOOORRRRRRR. RAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. FUCCK.

Corn. I want corn. Steamed corn. OKAY? And a rubber bouncy ball. Not the dorky ones with the plain colors. One with toy suspended in it. And glitter. Preferably the toy is a ship.

I want bubble tea. Apple Mango flavor.

I want breakfast foods.

I want dance class. Weep. Weep like a willow. WWWEEEEP.

Maybe cigarette.

Ooooohhhh. Am in parents house. They have booze. See ya later fornicator!

Disclaimer : Please ignore this post.

Labels: sweet misery

  ¶ 8:27 PM 0 comments

  Thoughts on Installation Art in terms of : STATISTICS
300 square metres scaffold netting. 2000 metres green nylon rope. 75 stainless steel grommets. 10 ladders. Approx. 150 cable clips. Installed over 48 hours. Approx. total construction and preparation time of 3 months (not including conception).


HUMAN RESOURCE
23 assistants and helpers


DE-INSTALLATION OF WORK
2 pairs of scissors and 10 minutes
*Go here to see it when up






EPHEMERALITY
The process of taking it down is as deeply satisfying as putting it up. The wreckage has a reckless and poignant quality, with an edge of hysterical laughter creeping in the edges: this, the source of so much sweat and worry - in the end, nothing. Documentation in a faded way in images. Only the vague experience of it, held in memory by people who have seen it, who had a hand it making it, touched it at certain edges and angles. For myself, no sense at all of preciousness, in fact, I am light. As happy in the destruction as construction (and in a sick way, maybe even happier), because this is the natural course of things. The same afternoon, the space was used for a cocktail reception.


LABOUR
For what? Outside E.H.'s attic where I sewed most of the sails, I could see a house being built. Construction workers grow dark in the midday sun - mixing concrete, laying concrete, drilling, welding, bending, pouring, lifting, knocking, smoking, eating, drinking. I do the same thing concurrently - sewing, pinning, folding, cutting, smoking, eating, drinking. In the end we are trying to build a thing that we can see. But the thing has a different use. A house has a fixed value, and a house may be used to live in. You cannot live in an installation. What do we use it for then? Is the difference in the product as a result of the difference in our labour? Hence value? Hence access? How am I different from a construction worker?


FAVORITE REACTION
A dark little Indonesian man works at the High Commission in building maintence. He spent two years on the coast of Melaka, building buildings. He described himself as Orang Laut, i.e. 'Saya orang laut, mesti taulah' ('I am a person of the sea, of course I can tell'). For him, the shores are the mountains (or rather gunung berapi/volcano), the sails are the fishing nets, the concrete is the sea. I am questioned, as a KL person, how and why I should talk about ships and the ocean, since there is no such thing in the city. I replied that this is a city ocean, and I'm lost. He called me 'lang lui' (pretty), which is always nice.


AUDIENCE
Still have immense trouble describing what I do when people here (KL) ask 'what do you do'. 'Sculpture', I find, satisfies both myself and them. I flirt with 'set design, but not really, but something like it', but I think... ok, no. Installation is sculpture because sculpture is material, space. Installation is an exploded sculpture. Installation is an exploded planet, in which one planet has exploded to create many planets, which as a whole, is another universe.


BEUYS
If I make objects, I think of Marcel Duchamp, if I make installations, I think of Joseph Beuys. Thought as a form of sculpture, sculpture as a form of action.

"My objects are to be seen as stimulants for the transformation of the idea of sculpture. . . or of art in general. They should provoke thoughts about what sculpture can be and how the concept of sculpting can be extended to the invisible materials used by everyone.

THINKING FORMS--how we mold our thoughts or
SPOKEN FORMS--how we shape our thoughts into words or
SOCIAL SCULPTURE--how we mold and shape the world in which we live:
SCULPTURE AS AN EVOLUTIONARY PROCESS; EVERYONE IS AN ARTIST.

That is why the nature of my sculpture is not fixed and finished, processes continue in most of them: chemical reactions, fermentations, color changes, decay, drying up. Everything is in a state of change."

-from Carin Kuoni, ed., Energy Plan for the Western Man: Joseph Beuys in America (New York: Four Walls Eight Windows, 1990), 19.


MONTIEN BOONMA
I wish I could have met him.


MALAYSIAN ART (More thought and examples needed here, but am running out of steam)
'Installation' is becoming ubiquitous, but for all the wrong reasons. There is a proliferation of the form, but not an increase in quality of conception or execution. We use installation, yet we do not think about it. It has become too convenient, objects hung in space. Conversely there is a sort of backlash, in which it is referred to in a derogatory manner as 'installation bullshit' (source : personal conversation with Dr. Jolly Koh, Malaysian abstract expressionist painter).

Labels: art

  ¶ 4:34 PM 1 comments

  Virtual crush on senior blogger Dr Liew turns me on on on.

Tee
Hee.

http://www.drliew.net/

Labels: men

  ¶ 11:15 AM 0 comments

  Sail Sale I hide the name
for a languid state
but some winds blow
as if they know
what we say
in the dead of night
as I lay you
out of sight
beside me

I build a tale
inside a well
that grows so pale
for lack of light
and it turns and it turns
into a moon
as I lay it out
in the dead of night
beside me

The wind wants a sail
built from a tale
and I sell a secret
that I cannot tell

Labels: B.A.P.

  ¶ 6:31 PM 1 comments

  'Oh you look much better in real life' Chu Yuan (a fellow artist who divides her time between KL, Singapore and Myanmar) has written a review of my show Fourth World for kakiseni.com. http://www.kakiseni.com/articles/reviews/MDg2Nw.html will get ya there.

It is damn well written, if I do say so myself. She refers to my work as 'weak' in several places - mostly to do with aspects of decorativeness, so do not for a moment think that it is a fawning piece of flattery. The fragile artist ego flinches instinctively, of course, but deep down it too appreciates writing which is thoughtful and critical.

In a related aside, please remind me in the future to disallow any publication of photos of my person that are not taken by ME. I know this is a very prima donna thing to do, but really, when you are as pathetically unphotogenic as I am, you would do the same. For proof, please turn to StarMag section of today's Sunday Star. It is coverage of Fourth World with a huge picture of my person squatting down, looking constipated and fondling my own installation. Warning : very unattractive.

I know for a fact that Christo (he of the wrapping buildings, and most recently, The Gates in New York's Central Park) only ever allows one photographer to take his picture. This slightly OCD thing is as a result of a bungled publicity shot in which Annie Leibowitz photographed him cocooned in plastic like a caterpillar. According to his wife and collaborator, Jeanne-Claude, they almost divorced over the affair.

Then again he is Christo and I am Betta. Oh how many years of looking stupid must I endure until I my eccentricities can likewise come to be tolerated as the vagaries of a genius? 10? 20? NEVER?  ¶ 1:59 PM 5 comments

  Light and loose A kind soul left some money in Betta's pocket and she is running out to buy a new book, although some new clothes to replace the holey ones are probably more pressing articles. And cake! A great old slice of fruit cake with lemon cream icing.

Such a pretty morning today - one to rival paintings for the light. It is a day for ideas, a day when random lines of prose and poetry flit in and out of one's mind like old friends dropping by. A knot inside the mind seems to be set loose for the moment. I hope it lasts.

Future plans (for my own referrence as I cannot for the life of me locate a pen and paper. This will be deleted shortly):

A set of textual kaleidoscopes. Instead of colored beads and confetti, the scopes will be filled with words cut from certain texts. Not sure what text yet. It is possible that this work will deal to some extent with the Malaysia's current high censorship season. The objects themselves will be perfectly crafted out of stained local hardwoods - little understated boxes, like a rich man's cigar case.

A sail-map puzzle. A mini set of ship's sails cast out of concrete, polished and smoothed to a high degree. The set is printed with a map to find a personal treasure buried somewhere in the heart of KL. And to assemble the map one must know the right formation of the sails. Conversely, if one knows the map, one may figure out the sail formation. A two-fold puzzle according to what one is looking for and the knowledge that one has. The map is housed in a box with a hinged glass lid, again, beautifully crafted.

A ship's bones - the long flat slats of a ship's hull - made out of paper. Printed with a text, which act like the grain of wood. Floated down a river. Collected at the end of its journey, dried out in the sun, placed on the floor of a gallery/space. Viewers walk amongst the bones, peel of a sheet of paper from each one to take it home...  ¶ 2:05 PM 2 comments

  Cake warrior Last night at 1am I was assailed, ASSAILED, dear reader, by unquenchable cravings for cake. Yes, cake. I tried to think of other things, smoked 2 or 3 cigarettes, all in vain. 'Lemon gateau, lemon gateau, lemon gateau' - I wanted to huddle in a corner until it went away. You must understand that my appetite has really dwindled into a pathetic nothing, therefore to crave any sort of food for pleasure is a rare and panic-inducing occurance.

I did not find any cake however. KL is cakeless in the morning, it is one of the city's major flaws. (Well, it WAS an ungodly hour, but still...) But! But! But! I did find hot waffles. And I ate it and I ate it. It was great. I went to bed a little after 3am, a greasy self-satisfied smirk on my face.

CAKE.  ¶ 5:53 PM 0 comments

  Last call for Fourth World This show is shorter than usual and comes down this Monday, 15 May. Go see while you can! It is closed this Friday for Wesak Day and not open over the weekend. That leaves... hmmm, tomorrow and Monday morning. Opening hours 8.30am - 4.30pm.

Ah well, if you missed it, I finally uploaded new images to the blog site. http://4ourthworld.blogspot.com. Go on, click. You know you want to.

xoxo,
Betta Schemetta

Labels: art

  ¶ 5:10 PM 2 comments

  Some exploratory musings upon prostitution Update: I think you'll find, Betta, that it's 'shepherd', not 'shepard'. Love from the Blogspot Spelling Fairie.

In terms of moral acceptability? At what point does a certain act become 'wrong', or immoral? And when one says immoral, do we really mean it as a blanket term for impure, unchaste, slutty, dirty, cheap?

Once a friend had written on his jeans in a red pen 'Take away the shepard and the sheep shall be scattered'. I remember reading it as 'Take away the shepard and the sheep shall be free'. I had gotten the last word wrong. It is unsettling to think that all rules, all standards, all those checkpoints with which we think we know who we are - are as mutable as the sea. One strays from the path, heart in mouth, full of fear, wandering into nightmare and sunshine, only to discover... there is no path but the one you make for yourself.

Then again perhaps all paths were laid out long ago, and we tread them with little choice in the matter - it is a borrowed journey, and it doesn't do to take it too seriously. A man is a man is a man is a man. And a woman can be like a man, and yet she is not.

Does a high degree of physical courage also equate moral courage? What is moral courage? And upon what grounds do we test it. Conrad once wrote that the sea may prove the true measure of a man. These days, people no longer speak of courage. As a race I believe we come to see ourselves as inherently cowardly, mercenary. Acts of 'goodness' or 'heroism' are broadcast across a media spectrum, and that is how we come to experience 'courage'. But the world is messy now, it no longer asks from us a thing like courage - because it knows the enemy is not an other, not a dark evil thing to fight against. It is not that we are not brave, it is rather we do not know how to be so, any more.

If I stand in front of a line of fire to save your life, does that make me brave? Perhaps there is only an act of bravery, and it doesn't last longer than a moment. For the situation surrounding this act could be a miserable, squalorous one.

To be brave does not mean to be good. A brave man is not necessarily a good man, likewise a woman, of course. Goodness is a definition without complexity. But sometimes one longs for that simplicity. Yet a proud and impatient nature cannot sustain it - and one veers towards self-destruction like a bee to honey. Not for any thing or because of any thing but for the insatiable, infuriating, insufferable love of Seeing. What. Will. Happen.

Labels: men, money

  ¶ 3:45 PM 1 comments

  Legless I know a man
Who keeps a cage
He's the pike of the lake
And doesn't age
I know a man
Who keeps his teeth
He's a shark in a cave
And doesn't leave
I know a man
Who waits his while
And he waits and he waits
With a smile
Now it doesn't do to worry
Because you know
When you're hungry
You'll go get some meat
And when you're legless
You'll just walk on borrowed feet
Now it wouldn't hurt to hurry
Because you know
When he's hungry
He'll come get some meat
And when he's legless
You should worry about your feet

Labels: B.A.P.

  ¶ 2:18 PM 0 comments

  BETTA_REVEALED.COM


02 : Me talking with someone and trying desperately not to blend into my own installation!

03 : The mateys!

04 and 05 : Glamour shots of mine very own name in print. Surely Lucifer himself hath not half the vanity I do!

  ¶ 9:47 PM 0 comments

  Reminder To bring a ball of string before entering the labyrinth  ¶ 6:40 PM 0 comments

  Unfinished Fear to tread in places
That have no words
No name for the spaces
Or lines on the world
Landing in a plain chart
Making a mark with my hand
And no wonder that the heart
Is a wasteland
A twirling pen
Spins you and me
A poor meagre pen
And so much sea

Labels: B.A.P.

  ¶ 10:20 PM 0 comments

  Monkey Mad monkey
Mischivious monkey
Maladorous monkey
Mercurial monkey
Messy monkey
Material monkey
Metaphorical monkey
Metaphysical monkey
Money monkey
My monkey
Masculine monkey
Mercator monkey
MMMMonkey

Labels: B.A.P.

  ¶ 9:41 PM 0 comments