Yup (I tried to post this at UWC but I still can't sign in)

I know everyone else has had their own little post somewhere along the way about Reality TV. Personally, I don't have a huge problem with it. It's an important reflection of what America deems important. It's important to note these things as an artist or a writer.
But...

Tonight I watched fifteen minutes of the most incredible show I've ever seen.

The show is called The Swan. Now I realize that this blog is part of the reason this show was created. It's watercooler jizzim. People will talk about it tomorrow in their (for you Jared) cornflower blue ties (the Queen Bee is their slave). The premise: Women undergo drastic reconstructive face and body surgery. Big deal you say. I've learned after being rejected by grad school after grad school that you must have a twist. Something to stir them up. The Shock of the New. After the surgery the women then compete in a beauty competition. If the contestants work hard enough, and are perseverant enough, they will continue to the next round. This is recking my brain, or preserving it, or improving it. I haven't decided yet.

God is omniscient and omnipotent. Everything is written already, right? It's just hard to comprehend. This would mean God made these women "ugly" so that they would be chosen to be on this show to undergo this mutilation of their bodies. It's so much to chew on. (Chewing the fat seemed too satirical) Is this a bad thing? Technology allows us to change our bodies, our minds, our relationships, our lives.

The women do not see themsleves in a mirror until the show airs. They consistently do not recognize themselves. I can't begin to imagine the psychosomatic implications of this. The last women was wearing a wig, or hair extensions, fake eyelashes, fake boobs and probably fake Gucci. She wept. It is difficult for her mind to adjust to this. It takes all she has to wimper, " I...I look beautiful." One can not help but think of Narcisuss.

But why not? We cut our hair, we buy new clothes, we walk and talk differently to gain acceptance. Why not cut our noses off, or our ears? Why not eat the lipstick? Eat our paints? Perhaps I'd write better if ink flowed between my veins forcing my words to bleed onto the page with accuracy and poignancy. Maybe then, I'd be able to leave marks on my canvas that do not heal, are not forgotten, but rather scar, leaving their mark on the world. The problem is, if this scar is in an unfavorable place (the only place artwork should be), the world can easily undergo surgery to remove my legacy.