Betta Under The Radar
A broken on-line papier machine
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
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. ¶ 3:45 PM 1 comments
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. ¶ 3:45 PM 1 comments
Monday, December 12, 2005
Hand to Mouth
When one's bank account dwindles, it becomes a spectacle very like a marathon. It is all about speed, and endurance. The speed with which each unit of 5 bucks is drawn and quartered, rationed, held on to as long as possible and then finally, with some desperate sort of relief, spent.
As events approach an imagined finish line, i.e $0.00, there are stages. There is a bitter, bitter type of anger which manifests itself in general resentment towards the government, one's parents, friends who are richer, the deplorable condition of the local art scene, the goddamn motherfucking cocksucking college who won't give me my cheque, and so on. I would proscribe this as a sickness of mind that eats away at your self-confidence until you don't know who you are, only that you can only think of one thing: money.
And then one encounters a period of extreme fatigue. This a paralysis that kills all desire. There is no longer a sense of urgency. No hunger. At this point, life is percieved as a strange and abstract marathon race. But having no currency, one does not qualify, dropping instead gently to the bottom like sediment, while the race floats hazy and indistinct above. My experiences of this condition are mere flirtations. Malaysia is a class society. There are a great many types of races existing like parallel worlds, never touching each other.
But we always hope. Just like a runner, one always overcomes the fatigue. In a snap, you are back, with the wind ringing in your ears. You're running. Not for the race, but because nothing can hold you back. Running because running is awesome, and movement was just what you were made for. And you can break free, running in straight lines perpendicular to all the horizontal racing tracks of society.
And then you don't even care about the cheque. And that's when it comes.
As events approach an imagined finish line, i.e $0.00, there are stages. There is a bitter, bitter type of anger which manifests itself in general resentment towards the government, one's parents, friends who are richer, the deplorable condition of the local art scene, the goddamn motherfucking cocksucking college who won't give me my cheque, and so on. I would proscribe this as a sickness of mind that eats away at your self-confidence until you don't know who you are, only that you can only think of one thing: money.
And then one encounters a period of extreme fatigue. This a paralysis that kills all desire. There is no longer a sense of urgency. No hunger. At this point, life is percieved as a strange and abstract marathon race. But having no currency, one does not qualify, dropping instead gently to the bottom like sediment, while the race floats hazy and indistinct above. My experiences of this condition are mere flirtations. Malaysia is a class society. There are a great many types of races existing like parallel worlds, never touching each other.
But we always hope. Just like a runner, one always overcomes the fatigue. In a snap, you are back, with the wind ringing in your ears. You're running. Not for the race, but because nothing can hold you back. Running because running is awesome, and movement was just what you were made for. And you can break free, running in straight lines perpendicular to all the horizontal racing tracks of society.
And then you don't even care about the cheque. And that's when it comes.
Labels: money
¶ 10:42 PM 0 comments
