It ain't pretty

I've been away again, this time for three days to cover an arts festival up in the city. Long days that bled into the nights. I saw a lot of performance art, painting, sculpture, and artists. A few friends as well, but for the most part I was left to my own devices, which means that when I was away from the art I sat outside of a bar, had a smoke, a scotch and coffee, all to work up the motivation to go back to my hotel room to write, get a few hours of sleep, write some more and then go out and see more art.

I ain't complaining, but it was exhausting.

I managed to knock out a short essay about one performance I saw. You ain't gonna like it. Or you might. Not quite sure how it's going to float, but it's out there.

Now, I can imagine that instead of clicking on the link and reading the essay before you continue to read this here blog, and knowing that all of you have a screen large enough to see what follows this paragraph, you're going to wonder what the hell is going on.

This young woman is self-flagellating with a home made cat o' nine tails. The whip has a contact microphone embedded in it. What you can't see is that she has another mic in her mouth and fake menstrual blood in the crotch of her shorts. I will review this performance, so I will spare you commentary at this point. I can't say that I will be kind. Generous, yes; kind, no.

And I will ask you to imagine my mood after having seen this bit one night after having seen the performance I wrote about.