Oi.
So I've got a couple of days away from home before the big weekend comes charging along like an enraged rhinocerous who's had a decidedly uninviting run-in with Steven Segal's hair cream.
Figured I would give an update to the old coughalong blog, despite its cirrohated condition as of late.
I can't say I've got anything, really, to post. Just the usual. I've been considering starting to read a lot (and I mean a ruddy LOT) of nonfiction, cause my bookshelf is overpopulated with self-gratifying nonsense by Sacher-Masoch and Jacqueline Carey. Sensing a pattern, here?
So my first foray into the whole shambling nonsense was going to be Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, but I got sidetracked by The Feminine Mistake, which I, personally, think, is hilarious, even though puns are against my religion. It's not strictly a pun.
Oh, and I've decided, tentatively, on a title for my novel. What do you think of Drink up the Sea. You could do a whole lot with a title like that. And no, it's not Biblical, I'm afraid. It's from Nietschze's parable of the madman.
In other news, I hate my neck muscles. They're all cramped along my right side.
I've been looking for a link to give you, but I can't find one. So, I guess I'll leave you with nothing.
Thursday, 16 October 2008
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
Enschuldigung, ich bin ein Amerikanner
I desperately want a nape piercing.
Get better, Chris, or I will personally induce your third back surgery.
This is very, deeply annoying. I went to my bookstore yesterday, specifically to find and buy a moleskine notebook, pocket-sized, squared paper, and they didn't have one. It was, to say the least, ridiculous. Of course, I did, somehow, manage to buy myself a dress and a pair of adorable pedal pushers, but that's beside the point. How am I going to be creative on the go without my favourite notebook?
Maybe the Lord's trying to teach me a lesson about buying overpriced journals.
It's getting colder, and for some reason, my dry-cleaning hasn't been picked up. This means, of course, that I am going to have to finish painting the miniature that I've started, for some reason or other.
I am sick to death of abstractism (she said, in her rambling way).
Actually, I was thinking of poetry.
I was sitting, two weeks or so ago, beside a thoughtful young man who was quoting a poem, and I, very guiltily, half-listening, realised that I've forgotten all or nearly all of the poetry that I used to know by heart. Even William Blake's 'Tyger.'
Well, we'll have to just deal with it, shan't we?
I wrote a flash fic the other night. It's very, very short, and doesn't have an end, so I'll type it up here.
Warning: contains profanity and uber-fluff.
She was very, very thirsty when she got out of bed; so thirsty that a litre of water wouldn't help. Neither did tea, or juice, or beer. She tried it all, and slunk back to her room feeling rather defeated.
He was still asleep, broad back solidly toward her, ink-strewn right shoulder traced by the light flickering sneakily through the drapes. The sun had come up outside, but it was still very dark in her room. It was meant to be.
She didn't want to disturb him, of course, because logically, that would be very unkind. He would growl nonsense words, and be rather cross, even if he did curl a possessive arm round her and pull her decisively into his very warm chest, and kiss her closed, dry mouth with his soft cherub's lips. Obviously, she wouldn't do that. She very much wanted to, though.
Instead, she sat at the edge of the bed, fumbling for the cardboard box on her end table, and match (she didn't hold with lighters), and struck up a Davidoff. She could only just make out the bold lettering pasted on the front of the box, 'rauchen ist tödlich!'--and the little skull and crossbones. She couldn't read the fine print, though, in the dark.
She inhaled deeply, feeling tar and nicotine spread through her choked, shrivelled lungs. She liked this very much; it was extraordinary, relaxing. Never as good as him, of course. She'd admitted this not very long ago, and only to herself. She liked him more than smoking her long German cigarettes, more than she liked swimming in a cool tropical ocean, more than eating shortbread or drinking beer brewed by Trappist monks in Belgium.
'Stop fucking smoking that utter shite.' he growled, almost unintelligibly. She couldn't help smiling. 'I'm going to tear every single fag up, and feed them to my mother's goldfish. She's going to be very upset with you when they take ill.' her smile deepened.
'And why,' she luxuriated in one more long drag before stubbing out the hardly started cigarette, 'would she be upset with me, seeing as you've fed them my fags?'
He turned round, grey green eyes glowing just faintly, phosphorently, in the near darkness. 'Because, obviously, you've compelled me, with your filthy habit,' he took her round the middle, with embarrassing effortlessness, and dragged her down beside him.
Get better, Chris, or I will personally induce your third back surgery.
This is very, deeply annoying. I went to my bookstore yesterday, specifically to find and buy a moleskine notebook, pocket-sized, squared paper, and they didn't have one. It was, to say the least, ridiculous. Of course, I did, somehow, manage to buy myself a dress and a pair of adorable pedal pushers, but that's beside the point. How am I going to be creative on the go without my favourite notebook?
Maybe the Lord's trying to teach me a lesson about buying overpriced journals.
It's getting colder, and for some reason, my dry-cleaning hasn't been picked up. This means, of course, that I am going to have to finish painting the miniature that I've started, for some reason or other.
I am sick to death of abstractism (she said, in her rambling way).
Actually, I was thinking of poetry.
I was sitting, two weeks or so ago, beside a thoughtful young man who was quoting a poem, and I, very guiltily, half-listening, realised that I've forgotten all or nearly all of the poetry that I used to know by heart. Even William Blake's 'Tyger.'
Well, we'll have to just deal with it, shan't we?
I wrote a flash fic the other night. It's very, very short, and doesn't have an end, so I'll type it up here.
Warning: contains profanity and uber-fluff.
She was very, very thirsty when she got out of bed; so thirsty that a litre of water wouldn't help. Neither did tea, or juice, or beer. She tried it all, and slunk back to her room feeling rather defeated.
He was still asleep, broad back solidly toward her, ink-strewn right shoulder traced by the light flickering sneakily through the drapes. The sun had come up outside, but it was still very dark in her room. It was meant to be.
She didn't want to disturb him, of course, because logically, that would be very unkind. He would growl nonsense words, and be rather cross, even if he did curl a possessive arm round her and pull her decisively into his very warm chest, and kiss her closed, dry mouth with his soft cherub's lips. Obviously, she wouldn't do that. She very much wanted to, though.
Instead, she sat at the edge of the bed, fumbling for the cardboard box on her end table, and match (she didn't hold with lighters), and struck up a Davidoff. She could only just make out the bold lettering pasted on the front of the box, 'rauchen ist tödlich!'--and the little skull and crossbones. She couldn't read the fine print, though, in the dark.
She inhaled deeply, feeling tar and nicotine spread through her choked, shrivelled lungs. She liked this very much; it was extraordinary, relaxing. Never as good as him, of course. She'd admitted this not very long ago, and only to herself. She liked him more than smoking her long German cigarettes, more than she liked swimming in a cool tropical ocean, more than eating shortbread or drinking beer brewed by Trappist monks in Belgium.
'Stop fucking smoking that utter shite.' he growled, almost unintelligibly. She couldn't help smiling. 'I'm going to tear every single fag up, and feed them to my mother's goldfish. She's going to be very upset with you when they take ill.' her smile deepened.
'And why,' she luxuriated in one more long drag before stubbing out the hardly started cigarette, 'would she be upset with me, seeing as you've fed them my fags?'
He turned round, grey green eyes glowing just faintly, phosphorently, in the near darkness. 'Because, obviously, you've compelled me, with your filthy habit,' he took her round the middle, with embarrassing effortlessness, and dragged her down beside him.
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
In Idleness We Forget
I realise that I haven't been very active on here. But let's face it, I have approximately three readers, all of whom are Andre. That's life. I'll deal with it.
Anyhow, I was reading Psalm nineteen this morning, and a phrase from verse four leapt out at me. I'm not all that into Biblical poetry, but this was stunning, and I realise that it was the only phrase that could ever be the title for my great novel, to be completed before I'm thirty. Which means I have about nine and a half years more. But anyhow, the verse says,
Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun.
And I was thinking, wow. A Tabernacle for the Sun, M. Deutsch, would look really fabulous on a leather spine in bold black ink. So I googled to see whether it was an available book title, and guess what. Some bird called Linda Proud has already snatched it up. For some bolloxed novel about a Venetian runaway. How lame is that? I mean, honestly. Mine would at least have been contemporary and transgressive and borderline gonzo. Let's face it, I write compellingly.
Giggle.
None of you have ever read my serious fictional work, and we're going to leave it like that until I'm thirty, all right?
Anyhow. So that's all through with, and I was thinking and thinking about another title, cause nothing sums up what I want to write about as much as that phrase.
It's like Hebrew names. I love Hebrew names, and should I ever have babies (they will be with David Tennant, or Daniel Craig, let's not mistake things), they're going to have good Hebrew names, even if I end up with a little girl called Mannaseh and a little boy called Devorit.
But, yeah, I've come to the conclusion that whatever novel I write, the title's probably going to be something out of the Bible, and not because of this nonsense trend that's come out about writing faux-shocking things about religious canon (take that, Dan Brown!). It probably won't have anything obvious to do with the Bible, and you're going to have to squint very hard to see the very deep philosophical and social statements I'll be making, but oh, trust me, they'll be around. Hidden in long, langourous scenes about lovers touching one another with their finger-tips as they asphyxiate in tombs, or a screaming old man making sacrifices to Baal-Jupiter, kneeling in the brick-red Arizona desert, sucking water from aloe vera plants and cutting his feet to ribbons on the Mojave rocks.
Oh, yes, you will squint.
And you will be wrung out like a dishrag.
Move over, Ian McEwan, I'm going to make people cry like you've never dreamed!
Anyhow, I was reading Psalm nineteen this morning, and a phrase from verse four leapt out at me. I'm not all that into Biblical poetry, but this was stunning, and I realise that it was the only phrase that could ever be the title for my great novel, to be completed before I'm thirty. Which means I have about nine and a half years more. But anyhow, the verse says,
Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun.
And I was thinking, wow. A Tabernacle for the Sun, M. Deutsch, would look really fabulous on a leather spine in bold black ink. So I googled to see whether it was an available book title, and guess what. Some bird called Linda Proud has already snatched it up. For some bolloxed novel about a Venetian runaway. How lame is that? I mean, honestly. Mine would at least have been contemporary and transgressive and borderline gonzo. Let's face it, I write compellingly.
Giggle.
None of you have ever read my serious fictional work, and we're going to leave it like that until I'm thirty, all right?
Anyhow. So that's all through with, and I was thinking and thinking about another title, cause nothing sums up what I want to write about as much as that phrase.
It's like Hebrew names. I love Hebrew names, and should I ever have babies (they will be with David Tennant, or Daniel Craig, let's not mistake things), they're going to have good Hebrew names, even if I end up with a little girl called Mannaseh and a little boy called Devorit.
But, yeah, I've come to the conclusion that whatever novel I write, the title's probably going to be something out of the Bible, and not because of this nonsense trend that's come out about writing faux-shocking things about religious canon (take that, Dan Brown!). It probably won't have anything obvious to do with the Bible, and you're going to have to squint very hard to see the very deep philosophical and social statements I'll be making, but oh, trust me, they'll be around. Hidden in long, langourous scenes about lovers touching one another with their finger-tips as they asphyxiate in tombs, or a screaming old man making sacrifices to Baal-Jupiter, kneeling in the brick-red Arizona desert, sucking water from aloe vera plants and cutting his feet to ribbons on the Mojave rocks.
Oh, yes, you will squint.
And you will be wrung out like a dishrag.
Move over, Ian McEwan, I'm going to make people cry like you've never dreamed!
Sunday, 5 October 2008
On the Metro
You might remember, if you've known me long enough, how a long, long, time ago I was madly in love with a tall, slim brunet with big blue eyes and a flirty wink. He was called 'Drake,' but I determinedly called him my Adonis.
Well.
He has been effectively replaced.
By a skinny little man who gives me free coffee and shortbread.
I love my Nicky.
I will fight you for him, Aimee.
Also, David Tennant.
Here, c'est moi.
Well.
He has been effectively replaced.
By a skinny little man who gives me free coffee and shortbread.
I love my Nicky.
I will fight you for him, Aimee.
Also, David Tennant.
Here, c'est moi.
Friday, 12 September 2008
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
Mood: Finger-tips hurting.
Listening To: 'The Regret' 500 Miles to Memphis
Reading: Tiger in the Smoke, Margery Allingham
Eating: roast beef and potatoes
Drinking: Smart Water!
I ain't ready, I ain't ready,
Don't put me in that pine box yet.
Hah. This song is totally rockin. I wanna rip out its spine and move in.
Things are a little crazy. I've been working out like a pony, and I made a silly little promise to a green-eyed boy that I wouldn't cut my hair till he does. Considering both of us look like haystacks, and he's well chuffed with my state of disarray, I think that may have been a bit unwise.
I've also developed a very unhealthy desire to watch High School Musical.
Listening To: 'The Regret' 500 Miles to Memphis
Reading: Tiger in the Smoke, Margery Allingham
Eating: roast beef and potatoes
Drinking: Smart Water!
I ain't ready, I ain't ready,
Don't put me in that pine box yet.
Hah. This song is totally rockin. I wanna rip out its spine and move in.
Things are a little crazy. I've been working out like a pony, and I made a silly little promise to a green-eyed boy that I wouldn't cut my hair till he does. Considering both of us look like haystacks, and he's well chuffed with my state of disarray, I think that may have been a bit unwise.
I've also developed a very unhealthy desire to watch High School Musical.
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
Man Candy
I am sick to DEATH of people telling me I look like Halle Berry.If I looked like Halle Berry, I would have a gorgeous man-piece like Gabriel Aubry.
So there.
Been grooving to Radiohead...actually, just two of their tracks, Karma Police and No Surprises, both from OK Computer. I've got the most depressing playlist on my mp3 player right now...it even has Blue Eyed Soul by Wilco on it, but then suddenly starts spritzing up with Delivery by Babyshambles, which, incidentally, is the catchiest fucking tune in the history of catchy tunes. Long live Shotter's Nation, mah lovelies!
Urb. I'm going to go to bed and dream about blond Adonislike gods.
Observe.
Though, to be perfectly honest, I've been less and less about perfectly chiselled good looks lately, and more about scruffylooking men with killer smiles. Weird, huh?
I accosted some poor, random bloke in the mall the other day just cause he had the most glorious beard...and he was a blond. Obviously, fair men usually have kind of patchy facial hair..but he had this fabulous full on golden beard, all vikingly, and a great smile and all dimply through it.
Oh. I'm experimenting with watercolour canvas.
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