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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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So that genetics lab sounds really hi tech compared with everything else. Supervillain lair?

It was surprisingly high tech, and had backup generators in case of power outage (which happened twice while we were there). I was invited to come back and work there after I graduate.

It sounds like you should for the food alone!


So that genetics lab sounds really hi tech compared with everything else. Supervillain lair?

The wiley bastard pulled it off, I see.   :lulz:

I'm still alive.  Just writing a lot, and procrastinating a lot.  Mostly procrastinating.  Carry on!

Hey there, Hoops, I was just wondering where you were, but not posting about it.

If I post about it, it makes the humanity inside me that I am trying to kill even stronger.     :)

It would make a truly amazing bit of satire. Does PIV just stand for Penis In Vagina? Because L-O-L.

The subtext is delicious on a number of levels.

Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / Re: Source code
« on: March 25, 2015, 02:14:54 am »

If I'm still alive in the morning, I'm checking myself into the hospital.  This is no ordinary flu.  I've been through 4 IV bags today, and I'm still dehydrated, on account of my ass is sort of like Niagara Falls, only with less color in the water.

I realize that this might be more information than you wanted.  But if I die, I want you to remember me a certain way.


You phrased that beautifully but in seriousness I hope you feel better soon.

Holy crap dude. No other injuries besides stiffness I take it?

I'm in the Singapore airport, and my feet hurt.

I will be here until 8:50 am. I think it's currently somewhere around three.

Nigel lands in Singapore, Lee Kuan Yew dies shortly after.

91 is awfully old to be Nigel'd.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Speak No More
« on: March 22, 2015, 02:38:01 am »
You liked it, I assume.

I'm going back next weekend.

Did you catch the orgy scene?

I didn't! Damn. I feel like I missed a lot.

I did like it. I think it says a lot though how much my thought process focused on the audience. We could be pretty distracting. When an actor is running down the stairs and 20 masks are clustering after it's hard to get lost in the story.

The nurse really struck me as a character. I couldn't place her overall but it seems like she was subtly feeding a few people, what, opium?

I might do it again in the future. Definitely check back both about your different experience and the change between a regular show and the New Year's Eve one. We didn't get robes and I think they would contribute well to anonymity. I found plaid shirts a little jarring in that environment.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Speak No More
« on: March 21, 2015, 04:08:15 pm »
The audience is part of the show.

Haha, I thought that, when I was given my mask and when a pretty little actress made hard, fearless eye contact with me. I'm a small part, a phantom voyeur that they know is always there and that deeply unnerves them. The sordid life of nobility is mine to absorb, mine and the rest of the phantoms. We have power here, and freedom, and do we float from padded cell to witches' hut or do we see the beautiful players at their most vulnerable but wait there are so many of us I can't find a moment alone and the white faces line every action and the players stride through throngs of packed ghosts.

The audience is in the way.

I thought very briefly they played just for me, at times, stumbling down corridors and turning mirrors away from themselves, slamming them against the wall. But I see only the lead up to a larger thing in a room of blank white faces. Their posture bothers me, slouching or lounging so casually in a such a deliberate setting their juxtaposition is jarring. They are not creatures of flesh but they struggle for the best view. Here another player enters the scene and the phantoms part like mist and the ones who don't are waved away, gently but firmly.

The audience is not in the way.

We are neither part nor annoyance we are just there, blank staring faces in a crowd. We follow lights and sounds, we peer over balconies and through windows for a glimpse of the real. We cannot hear true words or music only distorted hints of them, rising and falling and drowning each other out, recurring as a scene plays out again or leading us away to another about to start. We cannot speak. Our world subtly funnels us, pushes us as much as the players might, disregards us because

the audience does not matter at all.

Everything happens whether we are there or not, and so many of us try to follow but it is fast and while we follow one player so many others play elsewhere. A gruesome scene unfolds, a violent and tragic one and there is nothing we can do to stop it, not one of us or four dozen. We are flesh but smoke and featureless nothings with eyes. We do not matter at all.

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