I was thinking the other day how you never hear about people spontaneously combusting anymore. Has it fallen out of fashion? If so, when did this happen?
Maybe I’m wearing rose-tinted glasses but when I was younger, this sort of thing used to happen all the time. It would be a normal Saturday afternoon, slightly overcast, a bit like yesterday, and WHOOSH! – Aunt Jean has just gone up in a ball of flame on her way to Safeway, the sound of flesh crackling on her prone, smoking body; clothes slumping from her smouldering form in heaps of black ash. I used to like it as a statement. The literal interpretation of ‘Better to burn out than fade away’. Can’t help but admire it.
Oh yeah, blogging. Update: have I been performing? Yes, I’ve been performing. I’ve been having fun feeding whipped cream to stout blokes from Yorkshire and letting lovely ladies grip my flexed bicpes. I’ve been banging the drums to David Bowie (technically not part of my recent performance, but fuck it, it was fun) and been spitting my socks into people’s laps. I’ll elaborate on all of these teases at a later date, when I’ve got a higher tolerance for navel-gazing reflections on ‘process’.
I was also thinking the other day about how my tiger is not male, or female, or hermaphroditic: it’s just energy – an energy that I want to be so present in the room that its both exhilarating and terrifying for all of us.
Irascu. Scuria. Ruscia.