We can't leave; it's the last road open

Wikipedia: Theatre of Cruelty

Sun, 16 Dec 2007 07:23:28 GMT

Watch what you say or
They'll be calling you a radical,
Liberal, fanatical, a criminal.

Won't you sign up your name?
We'd like to feel you're acceptable,
Respectable, presentable, a vegetable...

They call it cruelty. Not the sadism that accompanies the knowing infliction of pain and suffering. Not the heartless indifference that numbs those purposefully causing distress. They do not mean it in the usual sense of the word – the mournful death-keening, helplessly accusing, ugly, violent sense. It is not the same, but it is still physical, mental, torturous. They mean it is cruel to reveal truth.

There are some who preach that our perceptions are colored and clouded. That we exist in a constant dream-state, on secondary images of how things are, and that this false reality shrouds what we do not want to acknowledge. A thousand worlds created and destroyed in our minds, a thousand interpretations of hard fact skewed and skewered when subjectivity is a sin.

Bias is inescapable and it taints a haloed and pure objective point-of-view. There is nothing to be done about this but to amp up the skepticism, the cynicism, the pragmatism. Scientific methods hammered and etched raw into every new brain, soft and unmolded. Every year. Every one. Repeat repeat repeat.

Only some dreams ought to come true.

We look to our artists and writers and musicians, our painters and poets, to shape our comprehension into neat little boxes, to reword reality. To sugar-coat our bitter impossibles or uncover our half-burried miracles. We ask them to create the lies we need, to shield us from the truths that are also their workings, to show us who we want to be and tell us it is who we are. Give us delusion and denial and all we need to stay sane! But there is a need to shatter and break. Sometimes, what we need is to have our illusions torn apart, daily masks shredded to scrapes of junk. We have to brandish dreamy abstract in the open air until it dissipates, too frail, too fragile to stand even the harsh lights of an examiner’s cold steel table. We will risk our sanity for what is right and do what we must while we still can. They call it cruelty. It can be cruel.

Thu, 13 Sep 2007 05:39:49 GMT

(OH NOEZ!)
ERROR ERROR ERROR

UNABLE TO ACCESS PROFILE PAGE
(HOLD YOUR HORSES THERE, DUDE)

((Hey, hey, hey! Is your refridgerator running? Oh, it is?!))
((THEN YOU'D BETTER GO CATCH IT!!! 8D ))

... Um, this bit isn't... done.. yet? :D;;;

Glass Ceiling

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 04:53:49 GMT

Glass Ceiling
by Metric

Only know what I'm told, only know what I'm told
Fast asleep daydreaming
Start to push, break your own glass ceiling
Can't count, can't catch the pieces falling

Who let it end up on the ground
How am I gonna know you're letting me down
How did I end up on the ground

Only do what I'm told, only do what I'm told
Last to leave cold calling
You're gonna lose your arms, amputate plasticine
There's no knight in silver armor shining

Who let it end up on the ground
How am I gonna know I'm letting you down
Who let it end up on the ground
How did he end up on the ground
Face down on the ground

Only go where I'm told, only know what I'm told
Inch to inches crowding
We can't leave, it's the last road open
Every speed on our knees is crawling

Change

Sun, 09 Sep 2007 23:22:45 GMT

Change
by Sara Teasdale

Remember me as I was then;
Turn from me now, but always see
The laughing shadowy girl who stood
At midnight by the flowering tree,
With eyes that love had made as bright
As the trembling stars of the summer night.

Turn from me now, but always hear
The muted laughter in the dew
Of that one year of youth we had,
The only youth we ever knew --
Turn from me now, or you will see
What other years have done to me.

Macbeth

Sat, 08 Sep 2007 03:28:52 GMT

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?: William Shakespeare, "Macbeth", Act 2 scene 1