Happy birthday weixian =)

Anyway I must blog down this scene at rouge.

Was around 10:30 I think, and they started to have this poetry recital in the middle of the club. So the hiphop music toned down, and this really pretty woman, dressed in a shimmering gold top and faded jeans, took the podium. She was carefree in her opening words: "Hello I came all the way from LA, can I have a little more applause?"

And then out came her poems. Her poems weren't the intelligent, short kinds that we're used to doing PC on. They were long, bordering on rambling epics. But they were heartfelt. Her images were beautiful, of playing scales like the rainbow, of God's smile in a clothes line. I remember closing my eyes in the middle of her poem on God and just smiling. No intelligent punchlines, no ending on a climax as purvis advocates.

It was not so much the poems. It was her, her gestures, her voice. She wanted to communicate the beautiful world she saw, to the dark club seething with savage energy. It was her hapless futility that captured my mind.

Did she know what she was doing? Did she? Here was a lady, a woman filled with an appetite for life, someone who saw the brilliance in colours and the vigour in movement. What was she doing, wearing the shimmering gold bareback top, standing on a podium that would later be filled with sweaty bodies, reciting poetry through speakers that five minutes ago blared bass and sex?

It was tragic. I don't care about the others who came after her, their poems sounded more like rap, it was in synch with the club. They talked of love, freedom, and other ideals in fashion. But here was a woman, the spotlight giving her an almost angelic halo, reciting poetry to nothing more than pretentious applause. Mid-poem she made eye-contact. I looked away. How many others looked away that night, before she found sincerity to hold her gaze?