siwic day 10 – you can sleep when you’re dead

I’m not gonna say much about Saturday night now that various :cough: choreographers from SiWiC – who shall remain unnamed – have discovered my odious abuse of the English language here, and are quoting it back at me over coffee before class. The bitter end was not at 5am when I fell into bed loaded on cheap Swiss beer. The rumours are all defamatory and wholly scurrilous (which is not to contest their veracity). I was not as loaded as some dancers though, who do not need the embarrassment of the photos I am in possession of, so today shall remain all words and no content.

There is something about Martha Graham which is like suckling the withered tits of a geriatric hag. It’s not something most people are prone to engage in by choice, though there is no accounting for taste. After two years of failing in the angst-and-contractions field at VCA I need a shot of Seconal if I unwittingly find myself grimacing on the floor with my stomach rupturing, which is precisely where I found myself yesterday morning. It was only the brave humour of 25 dancers and a quick exit while everyone’s heads were buried up their rigid arses that saved me from certain permanent disfigurement.

The day was ruined though, or at least that’s my excuse. More likely is three days of getting trashed every night was subtly reminding me of my own mortality. Today’s Tasks: a holocaust of conflicting emotions which can be reduced with no loss of comprehension to ‘sex and death’. Yes, everybody’s favourite themes and mine, replete with boundless possibilities for getting roomfuls of dancers naked and slobbering over each other. Shame I was inhabiting the room for talentless hacks, and could barely raise my still quivering and spasming arse off the slightly cool floor.

The dancers did slobber and shed their apparel, laugh politely at my poor humour, and thoroughly enjoy watching Peter Jackson’s ode to splattering brains, Bad Taste and Jesus Franco’s ‘Supernatural Sexual Thriller’ Venus in Furs. Some days are best spent not trying to fight the pitiless thrall of inertia.

Martin watched Pulp Fiction on Sunday. Which meant Erik and Camillia thought they were in the Gimp Scene pounding the ass of Tom, while Camillia, who is sweetness and light recited the story of the first time she has her period, and how happy she was. Tom was also very happy naked and taped up tight in the chair. Very, very happy.