It’s 9 August. It’s national day; my world has been violated by a tint of red. The newspapers are unreadable – chunks of red-emblazoned masturbatory texts and images. My streets are a deluge of red-clothed people. Social media is awash with blasts of nostalgic posts and articles. Oh gosh. The nostalgia. Unceasing waves upon waves of state-directed nostalgia swallowed en-mass, defecated and then repeatedly re-swallowed. It has taken on an entire life of its own with a criticality of a uranium core in what could be described as one of the most successful national branding endeavours.
Fuck nostalgia. Yes, let’s all go back to the good ‘ol times. Let’s go back to the three years under the sword and masked face of the kempeitai and the 100,000 men slaughtered on the beaches. Let’s go back to the 16 marxists who don’t identify themselves as marxist of 1987. Let’s go back to the expunged bricks and memories of the national theatre. Let’s go back to the whipped tofu and snipped pubic hair of Parkway Parade.
I’ve had enough of nostalgia. I’ve had enough of red.
It’s national day today. Yes, all the fireworks. Yes, all the nation-loving emotions that finally have had a day to be paraded. Yes, all the glory and pride. It’s national day; today red is an oppressive colour.
Disclaimer: I’m sorry for the unwarranted angst. It was firebrand, it was juvenile. In mitigation, I suffer from an inexplicable allergy to kitsch.