Swifty Guestblogs His Secrets In Minishorts’ Blog
Oct 21, 2005 in General
Vincent says: Today's self invited nut is Swifty (short for a rather pretentious 'Eliar Swiftfire'). This young filmmaker blogs about himself, film, literature, himself and all other kinds of uncategorizable stuff including video clips by himself. Oh, did I mention that this super cool breath-of-fresh-air narcisstic blogger talks a lot about himself? In today's post, Swifty talks about…well, himself. No shit.
Hello all,
This is Edmund Yeo, but most of you know me as Swifty, or the Great Swifty, or 'my most darling Swifty' or 'father of my baby, Swifty' and the list goes on and on. I am very very flattered to be guestblogging here, after all, one as insignificant as I is unworthy of such honour. I am, after all, just a humble writer filmmaker/university student inexperienced in the ways of life.
Contrary to how I was portrayed here by Vincent, I am very humble and modest. I'm perfectly capable of admitting my own flaws, which is being too flawless. I mean, seriously, if I were as narcissistic as I'm constantly being accused of, I would take this opportunity to do what FireAngel did by posting a photo of mine like this:
Or even to exploit this opportunity by whoring my gwailo guestblogger Justin's poem about categorical thinking like this:
Categorical Thinking by Justin Cartaginese
I dream sometimes a naked Earth
Bare its black silken space.
Living beside stones, certain we can die
and they cannot - we allow
some birds to hover and others to fly.
This the talent of our race
Our wastes offend the naturemother
The mother we ourselves envision
Our saints condemn the love of other:
The tryst of trees and television-
Those selfsame saints assigned the 'I'
who guard the biologic stage:
Our saints whose alphabets deny
that prison's packed on printed page
With cause-effect and former-latter
A child's reading book benumbs
we showed that energy is matter
and yet we say "becomes"
And daily speeches seldom strive
towards elusive lexic lumen:
you read this certain that you live
and certain you are human.
So certain of discursive worth
we verbal inmates cannot trace
those lineaments lasting past our birth:
the unborn father-mother face.
But bare its black silken space
I dream sometimes a naked Earth.
Hell, I'm not even going to ask you all to click this link and view my short film, Forced Labour, a slick-looking gangster tale of death and redemption I made with merely a simple camcorder because I am quite incapable of shameless self-promotions. Really.
Then what shall I tell you in this entry? When this is quite possibly the one and only time I'm ever going to post here? Let's see…
I was forced into a katana duel to the death with a ruthless midget assassin last night, a duel that lasted for hours before I very impressively pulled out a gun and blew that little bastard's brains out, countless other midget assassins emerged from their hiding places to kneel before me in reverence, praising my greatness and offering a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be their master, I declined modestly, a gesture that moved all of them to tears because of my unexpected modesty. Since then, they promised to build me a shrine of made of pure gold. I guess this means that I don't have to battle assassins everynight anymore.
There was also this one time when I saved a beautiful exotic princess from evil nunchakus-wielding velociraptors, I fought those vicious ugly buggers with my bare hands, and ensured that dinosaurs would really extinct by then. After kungfuing the crap out of the very last raptor into the molten lava of some dormant volcano, the sexilicious princess, who had fallen head over heels for my charms and manliness, begged me to marry her so that I could rule the country with her in the future. But alas, kingship isn't what I want for the time being so I had to reject her affections. It was a heartbreaking moment, as I watched her fade away from my sight, her beautiful face streaked with tears. Til this very day, I am haunted by her scent and her lingering touch. The words she whispered to me moments before we separated, poetic words of love so emotionally-charged that I can't bring myself to write it out now as the feeling of grief and regret will threaten to overwhelm me. I wish her eternal happiness.
I've even built myself a time machine once without the help of anyone else (I tend to do things by myself, I was born without an umbilical cord because I rely on nobody but myself.) And traveled to the end of time to hang out with some of the denizens over there, I learnt their ways and language, I learnt the fate of the world in the future, when the sun has exhausted its supply of hydrogen and expanded into becoming a red giant, many times its current size. Don't worry, despite my seemingly bleak description, humanity will prevail, but I won't tell you how as it was a promise I made to those kind people who were nice enough to let me live with them during my stay there. I met a blind girl there, she was on a journey to restore her sight, and her journey could only be funded by the tulips she sold, tulips different than those we see now as they could sing softly when I held them close to my ear. I have long destroyed my time machine since my very last voyage as disclosing such information would interrupt with the flow of history, an indescribably heinous deed, don't you think?
Such tales are meant to live within my private memories. By giving them words, and sharing them with others, I will lessen their sense of mythicism, diminishing their beauty, what I remember of them will be tainted and influenced by the words I spun for them. But then, to keep so many secrets to myself is agonizing, as my heart and soul will be so filled with them that I feel like exploding. But if I explode, I'll be reduced to nothing more than an empty husk. That's why sometimes, in rare moments like this, I need a place to whisper my most private secrets, secrets that will hopefully be scoffed at by readers with disbelief, to be regarded only as fiction. And then, as this will be my only opportunity to blog here, I shall bury my secrets with the sands of my mind, never to revisit them again.
I shall stop writing now, a couple of men in white are waiting outside my flat. They look imposing, but I refuse to let them scare me. Who are they? Probably men fearful of the secrets I hide, desperate to declare me mad, wanting to toss me into a mental asylum for electroshock treatment Requiem For A Dream-style. Tata, my dears, it is time for me to leave.
