Thursday, 31 January 2008
Character Sketches
Write hard and fast about what hurts.
--Ernest Hemingway
From doing a quick bit of painting last night, I found that I really enjoyed it, and am learning to define when my energy wants outlet from painting or writing, or whathaveyou. You'd think I'd have gotten the hang of it already, right?
Well, I've been doing a couple sketches lately, of the writing variety, and just thought I would include one little bit here. It's incomplete as yet, and taken out of a stammered, abandoned short story, and has less to do with a physical encapsulation than with the feeling of the character. Anyhow. *clears throat*
A little like glue, and a great deal like old books, yes, that was how his room was scented, with its cobwebby depths all too fascinating not to plunder. The room itself was cool, dry, absent of mildews or moulds--that would have disturbed the books, seen to their ruin. And there could be none of that at all.
I know it bothered him, to live in a country filled with omissions--from the 'u's' in words like 'colour' and 'flavour,' to the newsjournals he combed for an unbiased approach to world events.
Such a scholar, he! Such a difficult world to live in for a soul as old as his battered copy of Hamerling's 'Aspasia.' My heart would have broken inside of me if I had lived the life he had.
I will, in order to spare you difficulty in connecting such events as I have yet to describe, narrate how I came to meet Griswold Thatcher, in as minute detail as I can recall.
I was quite in a daze that day, that he came round to the library, the musty grey building which stood upon a hill, overlooking Elm Street, with a very disapproving cast to its mouldered yellow bricks, chastising the cars which scurried to and fro for their unconscionable haste.
I, of course, had nothing to do with the world of machines of metal and their infinite cogs, spewing forth gaseous fumes into the air, soiling it with bleak oils and things for which he had no use.
He was a tall man, even in his age, with shoulders that still boasted a redoubtable strength. It was not, however, common to observe him unfolded, as it were, from him armchair near for fireplace, with a book habitually opened against a wide, weathered palm. As I have said, Griswold Thatcher is a man of the past, presenting to the future the effigy of a bygone era, when we were neither entertained nor educated by fits and starts of coloured light projected across an electronic screen. His silver hair belied the vivacious quality in his eyes, his face, lined with character and stamped with dignity, made one forget, with its easily-earned smile, how harsh the angles and planes of it were.
--Ernest Hemingway
From doing a quick bit of painting last night, I found that I really enjoyed it, and am learning to define when my energy wants outlet from painting or writing, or whathaveyou. You'd think I'd have gotten the hang of it already, right?
Well, I've been doing a couple sketches lately, of the writing variety, and just thought I would include one little bit here. It's incomplete as yet, and taken out of a stammered, abandoned short story, and has less to do with a physical encapsulation than with the feeling of the character. Anyhow. *clears throat*
A little like glue, and a great deal like old books, yes, that was how his room was scented, with its cobwebby depths all too fascinating not to plunder. The room itself was cool, dry, absent of mildews or moulds--that would have disturbed the books, seen to their ruin. And there could be none of that at all.
I know it bothered him, to live in a country filled with omissions--from the 'u's' in words like 'colour' and 'flavour,' to the newsjournals he combed for an unbiased approach to world events.
Such a scholar, he! Such a difficult world to live in for a soul as old as his battered copy of Hamerling's 'Aspasia.' My heart would have broken inside of me if I had lived the life he had.
I will, in order to spare you difficulty in connecting such events as I have yet to describe, narrate how I came to meet Griswold Thatcher, in as minute detail as I can recall.
I was quite in a daze that day, that he came round to the library, the musty grey building which stood upon a hill, overlooking Elm Street, with a very disapproving cast to its mouldered yellow bricks, chastising the cars which scurried to and fro for their unconscionable haste.
I, of course, had nothing to do with the world of machines of metal and their infinite cogs, spewing forth gaseous fumes into the air, soiling it with bleak oils and things for which he had no use.
He was a tall man, even in his age, with shoulders that still boasted a redoubtable strength. It was not, however, common to observe him unfolded, as it were, from him armchair near for fireplace, with a book habitually opened against a wide, weathered palm. As I have said, Griswold Thatcher is a man of the past, presenting to the future the effigy of a bygone era, when we were neither entertained nor educated by fits and starts of coloured light projected across an electronic screen. His silver hair belied the vivacious quality in his eyes, his face, lined with character and stamped with dignity, made one forget, with its easily-earned smile, how harsh the angles and planes of it were.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
25 Of My Favourite Things
In no particular order, off the top of my head, though none of them rhyme.
1. Jesus
2. Cointreau
3. Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.
4. Cooked, stuffed geese, with truffles
5. Victor Hugo
6. Alexandre Dumas
7. Voltaire
8. Poe
9. Edna St. Vincent Millay
10. Christopher Plummer
11. My Stuffed Keith Richards
12. Linseed Oil
13. My Fitch sable brushes
14. Some British Standup Comedians
15. Writing
16. Painting in a fury
17. Duvets
18. Rockabilly Bands
19. Sherlock Holmes
20. Joscelin Verreuil
21. Aubrey Beardsley
22. Mehmet Turgut
23. The Sensation of Being Tattooed
24. Armin Mersmann
25. Korean Steakhouses
1. Jesus
2. Cointreau
3. Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.
4. Cooked, stuffed geese, with truffles
5. Victor Hugo
6. Alexandre Dumas
7. Voltaire
8. Poe
9. Edna St. Vincent Millay
10. Christopher Plummer
11. My Stuffed Keith Richards
12. Linseed Oil
13. My Fitch sable brushes
14. Some British Standup Comedians
15. Writing
16. Painting in a fury
17. Duvets
18. Rockabilly Bands
19. Sherlock Holmes
20. Joscelin Verreuil
21. Aubrey Beardsley
22. Mehmet Turgut
23. The Sensation of Being Tattooed
24. Armin Mersmann
25. Korean Steakhouses
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
A Well Used Half Hour
Speed painting with the Pixies and 500 Miles to Memphis blaring in the background, noshed in with some Babyshambles and, for good measure, Willie Nelson playing a Rolling Stones cover.
Oils on canvas, with about five shots of rum. Titanium white, yellow ochre, light red, Ventian red, burnt umber, Van Dyck brown, manganese blue, terre vert, and lamp black. And some righteous natural bristle brushes. Lick well.
Enschuldigen! Coming Through!
They are Beastly
Little
Things!
SNUFF will be out soon.
*dances, and loves Chuck Palahniuk*
Mark your calendars for the twentieth of May! And you didn't hear it from me.
But the first man I ever loved will always be
Little
Things!
SNUFF will be out soon.
*dances, and loves Chuck Palahniuk*
Mark your calendars for the twentieth of May! And you didn't hear it from me.
But the first man I ever loved will always be
Sunday, 27 January 2008
Mattel is Out to Get Me
Now would be a good time to hand me a tranquilliser. Many of them.
Life is, apparently, not worth living any longer.
Life is, apparently, not worth living any longer.
Saturday, 26 January 2008
Behaviour of an Amputee
Listening To: 'Sunshine in a Shotglass,' 500 Miles to Memphis
Reading: Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
Eating: Crisps
Drinking: Caramel Latte
It's all Kate Bush's fault, quite frankly, as I'm sure you'll all agree. She'd drive ten year olds to bewail the state of the political world and addict themselves irreparably to rubbish bands like Anathema and HIM.
I find now, as the new year rolls round in my mouth, that I miss Switzerland. This time last year, I had been there less than a month, and it was cold and grey and, somehow, still ravishingly pretty. By the time spring came round, it was like watching everything wake up, gradually and without regard for whether or not I was ready for it. The fields of canola flowers bloomed, casting their sickly smell into the air, but at least they were pretty. I remember six year olds walking to school on their own, holding their schoolfriends' hands, without parents worrying about whether they'd be snatched.
I remember Suicide Hill, and suffering myself to be nicknamed a little Eskimo Boy by a preadolescent Spaniard, trading suggestive looks with a rather older Spaniard, while ice cream melted on my hands and I burnt my toast. I miss eighty-cent 70 % Lindt chocolate bars and a pair of thick white duvets covering my narrow bed. I do not miss sleeping alone.
I miss the Altstadt, with its hidden tea rooms and shops with horrid eighties-throwback fashion in their windows, longing after the bookstore, wishing I knew German so I could read the many, many volumes smelling of old paper and ink.
I miss drinking beer beside Lac Genève, sitting on the parapets of old city walls, and looking down into valleys from 1527 metres above sea level, and lying sprawled over a dark blue velvet settee, watching Manchester United beat the snot out of Liverpool, drinking Feldschlösschen lager and eating Nutella out of the jar with my fingers.
And, of course, you.
Get well soon, and stop running into things on motorbikes. It isn't particularly healthy.
Reading: Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
Eating: Crisps
Drinking: Caramel Latte
It's all Kate Bush's fault, quite frankly, as I'm sure you'll all agree. She'd drive ten year olds to bewail the state of the political world and addict themselves irreparably to rubbish bands like Anathema and HIM.
I find now, as the new year rolls round in my mouth, that I miss Switzerland. This time last year, I had been there less than a month, and it was cold and grey and, somehow, still ravishingly pretty. By the time spring came round, it was like watching everything wake up, gradually and without regard for whether or not I was ready for it. The fields of canola flowers bloomed, casting their sickly smell into the air, but at least they were pretty. I remember six year olds walking to school on their own, holding their schoolfriends' hands, without parents worrying about whether they'd be snatched.
I remember Suicide Hill, and suffering myself to be nicknamed a little Eskimo Boy by a preadolescent Spaniard, trading suggestive looks with a rather older Spaniard, while ice cream melted on my hands and I burnt my toast. I miss eighty-cent 70 % Lindt chocolate bars and a pair of thick white duvets covering my narrow bed. I do not miss sleeping alone.
I miss the Altstadt, with its hidden tea rooms and shops with horrid eighties-throwback fashion in their windows, longing after the bookstore, wishing I knew German so I could read the many, many volumes smelling of old paper and ink.
I miss drinking beer beside Lac Genève, sitting on the parapets of old city walls, and looking down into valleys from 1527 metres above sea level, and lying sprawled over a dark blue velvet settee, watching Manchester United beat the snot out of Liverpool, drinking Feldschlösschen lager and eating Nutella out of the jar with my fingers.
And, of course, you.
Get well soon, and stop running into things on motorbikes. It isn't particularly healthy.
Friday, 25 January 2008
Donne Moi l'Encre!
I have found lately that as impatient a writer as I am, the rhythm of typing doesn't seem to pull the ideas out of me as easily as a simple pen and paper. A dip-pen is even better, and a little bottle of sepia ink. Sepia ink has a nice flow to it, and doesn't seem to clot so much as black ink.
Also, I have the best ideas for lyrics while brushing on mascara or washing dishes. It must have something to do with the meditative half-moment, when your hand is either attempting to steady itself so you don't poke yourself in the eye, or engaged, without much aid from your brain, in sloshing warm, soapy water over egg goo on a plate.
I was thinking, last night, of things, memories in my life that I wanted to write about, or insert in a story or novel to give it a level of verisimilitude, or relatability, at least, and I came across a dusty old bit that involved trips back to the north-east to visit rellies.
I remember the upright piano, in a cobwebby basement that smelled, mainly, of old couches. It stood between the pinball machine and a billiard-table, and the bare concrete walls were here and there decorated with games of pin the tail on the donkey, half-scraped and bubbled with water damage. I remember venturing down the creaky steps, turning the lights on at the top, because even now, I'm afraid of the dark, listening for the sounds of my two older brothers playing billiards, the crack of cues hitting balls into one another. Whether they were there or not, it didn't so much matter to me. I sat at the piano, and dusted the cover with my finger-tips, brushing away the dust acquired over weeks of disuse, feeling the sandy grains and silky webs clinging to my hands, before I lifted the cover, and started to play.
I didn't know a thing about music, and I don't well remember why I liked it so much, but producing sounds, so easily, was what drew me first to it. Then, when I found that they neither bent nor squealed, if the keys were gently used, I liked it better. My feet didn't reach the pedals, and my hand scarcely spanned half an octave. Still, it was not the music or sound itself that I enjoyed, it was producing it. Being the conjurer of a thousand discordant notes, and delighting when I found a combination that pleased the ear. For hours at a time, I would press the keys in, gently or harshly, though I could never make much volume with my weak fingers, and hum tunes, words that came to mind, mainly about horses, and Robin Hood, and, occasionally, tragic deaths of lovers like Hero and Leander, of swimming the Hellespont every night, and one night drowning, of the terrifying certainty that if he was not there, he must be dead.
I am sure, if confronted with recorded evidence of the sounds I made, I would now be horrified, embarrassed, or, at least, a little annoyed that my childhood wonder was made a spectacle of, so many years from when it was poignant. Maybe the only thing that would annoy me is that I haven't the courage to do the same now, to make up sad songs in a basement, because I have grown up, and I can't stand sounding bad to myself.
Also, I have the best ideas for lyrics while brushing on mascara or washing dishes. It must have something to do with the meditative half-moment, when your hand is either attempting to steady itself so you don't poke yourself in the eye, or engaged, without much aid from your brain, in sloshing warm, soapy water over egg goo on a plate.
I was thinking, last night, of things, memories in my life that I wanted to write about, or insert in a story or novel to give it a level of verisimilitude, or relatability, at least, and I came across a dusty old bit that involved trips back to the north-east to visit rellies.
I remember the upright piano, in a cobwebby basement that smelled, mainly, of old couches. It stood between the pinball machine and a billiard-table, and the bare concrete walls were here and there decorated with games of pin the tail on the donkey, half-scraped and bubbled with water damage. I remember venturing down the creaky steps, turning the lights on at the top, because even now, I'm afraid of the dark, listening for the sounds of my two older brothers playing billiards, the crack of cues hitting balls into one another. Whether they were there or not, it didn't so much matter to me. I sat at the piano, and dusted the cover with my finger-tips, brushing away the dust acquired over weeks of disuse, feeling the sandy grains and silky webs clinging to my hands, before I lifted the cover, and started to play.
I didn't know a thing about music, and I don't well remember why I liked it so much, but producing sounds, so easily, was what drew me first to it. Then, when I found that they neither bent nor squealed, if the keys were gently used, I liked it better. My feet didn't reach the pedals, and my hand scarcely spanned half an octave. Still, it was not the music or sound itself that I enjoyed, it was producing it. Being the conjurer of a thousand discordant notes, and delighting when I found a combination that pleased the ear. For hours at a time, I would press the keys in, gently or harshly, though I could never make much volume with my weak fingers, and hum tunes, words that came to mind, mainly about horses, and Robin Hood, and, occasionally, tragic deaths of lovers like Hero and Leander, of swimming the Hellespont every night, and one night drowning, of the terrifying certainty that if he was not there, he must be dead.
I am sure, if confronted with recorded evidence of the sounds I made, I would now be horrified, embarrassed, or, at least, a little annoyed that my childhood wonder was made a spectacle of, so many years from when it was poignant. Maybe the only thing that would annoy me is that I haven't the courage to do the same now, to make up sad songs in a basement, because I have grown up, and I can't stand sounding bad to myself.
Thursday, 24 January 2008
We Apologise for the Inconvenience
This is completely a gratuitous compromise to my hormones. *Falls into an ab-induced coma*
Wednesday, 23 January 2008
She Lingers My Desires
So, it's chilly, isn't it? Not nearly, my loves, as it is in Iceland. Which, apparently, is a city in Australia, which really is Burrito-land, in which they speak the language of Burrito.
I did something naughty last night. After forcing myself through another bit of creative writing, which involved Queen Pasiphaë and, peculiarly enough, Diogenes. But only the Diogenes Club inhabited by the most unclubbable men in London, I got on youtube. The great, evil timesucker. And I watched half of Monster by Dylan Moran. And I'm sure I got loads of naughty thoughts about soup with noodles, children's parties, and wine.
But that's not the naughty thing I did. The naughty thing I did was to stay up past bedtime, and subsequently to wake at four the next morning. This means, of course, that my next piece of creative writing is going to involve twelve year old boys struggling through a sudden bizarre streak of divinatory brilliance, strawberries, a cruciform sword as opposed to the rapier, and the significance of Daniel Craig as a lust object.
Obviously, I'm going to be more interested in someone like Nic Cester, but notwithstanding.
I wanted to say something, but the first paragraph of A Midsummer Night's Dream keeps rushing through my mind. Maybe it's just the fault of the cat looking so dreadfully comfy curled up by the fire, or maybe it's that I'm for some reason mind-numbingly happy despite the ache in my veins that is the absence of coffee (I'm soh healthy). Or, perhaps, it's that I'm craving Les Misérables. You choose. But eat this nonsense. I'm getting back into insightful imagery, at least.
O, Ariadne, with your moon-calf eyes,
Enmeshed in Dionysius' everlasting arms,
You grew vine-twigs in your rumpled hair,
Your ravishment a thing of beauty,
Weave your sister's widow's weeds,
Hephaestus will illumine her grave.
I did something naughty last night. After forcing myself through another bit of creative writing, which involved Queen Pasiphaë and, peculiarly enough, Diogenes. But only the Diogenes Club inhabited by the most unclubbable men in London, I got on youtube. The great, evil timesucker. And I watched half of Monster by Dylan Moran. And I'm sure I got loads of naughty thoughts about soup with noodles, children's parties, and wine.
But that's not the naughty thing I did. The naughty thing I did was to stay up past bedtime, and subsequently to wake at four the next morning. This means, of course, that my next piece of creative writing is going to involve twelve year old boys struggling through a sudden bizarre streak of divinatory brilliance, strawberries, a cruciform sword as opposed to the rapier, and the significance of Daniel Craig as a lust object.
Obviously, I'm going to be more interested in someone like Nic Cester, but notwithstanding.
I wanted to say something, but the first paragraph of A Midsummer Night's Dream keeps rushing through my mind. Maybe it's just the fault of the cat looking so dreadfully comfy curled up by the fire, or maybe it's that I'm for some reason mind-numbingly happy despite the ache in my veins that is the absence of coffee (I'm soh healthy). Or, perhaps, it's that I'm craving Les Misérables. You choose. But eat this nonsense. I'm getting back into insightful imagery, at least.
O, Ariadne, with your moon-calf eyes,
Enmeshed in Dionysius' everlasting arms,
You grew vine-twigs in your rumpled hair,
Your ravishment a thing of beauty,
Weave your sister's widow's weeds,
Hephaestus will illumine her grave.
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Oh, Gerald!
He is the SEX.
He is IT.
He is BROM.
Observe the hawtness of his many, many muscles!
In other news, who brought this goat in here? You know...that yellow goat I ate?
Osch. I have been watching that clip, and it kills me. Really, really...kills me.
Anyhow, about BROM.
Who is SEX.
And AWESOME beyond ALL THINGS...and whom I am NOT SICK for ADORING...I love him so much.
I could write novels about each of his pieces. Long, loving, deeply psychotic novels, about pretty glass men and whip-bearing angels named Sarafiel and Enguerrand. Oh, yes, there will be naughtiness. And pale men with deeply shadowed eyes and long, dark hair. With mysterious rubies round their throats.
Oh, man. I'm so much more talented than bloody Salvatore. I only wish I had his money, so I could have book covers by lovely, lovely Brom. Sigh.
He is IT.
He is BROM.Observe the hawtness of his many, many muscles!
In other news, who brought this goat in here? You know...that yellow goat I ate?
Osch. I have been watching that clip, and it kills me. Really, really...kills me.
Anyhow, about BROM.
Who is SEX.
And AWESOME beyond ALL THINGS...and whom I am NOT SICK for ADORING...I love him so much.
I could write novels about each of his pieces. Long, loving, deeply psychotic novels, about pretty glass men and whip-bearing angels named Sarafiel and Enguerrand. Oh, yes, there will be naughtiness. And pale men with deeply shadowed eyes and long, dark hair. With mysterious rubies round their throats.
Oh, man. I'm so much more talented than bloody Salvatore. I only wish I had his money, so I could have book covers by lovely, lovely Brom. Sigh.
Friday, 18 January 2008
Thursday, 17 January 2008
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
Oosquai?
Mood: English Breakfast Tea!
Listening To: 'Gang of Gin,' Babyshambles
Reading: Wilt, Tom Sharpe
Eating: Toast, with Butter and Honey
Drinking: English Breakfast Tea!
I don't know about you, but I have a thing about drinking tea. Love it. Especially if I can sit beside a hot wood-burning stove and have a ginger kitty with pretty green eyes curl up in my lap with a sort of very peculiar expression which nevertheless expresses 'you know, this is a very high honour that I am conferring upon you. Now, pet me,' exceedingly well.
I do love him, though. He does respond to a whistle, which is more than most cats will do.
Maybe it's a trait peculiar to green eyed blonds. That is, the demand for petting, not the response to whistling.
I've decided to go on a reading kick. I'm completely horrified at the things I've been writing lately, and I don't see a reason to go on unless I hit the 'reset' button. And so, I close my satire comedies, put away Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, Tom Sharpe, even Mikhail Bulgakov, and reach for my good old fashioned anthologies.
Despite this all, I'm still looking forward to a natty piece of political fantasy that's meant to come out in July. Sigh. How the mighty have fallen.
I want to leave you with a pretty picture. So have one, just for you.
Biscuit biscuit!
Listening To: 'Gang of Gin,' Babyshambles
Reading: Wilt, Tom Sharpe
Eating: Toast, with Butter and Honey
Drinking: English Breakfast Tea!
I don't know about you, but I have a thing about drinking tea. Love it. Especially if I can sit beside a hot wood-burning stove and have a ginger kitty with pretty green eyes curl up in my lap with a sort of very peculiar expression which nevertheless expresses 'you know, this is a very high honour that I am conferring upon you. Now, pet me,' exceedingly well.
I do love him, though. He does respond to a whistle, which is more than most cats will do.
Maybe it's a trait peculiar to green eyed blonds. That is, the demand for petting, not the response to whistling.
I've decided to go on a reading kick. I'm completely horrified at the things I've been writing lately, and I don't see a reason to go on unless I hit the 'reset' button. And so, I close my satire comedies, put away Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, Tom Sharpe, even Mikhail Bulgakov, and reach for my good old fashioned anthologies.
Despite this all, I'm still looking forward to a natty piece of political fantasy that's meant to come out in July. Sigh. How the mighty have fallen.
I want to leave you with a pretty picture. So have one, just for you.
Biscuit biscuit!
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
Unrequited
Isn't it depressing to be madly in love with someone who has absolutely no interest in you? Well, I know how you feel. I, personally, am completely and utterly infatuated with Sherlock Holmes. And, well...we all know he's busy shooting cocaine and chasing phosphorus-covered hounds.Just thought you all should know that.
And no teasing about my penchant for gangly men.
But he really is unbearably sexy. And I'm not talking about Basil Rathbone or Jeremy Brett, though they are rather edible in their own rights. I'm talking about grouchy, masterful, drug-addicted, sharp-cheekboned, tobacco smoking, heavy-drinking, Watson-waking, fist-fighting Sherlock Holmes, with his strange mood for scratching horrible sounds out of the violin as well as sonorous melodies, periods of languid inaction, his habits of keeping his tobacco in his Persian slippers and his mail pinned in his mantelpiece with a knife. I absolutely adore him.
So there.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
Rumpelstiltskin!!!
Erm...I'm not entirely certain what possessed me to call this post that, but I've just had a singularly strong cup of Irish Breakfast, so you're going to have to bear with me, here. Dre, mah dolly, I am sorry I didn't post pics soon, but the skin is just healing up, and I'm able to go swimming. Yay.
Oh. Hey, you guys. I am Getting into Shape. Yes, yes. Well, this week, I am. I realised that I have gooey bits that I'm not happy about. Don't get me wrong, I like certain bits of me to be not-so-tucked and firm, but there is a certain Individual Who Will Remain Unnamed who constantly makes me feel her muscles. And I feel...diminutive. So I shall therefore...do a couple crunches and pushups and swim a little, to make myself feel better.
The only trouble is, I would really love to play footy. We've just set up some poles in the back yard to make a pitch, but the game comes round when I'm getting dinner ready. So. I shall...simply have to go to the gym.
Yes. The gym.
The Man with the Camera is coming home soon, so I shall snag him to take a couple snaps of my new inky splotch, so consider yourself warned.
I have NOT been writing poetry.
I am re-reading the Gulistan of S'adi, hoping it will get me back into the groove, but I am also interspersing it with paragraphs of So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish, so that'll probably go to pot.
Anyhow.
I'm so free, livin' right under this coconut tree.
Oh. Hey, you guys. I am Getting into Shape. Yes, yes. Well, this week, I am. I realised that I have gooey bits that I'm not happy about. Don't get me wrong, I like certain bits of me to be not-so-tucked and firm, but there is a certain Individual Who Will Remain Unnamed who constantly makes me feel her muscles. And I feel...diminutive. So I shall therefore...do a couple crunches and pushups and swim a little, to make myself feel better.
The only trouble is, I would really love to play footy. We've just set up some poles in the back yard to make a pitch, but the game comes round when I'm getting dinner ready. So. I shall...simply have to go to the gym.
Yes. The gym.
The Man with the Camera is coming home soon, so I shall snag him to take a couple snaps of my new inky splotch, so consider yourself warned.
I have NOT been writing poetry.
I am re-reading the Gulistan of S'adi, hoping it will get me back into the groove, but I am also interspersing it with paragraphs of So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish, so that'll probably go to pot.
Anyhow.
I'm so free, livin' right under this coconut tree.
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Captains
Let's be honest...they're dead sexeh.
1. Captain von Trapp
2. Captain Jack Sparrow
3. Captain Morgan
4. Captain Wolf Larsen
5. Captain Blood
6. Captain Hook
And I'm sure there are many more. Even Queen Elizabeth had her own personal little rogue privateer in Sir Francis Drake.
Sorry, I was just taking some time out of my busy schedule to think about how lovely Christopher Plummer is. And then I started thinking about The Sea Wolf, and of course Jason Isaacs and Johnny Depp couldn't help but poke their fat heads in.
None of this is my fault. Someone wanted to know what I think is sexy. So I started thinking about sexy people.
Damn it.
1. Captain von Trapp
2. Captain Jack Sparrow
3. Captain Morgan
4. Captain Wolf Larsen
5. Captain Blood
6. Captain Hook
And I'm sure there are many more. Even Queen Elizabeth had her own personal little rogue privateer in Sir Francis Drake.
Sorry, I was just taking some time out of my busy schedule to think about how lovely Christopher Plummer is. And then I started thinking about The Sea Wolf, and of course Jason Isaacs and Johnny Depp couldn't help but poke their fat heads in.
None of this is my fault. Someone wanted to know what I think is sexy. So I started thinking about sexy people.
Damn it.
Mangroves in Drought
a crisp, new note, drawn out
far longer than it should have been.
i cast my net without a thought
for what i might drag in.
far longer than it should have been.
i cast my net without a thought
for what i might drag in.
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
Some Kind of Incendiary Device
Mood: Resigned
Listening To: 'Call Me on Your Way Back Home,' Ryan Adams
Reading: An address
Watching: Layer Cake
Eating: Bunnies
Drinking: Nog
I'm thinking, this song is one of the best-written depressing angst songs in the world. 'Well, I miss you. Honey, ain't nothin' new' is one of the greatest pieces of strategic simplicity in the world. The gentle, bluesy guitar in the background, the occasional off note in his voice, it's all a fantastic way to reach into your gut and tug something. Even if you've never felt what he's singing about, he's got a way of making you know exactly what he's talking about. And feel pretty sodding glad that you don't have to deal with it.
Honestly, this is probably a really bad attitude coming from someone who's torn consistently between being a hopeful, bright-eyed romantic and a complete misogynistic cynic, but I am so glad I've never been as miserable as he is in this song. 'I just wanna die without you.' I mean, we've all been a bit depressed when someone's gone, maybe even felt physically ill for a couple of days or something, and yes, wanting to roll over and not do anything much for a while, I understand. But something of that measure? Sounds like someone with absolutely no foresight. Or perhaps too much.
See, there? That last bit is the ruddy romantic in me. Wretched little bint, who thinks everything's daisies and sunflowers, and rivers of jasmine tea.
I had a dream last night, that I was Russell Crowe, that I was walking round a sheep ranch, and that some little outback bandit stabbed me in the neck, and it wasn't fatal, but it was fairly annoying, and some quack doctor said that I was going to die over a matter of months.
Which brings me to the next song on my playlist, that is, 'Wild Horses' by the Stones. I do love this song. The fact that Jagger tugged this out of his substance-befuddled brain after writing so many sex, drugs, and rawk'n'roll songs is really admirable. I mean...honestly, now, something as soulful and easy going, and...there.
Anyhow, I'm picky about lyrics. Good ones. The right ones smack you upside the head, without the pain, just a slow, safe realisation that 'holy Mary, this is some good stuff.' The rubbish ones do the same thing, but with a very quick, very unwholesome feeling of 'oh Lord, someone actually had to write this dreck.'
The first time I heard the song 'We Are the World' I had that feeling. 'Someone...a real human being...had to come up with this, and finance it, produce and record it, and all that nonsense.' I was very depressed for about five minutes, after which something better came on, and I felt a little better.
But, to end this nonsense on a happier note, I am going to go inflict upon myself some pain, which I can then languidly enjoy for the next two weeks. Bring on the languor.
Listening To: 'Call Me on Your Way Back Home,' Ryan Adams
Reading: An address
Watching: Layer Cake
Eating: Bunnies
Drinking: Nog
I'm thinking, this song is one of the best-written depressing angst songs in the world. 'Well, I miss you. Honey, ain't nothin' new' is one of the greatest pieces of strategic simplicity in the world. The gentle, bluesy guitar in the background, the occasional off note in his voice, it's all a fantastic way to reach into your gut and tug something. Even if you've never felt what he's singing about, he's got a way of making you know exactly what he's talking about. And feel pretty sodding glad that you don't have to deal with it.
Honestly, this is probably a really bad attitude coming from someone who's torn consistently between being a hopeful, bright-eyed romantic and a complete misogynistic cynic, but I am so glad I've never been as miserable as he is in this song. 'I just wanna die without you.' I mean, we've all been a bit depressed when someone's gone, maybe even felt physically ill for a couple of days or something, and yes, wanting to roll over and not do anything much for a while, I understand. But something of that measure? Sounds like someone with absolutely no foresight. Or perhaps too much.
See, there? That last bit is the ruddy romantic in me. Wretched little bint, who thinks everything's daisies and sunflowers, and rivers of jasmine tea.
I had a dream last night, that I was Russell Crowe, that I was walking round a sheep ranch, and that some little outback bandit stabbed me in the neck, and it wasn't fatal, but it was fairly annoying, and some quack doctor said that I was going to die over a matter of months.
Which brings me to the next song on my playlist, that is, 'Wild Horses' by the Stones. I do love this song. The fact that Jagger tugged this out of his substance-befuddled brain after writing so many sex, drugs, and rawk'n'roll songs is really admirable. I mean...honestly, now, something as soulful and easy going, and...there.
Anyhow, I'm picky about lyrics. Good ones. The right ones smack you upside the head, without the pain, just a slow, safe realisation that 'holy Mary, this is some good stuff.' The rubbish ones do the same thing, but with a very quick, very unwholesome feeling of 'oh Lord, someone actually had to write this dreck.'
The first time I heard the song 'We Are the World' I had that feeling. 'Someone...a real human being...had to come up with this, and finance it, produce and record it, and all that nonsense.' I was very depressed for about five minutes, after which something better came on, and I felt a little better.
But, to end this nonsense on a happier note, I am going to go inflict upon myself some pain, which I can then languidly enjoy for the next two weeks. Bring on the languor.
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