Livinghigh: Performing Arts 1o1
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Livinghigh was here at 12:11 PM /



Performing Arts 1o1

There's a song from the golden oldies age that I find really beautiful, it goes like "Yes! I'm the great Pretender.... etc etc". I have no idea who it's by, or what year it was released, but I love the tune and I love the lyrics. It's all about that little discipline we had when we were in school, called the Performing Arts. How well do you perform before an audience? I think I do pretty well, myself.

It could be for anything. For one, some people think I hide my grief. Some people think I should never grieve, or be silent, or be serious. They're so used to see me laughing and jumping around, playing the fool. The court jester, perhaps? One friend told me, I've never been seen (by her) in a silent, studious moment. I find that ridiculous. I find myself ridiculous at times. There was this blog entry I'd read some time back, where this woman claimed, because she was always the happy-go-lucky kind, people refused to take her opinions seriously. I'm not drawing any parallels with myself - it's just a thought.

About the Performing Arts. Do you add that extra bit of vigour in your brandishes, when you know someone's watching, and you have a part to play. (Shakespeare was a smart old fag, I think.) Do you storm out with that extra bit of haughteur when you know that an Emmy is in the offing? I've never acted, but I'm sure I'd be great at it. I'm sure I could deliver a performance of a lifetime. That's because I've done it so many times already in my life. I act, I play, I laugh, I mourn, I lament, I juggle, I act.

Yes, I'm in a grey mood. Yes, I wrote something new-cum-old, something fished out of the attic and presented with the aid of open-heart surgery. It's called The Performance. Take a gander, and tell me, if it's any good:

He nodded, even though she could not see him. She was still looking straight out through the verandah, at the night, where a lone mango tree burst out from the grassy yard, and its leaves peeked in through at her bedroom, like a thousand little prying eyes that demanded merriment and amusement. He wondered whether they were amused now, and a smile crinkle at the corners of his mouth for some reason. "I know," he breathed softly, and he wondered if he heard her.

Mirror Mirror #17: I'm not really impressed with my school life. I still maintain contacts actively with only one friend from school. The rest are like a flock of birds flying south for the winter. I don't think I care much for any of them, but I will say cheese and back-slap and do all the silly things that boys who have grown up together do.


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