I don’t recall school plays being quite like this.

Also, open thread.

Serendipity. (h/t, Holborn) || Forbidden love. || “The latest frontier in denim.” (h/t, Julia) || A guide to public transport seat cover design. || Calling Dr Strange. (h/t, Obnoxio) || Scenes. || Clouds. || Beating organ. || He does this better than you do. || Things “we need to talk about,” #204. || Urine wheels and other pee-related wonders. || The pebble palace and other art gardens. || Evergreen. (h/t, Dicentra) || It’s called making an entrance, darling. || Piety displayed, then sudden difficulties. || Rotational drama. || Slo-mo Taekwondo. || “Weighed only slightly more than a pack of butter.” || Word-pile detected. || At last, competitive slapping. || And finally, I bring you some next-level performance art.

Thanks to the towering talents of Mr Claude Boudeau, whose performance piece Cascade is featured below.

As you’ve doubtless already discerned, Mr Boudeau’s “main questioning is about the states of insurrection that exist in people and can be revealed through performance art.”

“Images of men rushing into burning buildings does little to encourage gender equality.”

Also, open thread.

Being a “queer feminist poet” schooled in “critical race theory,” Ms Alison Whittaker is, of course, unhappy:

We’re in the midst of a renaissance in First Nations literature. I should be elated… So why do I feel this restlessness? 

Appearing as a headline guest at Australia’s recent Stella Prize longlist party, “a celebration of women’s writing,” Ms Whittaker felt a need to air her “itching discontent” and “confront” the “majority white audience” for the sin of pretentious enthusiasm – namely, their enthusiasm for works by people such as herself:

I talked about the “endless, patronising praise” I got from white audiences, and how I salve it with the frank reading of Indigenous women who “do you the dignity of taking you seriously.”

Fun night. We must do this again.

We’re told that being a “coloured” or “Indigenous” writer is fraught with “structural oppression,” on account of being “marginalised” – as when being invited to literary award parties and then swooned over by pretentious pale-skinned lefties. “Whiteness” and “white men” are particular burdens to Ms Whittaker and her peers, whose suffering – their “collective plight” – is seemingly endless and endlessly fascinating, at least among those for whom such woes are currency. As Ms Whittaker’s world is one of practised self-involvement, her point is at times unobvious. However, our unhappy poet appears to be annoyed both by “underwhelming responses” to her own writing and by insufficiently convincing displays of approval. All that “endless patronising praise.”

At which point, the words high maintenance spring to mind.