It is opening night and my brains are boiled within my skull. You see, the lizard-like Slammerkin are swarming behind the walls at RMIT, transmitting their jabbering voices into my head. Unfortunately, Lynne has purchased a fat old wine cask, bursting with vile fluids, for Stephano to heft on stage in place of a hogshead - and very little telepathic effort was required by the Slammerkin to force me to the teat of that poisonous bladder.
I speak of the Spores and their dire evil, but during the comfortable intervals, when their influence is marginal, often the Slammerkin will come forth with insidious mind speech, creeping red miasmas and invisible beams of dehydrating orgones. Perhaps I will wear a defensive foil cap tonight. I need to do something, as this miserable lexia hangover has all but incapacitated me.
Jenny and Polly are home and we are a family again. Jenny is bubbling, sleepless and proud of her war efforts - as she deserves to be.
Also, I am becoming increasing concerned for the welfare of Posh Spice. Yesterday I saw her image in the MX, posing as stiff and as inhumanly thin as a barbie doll beside the other Spice Girls, who seemed mature, womanly and who were smiling, rather than pouting. Posh is an enigma. Can a human being truly be as devoid of personality as this woman seems to be? I wonder if there is some fragile nugget of character confined somewhere in there, behind the expensively maintained skull?
Could she have a conversation that stretched beyond furniture, beauty products and money? Or is she - as the evidence suggests - a replicant - your basic pleasure model - who has somehow made her way to earth from the Outer Colonies?
I was told an astonishing story this morning. Apparently Posh was photographed from above at one of her poor husband's soccer matches and a bald patch was noticed [and magnified, and scrutinised] at the back of her head. This is a sure sign of anorexia, I believe, but Posh's response was to fly swiftly to Switzerland, or somewhere equivalent, and have some kind of hair piece put in place. This astounds me. The woman is nothing but an image. An ambulatory manniquin. One tiny imperfection and she whips into emergency mode, calling up her strike team and burning carbon across the Atlantic. No matter that it is a symptom of illness. No concern at resources wasted on a thing that, in essence, is of absolutely no significance whatsoever.
I speak of the Spores and their dire evil, but during the comfortable intervals, when their influence is marginal, often the Slammerkin will come forth with insidious mind speech, creeping red miasmas and invisible beams of dehydrating orgones. Perhaps I will wear a defensive foil cap tonight. I need to do something, as this miserable lexia hangover has all but incapacitated me.
Jenny and Polly are home and we are a family again. Jenny is bubbling, sleepless and proud of her war efforts - as she deserves to be.
Also, I am becoming increasing concerned for the welfare of Posh Spice. Yesterday I saw her image in the MX, posing as stiff and as inhumanly thin as a barbie doll beside the other Spice Girls, who seemed mature, womanly and who were smiling, rather than pouting. Posh is an enigma. Can a human being truly be as devoid of personality as this woman seems to be? I wonder if there is some fragile nugget of character confined somewhere in there, behind the expensively maintained skull?
Could she have a conversation that stretched beyond furniture, beauty products and money? Or is she - as the evidence suggests - a replicant - your basic pleasure model - who has somehow made her way to earth from the Outer Colonies?
I was told an astonishing story this morning. Apparently Posh was photographed from above at one of her poor husband's soccer matches and a bald patch was noticed [and magnified, and scrutinised] at the back of her head. This is a sure sign of anorexia, I believe, but Posh's response was to fly swiftly to Switzerland, or somewhere equivalent, and have some kind of hair piece put in place. This astounds me. The woman is nothing but an image. An ambulatory manniquin. One tiny imperfection and she whips into emergency mode, calling up her strike team and burning carbon across the Atlantic. No matter that it is a symptom of illness. No concern at resources wasted on a thing that, in essence, is of absolutely no significance whatsoever.
1 comment:
Good luck with the play Sam, don't worry, it'll get easier each night, I'm sure! (but what do I know???)
You made me laugh with your great concern over Posh...eeek what a sad horror she is, and a bald patch to boot! Can she actually sing or dance or do anything??????
Take care
Love Amanda
Post a Comment