The word on everyone’s lips these days: Spring. I don’t think that season exists here though. Spring is when the temperature begins to rise above zero, and then frozen things melt. We don’t normally have temperatures below freezing, hence nothing to melt. Once it gets warmer, things will turn greener, I guess. But carry on with your Spring fever, I don’t mind! It does a body good to be in such close proximity to seasonally-derived exhilaration.
This week has felt like one big long nightmare: the kind you can’t wake up from, because it’s where you work. I’ve gone from holy prodigy to impure infidel in the space of a month. This is precisely why I’m against status; the good townspeople need an idol they can decorate in sin and then tear to shreds. It’s called civilization, and it’s why we go around feeling smug in our ugly plastic Crocs (well, not me, but).
Regardless, I’m glad I got it over with early, because now I can settle into a comfortable state of peevish reluctance to do anything, at least until I quit or get fired.
I should really spend my lunch hour away from my desk from now on, because invariably someone will remember me and then start a little notice-me!-dance in my peripheral vision on the off-chance I might engage them in an impromptu meeting, I guess because they have nothing better to do on their lunch hour. Go away, sad colleagues!
ON the plus side, we have a nice weekend planned around bowling, a modest gathering and another houseguest from Canada (two, actually), which will take us to nearly April, when we move into our new flat. Then it’s Norway, another visitor and ATP. It’s time to start focusing on the parts of my life I’m actually bothered about and let the rest drift back out to sea.
13 March 2008
11 March 2008
From meme to youyou
Thanks, Lass.
1. Who was your first prom date?
I like where you’re going with that. But I didn’t go to prom. I think we called it after-grad, and I would have taken my then-boyfriend Tim, who I fell out with almost immediately, for punching him jokingly (though not) in the stomach before we got onto the secret bus that took us to the secret bar that was secretly rented out for us to secretly die of boredom inside of. All night long, baby.
2. Do you still talk to your first love?
No.
3. What was your first alcoholic drink?
White Rum, and I only drank it to tell a boy what I really thought of him (turns out it’s still considered mean if you say it when you’re really drunk).
4. What was your first job?
A kiosk that sold grilled Japanese food, in a food court, in a mall. I sliced frozen chicken breasts all morning and rang up orders during the lunch rush. Sometimes I stirred the chicken on the grill.
5. What was your first car?
Technically, it was my sister’s hand-me-down Cougar, but I think she was just using me for my parking space, as I didn’t have a license and had no intention of ever driving it. She sold it on me a year later.
6. Who was the first person to text you today?
I like where you’re going with this too. It was my husband. In fact, he was the only person to text me today.
7. Who is the first person you thought of this morning?
Other than my growing awareness of self? Bruce.
8. Who was your first grade teacher?
Madame Chauldice, I think. I don’t remember a thing about her though.
9. Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane?
My dad flew us to Swift Current, though we didn’t land - we just circled the grain elevator and flew back again.
10. Who was your first best friend, and are you still friends with him/her?
That would be Chad, and no, we haven’t been friends since we were 11, when the sad truth about our differing genders occurred to one or both of us.
11. What was your first sport played?
I’m still waiting to do that.
12. Where was your first sleepover?
My childhood was one long sleepover. My sister’s maybe?
13. Who was the first person you talked to today?
Bruce.
14. Whose wedding were you in the first time?
My sister’s. Is this an invitation to reminisce or something? Um, okay. I wore a horrible itchy white dress and was pursued by an overly friendly stranger whose attention scared me so badly that I ended up hiding in the toilet for most of the reception.
15. What was the first thing you did this morning?
Asked Bruce what time it was because it looked much lighter than seven.
16. What was the first concert you ever went to?
It was something at the Black Market, which was basically a stage in a basement beneath a Greek restaurant downtown. It had a makeshift bar but you needed a bracelet to drink. I think it was Funk ‘n Stein, actually.
17. What was your first tattoo or piercing?
I like where you’re going with this. It was MY EARS. The end.
18. What was the first foreign country you went to?
The United States of McDonalds. I guess that’s not strictly foreign since we shared a continent, regardless. Otherwise, it was Holland.
19. What was your first run-in with the law?
I was in a car with my friend and two boys we knew, driving aimlessly when suddenly the police pulled us over. We thought it was because we were high, but actually, there’d been a robbery in the neighborhood and the suspects fit our description (four kids in a white vehicle). The story grows less interesting each time I tell it though, so I’ll skip the details
20. When was your first detention?
I brought a flare gun to school, which accidentally went off in my locker and caused like this minor…oh wait, no. That was The Breakfast Club.
21. What was the first state you lived in?
I like where you’re going with this. But fuck off.
22. Who was the first person to break your heart?
James. He left me for his best friend, who was boring to look at, but romantically tragic because she had an abusive boyfriend and yet never stopped smiling.
23. Who was your first roommate?
My then-boyfriend Aidan and my friend Shauna.
24. Where did you go on your first limo ride?
I’ve never been in a limo, strangely. I had the opportunity to ride in one when I was an in-patient but I was out on a day pass that afternoon. That is what they do with the mentally ill in Canada – they pile them into a limo and send them to a neighboring town for ice cream.
1. Who was your first prom date?
I like where you’re going with that. But I didn’t go to prom. I think we called it after-grad, and I would have taken my then-boyfriend Tim, who I fell out with almost immediately, for punching him jokingly (though not) in the stomach before we got onto the secret bus that took us to the secret bar that was secretly rented out for us to secretly die of boredom inside of. All night long, baby.
2. Do you still talk to your first love?
No.
3. What was your first alcoholic drink?
White Rum, and I only drank it to tell a boy what I really thought of him (turns out it’s still considered mean if you say it when you’re really drunk).
4. What was your first job?
A kiosk that sold grilled Japanese food, in a food court, in a mall. I sliced frozen chicken breasts all morning and rang up orders during the lunch rush. Sometimes I stirred the chicken on the grill.
5. What was your first car?
Technically, it was my sister’s hand-me-down Cougar, but I think she was just using me for my parking space, as I didn’t have a license and had no intention of ever driving it. She sold it on me a year later.
6. Who was the first person to text you today?
I like where you’re going with this too. It was my husband. In fact, he was the only person to text me today.
7. Who is the first person you thought of this morning?
Other than my growing awareness of self? Bruce.
8. Who was your first grade teacher?
Madame Chauldice, I think. I don’t remember a thing about her though.
9. Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane?
My dad flew us to Swift Current, though we didn’t land - we just circled the grain elevator and flew back again.
10. Who was your first best friend, and are you still friends with him/her?
That would be Chad, and no, we haven’t been friends since we were 11, when the sad truth about our differing genders occurred to one or both of us.
11. What was your first sport played?
I’m still waiting to do that.
12. Where was your first sleepover?
My childhood was one long sleepover. My sister’s maybe?
13. Who was the first person you talked to today?
Bruce.
14. Whose wedding were you in the first time?
My sister’s. Is this an invitation to reminisce or something? Um, okay. I wore a horrible itchy white dress and was pursued by an overly friendly stranger whose attention scared me so badly that I ended up hiding in the toilet for most of the reception.
15. What was the first thing you did this morning?
Asked Bruce what time it was because it looked much lighter than seven.
16. What was the first concert you ever went to?
It was something at the Black Market, which was basically a stage in a basement beneath a Greek restaurant downtown. It had a makeshift bar but you needed a bracelet to drink. I think it was Funk ‘n Stein, actually.
17. What was your first tattoo or piercing?
I like where you’re going with this. It was MY EARS. The end.
18. What was the first foreign country you went to?
The United States of McDonalds. I guess that’s not strictly foreign since we shared a continent, regardless. Otherwise, it was Holland.
19. What was your first run-in with the law?
I was in a car with my friend and two boys we knew, driving aimlessly when suddenly the police pulled us over. We thought it was because we were high, but actually, there’d been a robbery in the neighborhood and the suspects fit our description (four kids in a white vehicle). The story grows less interesting each time I tell it though, so I’ll skip the details
20. When was your first detention?
I brought a flare gun to school, which accidentally went off in my locker and caused like this minor…oh wait, no. That was The Breakfast Club.
21. What was the first state you lived in?
I like where you’re going with this. But fuck off.
22. Who was the first person to break your heart?
James. He left me for his best friend, who was boring to look at, but romantically tragic because she had an abusive boyfriend and yet never stopped smiling.
23. Who was your first roommate?
My then-boyfriend Aidan and my friend Shauna.
24. Where did you go on your first limo ride?
I’ve never been in a limo, strangely. I had the opportunity to ride in one when I was an in-patient but I was out on a day pass that afternoon. That is what they do with the mentally ill in Canada – they pile them into a limo and send them to a neighboring town for ice cream.
10 March 2008
Death and natural imagery make for bad dreams (and posts)
Blahdiwhat you say? I don’t know. Sorry about that.
I have no time for this space anymore. I only have so many stones with which to anchor the unruly tarpaulin of my existence and this stone just isn’t big enough I’m afraid. That’s probably the craziest thing I’ve ever said though, so let’s let that particular bygone be gone immediately and move swiftly ahead to something equally esoteric but possibly less annoying.
Watch Your Step
I’ve formed this habit of waking up about twenty minutes after I’ve fallen asleep with one thought in my head: O. M. G! I am going to die one day!
I mean, duh. But for some reason, that certainty is only a revelation when it occurs in the terrifying lucidity of half-sleep, and my subconscious will play it out in many different ways until my conscious mind goes OKAY, I GET IT: ‘I AM GOING TO DIE ONE DAY.’ CAN I PLEASE GO BACK TO SLEEP NOW?
But no, I have an image of little antelopes being driven off a sheer, planetary cliff-face by a relentless conveyor belt of death. And THAT’S not a very relaxing idea, so.
So so so, I’m already behind on this day. And it is raining so much rain that London looks like one big aquarium of miserable fish. Back to the drawing board.
The End
(But for how long?)
I have no time for this space anymore. I only have so many stones with which to anchor the unruly tarpaulin of my existence and this stone just isn’t big enough I’m afraid. That’s probably the craziest thing I’ve ever said though, so let’s let that particular bygone be gone immediately and move swiftly ahead to something equally esoteric but possibly less annoying.
Watch Your Step
I’ve formed this habit of waking up about twenty minutes after I’ve fallen asleep with one thought in my head: O. M. G! I am going to die one day!
I mean, duh. But for some reason, that certainty is only a revelation when it occurs in the terrifying lucidity of half-sleep, and my subconscious will play it out in many different ways until my conscious mind goes OKAY, I GET IT: ‘I AM GOING TO DIE ONE DAY.’ CAN I PLEASE GO BACK TO SLEEP NOW?
But no, I have an image of little antelopes being driven off a sheer, planetary cliff-face by a relentless conveyor belt of death. And THAT’S not a very relaxing idea, so.
So so so, I’m already behind on this day. And it is raining so much rain that London looks like one big aquarium of miserable fish. Back to the drawing board.
The End
(But for how long?)
09 March 2008
Inconclusive
The past, be it near or far, isn’t the relative distance between an event experienced and our perception of that experience. It’s just as present in our lives as a book in the other room. The only difference between the past and a book in the other room is that the past remains inaccessible, behind a curtain; or petrified, like stone.
Distance is more like the past than the past is – real distance, or that which takes place elsewhere concurrently, is more inaccessible than the past, because one must rely on imagination (rather than memory) to transport us there. To instantly find oneself anywhere other than where one could reasonably be found in a matter of moments (say one thousand miles away) and hear its sounds, however mundane (children calling to each other outdoors; a dog barking; a refrigerator chugging to a halt), would be to experience the divine.
The divine isn’t another country where drifters aspire to travel one day; the divine is only that which exists on the opposite side of possibility.
Distance is more like the past than the past is – real distance, or that which takes place elsewhere concurrently, is more inaccessible than the past, because one must rely on imagination (rather than memory) to transport us there. To instantly find oneself anywhere other than where one could reasonably be found in a matter of moments (say one thousand miles away) and hear its sounds, however mundane (children calling to each other outdoors; a dog barking; a refrigerator chugging to a halt), would be to experience the divine.
The divine isn’t another country where drifters aspire to travel one day; the divine is only that which exists on the opposite side of possibility.
06 March 2008
It's official
This morning I woke up a few minutes before the alarm we didn’t set, got into the bath, put on my clothes, crawled back into bed, buried my face in Bruce’s chest and told him I couldn’t do it today. I say that on a semi-regular basis, but there must have been something in it this time, because Bruce told me to take the day off.
So after emailing work, I spent the morning and afternoon doing exactly what I felt like doing, which was a big fat nothing. I feel so much better for it, like I could take on the world tomorrow (which they’re sort of expecting from me) and not spend my whole weekend hiding under the bed with the cats. There is nothing like an impromptu day off.
Bruce called me from Trafalgar square to say that our estate agent called to say that our reference checks went through and our flat is ready to move into April first. That is a massive relief. I’m so excited I could jump up and down. But I’m reserving my energy for tomorrow.
So after emailing work, I spent the morning and afternoon doing exactly what I felt like doing, which was a big fat nothing. I feel so much better for it, like I could take on the world tomorrow (which they’re sort of expecting from me) and not spend my whole weekend hiding under the bed with the cats. There is nothing like an impromptu day off.
Bruce called me from Trafalgar square to say that our estate agent called to say that our reference checks went through and our flat is ready to move into April first. That is a massive relief. I’m so excited I could jump up and down. But I’m reserving my energy for tomorrow.
05 March 2008
x365: 21 of 365 - Chris K
We laughed at you, Tex and me. I’m glad you’re a fuck-up, and that your ex-girlfriend married a scientologist. Go pass out on a Salisbury steak, you waste of screen time.
In no particular order
A list of books we're giving away on freecycle
Allen Carr – Packing it in the Easy Way
Various - Philosophy, Society and Politics
Jake Arnott – True Crime
Ali Smith – The Accidental
Willy Russell – The Wrong Boy
Philip Kapleau – The Wheel of Life and Death
Descartes – Philosophical Writings
Descartes – Discourse on Method and Meditations on First Philosophy
Hume – An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding
Hugo in 3 Months – Portuguese
C.G.Jung – The Undiscovered Self
Leibniz – Philosophical Writings
Stuart Hampshire – Spinoza
Bertrand Russell – The Problems of Philosophy
A.J. Ayer – The Central Questions of Philosophy
Various - What Philosophy Does
Chambers Dictionary of Beliefs and Religions
Russell Miller – The House of Getty
Jonathan Franzen – The Corrections
Anthony O’Hear – What Philosophy is
John King – Headhunters
Kate Christensen – In the Drink
Various - A Dictionary of Philosophy
The Photo Book
Davies – An Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion
Howard Sounes – Fred & Rose
Perry Groves - We All Live in a Perry Groves World
Shawn Levy – Ratpack Confidential
Alex Garland – The Beach (first edition)
Godfrey Vesey – Philosophy in the Open
Caroline Sullivan – Bye Bye Baby
Iaian Banks – Dead Air
Paulo Coelho – The Alchemist
Nick Hornby – How to Be Good
Jason Burke – Al Qaeda
Peter Carey – True History of The Kelly Gang
Joan Didion – The Year of Magical Thinking
Elizabeth Wurtzel – Prozac Nation
Naomi Klein – Fences and Windows
Nick Hornby – About a Boy
Haruki Murakami – Sputnik Sweetheart
Irvine Welsh – Ecstasy
Christopher Isherwood – Goodbye to Berlin
Patricia Duncker – Hallucinating Foucault
John Irving – A Prayer for Owen Meaney
Nick McDonell – Twelve
Jeanette Winterson – Written on the Body
Craig W. Thomas – Losing My Religion
Jeanette Winterson – The Power Book
Calvin Pinchin – Issues in Philosophy
A.L.Kennedy – Now that you’re back
Alex Garland – The Beach
Reg Thompson – Dear Charlie: Letters to a Lost Daughter
Inazo Nitobe – Bushido: The Soul of Japan
Chuck Palahniuk – Diary
Manners for Men
Paul Theroux – Sir Vidia’s Shadow
Primo Levi – The Periodic Table
George Orwell – Homage to Catatonia
James Joyce – A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
James Joyce – Dubliners
Georges Bataille – Story of the Eye
Bizarro Postcards
Robertson Davies – Fifth Business
Roger-Pol Droit – 101 Experiments in the Philosophy of Everyday Life
Junot Diaz – Drown
Peter Carey – Bliss
Kathy Acker – Bodies of Work
Arundhati Roy – The God of Small Things
Evelyn Waugh – Black Mischief
Rudyard Kipling – Just So Stories
Alan Paton – Cry, The Beloved Country
Iaian Pears – An Instance of the Fingerpost
Iain Banks – Complicity
A.L. Kennedy – Now that you’re back
Sight and Sound Magazine (7 issues)
Allen Carr – Packing it in the Easy Way
Various - Philosophy, Society and Politics
Jake Arnott – True Crime
Ali Smith – The Accidental
Willy Russell – The Wrong Boy
Philip Kapleau – The Wheel of Life and Death
Descartes – Philosophical Writings
Descartes – Discourse on Method and Meditations on First Philosophy
Hume – An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding
Hugo in 3 Months – Portuguese
C.G.Jung – The Undiscovered Self
Leibniz – Philosophical Writings
Stuart Hampshire – Spinoza
Bertrand Russell – The Problems of Philosophy
A.J. Ayer – The Central Questions of Philosophy
Various - What Philosophy Does
Chambers Dictionary of Beliefs and Religions
Russell Miller – The House of Getty
Jonathan Franzen – The Corrections
Anthony O’Hear – What Philosophy is
John King – Headhunters
Kate Christensen – In the Drink
Various - A Dictionary of Philosophy
The Photo Book
Davies – An Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion
Howard Sounes – Fred & Rose
Perry Groves - We All Live in a Perry Groves World
Shawn Levy – Ratpack Confidential
Alex Garland – The Beach (first edition)
Godfrey Vesey – Philosophy in the Open
Caroline Sullivan – Bye Bye Baby
Iaian Banks – Dead Air
Paulo Coelho – The Alchemist
Nick Hornby – How to Be Good
Jason Burke – Al Qaeda
Peter Carey – True History of The Kelly Gang
Joan Didion – The Year of Magical Thinking
Elizabeth Wurtzel – Prozac Nation
Naomi Klein – Fences and Windows
Nick Hornby – About a Boy
Haruki Murakami – Sputnik Sweetheart
Irvine Welsh – Ecstasy
Christopher Isherwood – Goodbye to Berlin
Patricia Duncker – Hallucinating Foucault
John Irving – A Prayer for Owen Meaney
Nick McDonell – Twelve
Jeanette Winterson – Written on the Body
Craig W. Thomas – Losing My Religion
Jeanette Winterson – The Power Book
Calvin Pinchin – Issues in Philosophy
A.L.Kennedy – Now that you’re back
Alex Garland – The Beach
Reg Thompson – Dear Charlie: Letters to a Lost Daughter
Inazo Nitobe – Bushido: The Soul of Japan
Chuck Palahniuk – Diary
Manners for Men
Paul Theroux – Sir Vidia’s Shadow
Primo Levi – The Periodic Table
George Orwell – Homage to Catatonia
James Joyce – A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
James Joyce – Dubliners
Georges Bataille – Story of the Eye
Bizarro Postcards
Robertson Davies – Fifth Business
Roger-Pol Droit – 101 Experiments in the Philosophy of Everyday Life
Junot Diaz – Drown
Peter Carey – Bliss
Kathy Acker – Bodies of Work
Arundhati Roy – The God of Small Things
Evelyn Waugh – Black Mischief
Rudyard Kipling – Just So Stories
Alan Paton – Cry, The Beloved Country
Iaian Pears – An Instance of the Fingerpost
Iain Banks – Complicity
A.L. Kennedy – Now that you’re back
Sight and Sound Magazine (7 issues)
04 March 2008
In a future world
Gosh, I am writing myself into oblivion. It’s true. The more I write online, the less of me I see there. I don’t mean me as in the me you see when we read quietly on trains, glancing up to watch the countryside whip past us. But me as in: the words and ideas are all outgrowing the simplicity of what I have. And they aren’t even growing like some beautiful plant; they just spread flat, gleaming dully, like laminate.
I wish I could write somewhere, anywhere, else. All these trillions of words in their galaxy of binary code and screen pixels block out the true, lost faces of stars. Just look into them and imagine that I’m there among them somehow.
I wish I could write somewhere, anywhere, else. All these trillions of words in their galaxy of binary code and screen pixels block out the true, lost faces of stars. Just look into them and imagine that I’m there among them somehow.
02 March 2008
All's well that ends in Muswell
Yesterday we traveled to Muswell Hill to pay the remainder of our deposit, and because I wanted to see the place we’re moving to in less than a month. When we saw it being advertised, we felt it was better for Bruce to go and see it immediately (my job’s pretty inflexible) than risk losing it to somebody else. A few days later, he was so unsure of his decision that I was beginning to worry that we'd be living in a very posh broom closet.
The current tenants - a couple maybe five years older than us – were still home when we showed up, but they put to rest any doubts he might have had as they described the hydrangeas, lavender and honeysuckles that would begin to bloom in spring, extolled the virtues of the area and expressed their contentment with the flat overall. The only reason they’re leaving is because they can’t afford to actually buy property there. And who could? A flat like ours would cost a quarter of a million pounds (we looked it up).
The flat is smaller than the one we live in currently, but it’s chock-full of character and is nested in a grandiose house on a very pretty street. We had a walk around the commercial district, situated within a five minute walk from our front door, and were blown away by what we saw – specialty food and clothing shops, dozens of different types of restaurants, cafes, charity shops, pubs, book stores (one just for children), patisseries, three banks (one of them ours), a pet shop, two hairdressers, two cathedrals, two upper-crust grocers and a small first-run cinema. And that was only one arm (there are three, maybe four roads radiating from its center).
The youth there do not walk on their toes, their necks craning to see who or what might be stalking them from the shadows; instead, blushing young boys carried bouquets of flowers for their mothers (it’s Mother’s Day today), young couples strolled with prams and without, and every single person had an expression approximating ecstasy, though possibly I was projecting.
It all reminds me of the area I lived in before I left home, except vaster and more quaint, resembling certain parts of Vancouver as well (call it the hills and the chilled-out Starbucks-goers). There are even a few unexpected delights: a pub inside a converted stone cathedral and a breathtaking view from one of the spokes off Muswell Hill Broadway.
We had an early dinner at La Porchetta (situated minutes from where we’ll be living) and saw something we’d never seen before: diners jumped out of their seats as orchestral-sized music was suddenly piped from the speakers. Around the corner came four staff members - one playing a trumpet, one hiding a candlelit bowl of ice cream behind a menu and one singing happy birthday to a ten-year-old girl with black hair. The forth man twirled a massive disc of thin pizza dough, which he dropped resolutely on the girl’s head, where it fainted, sticking to her face, hair and neck.
And I revised my plans for Bruce’s thirty-seventh birthday.
Overall, it was a very good decision, and I owe Bruce my eternal happiness yet again. As do his family – they are now no more than a 45 minute drive away, which means we can see them more often. They didn’t really believe us when we said our visits would technically be longer if we moved to Canada, and I guess we didn’t really believe it either. They’re good people, and I’m happy for the chance to get to know them even better.
Speaking of family, I should really call my parents. They’re moving to a different apartment at the end of the month too, and probably still feeling a bit sad about our decision to stay here. Ironically, though, my family never feels closer than when we are furthest from one another.
The current tenants - a couple maybe five years older than us – were still home when we showed up, but they put to rest any doubts he might have had as they described the hydrangeas, lavender and honeysuckles that would begin to bloom in spring, extolled the virtues of the area and expressed their contentment with the flat overall. The only reason they’re leaving is because they can’t afford to actually buy property there. And who could? A flat like ours would cost a quarter of a million pounds (we looked it up).
The flat is smaller than the one we live in currently, but it’s chock-full of character and is nested in a grandiose house on a very pretty street. We had a walk around the commercial district, situated within a five minute walk from our front door, and were blown away by what we saw – specialty food and clothing shops, dozens of different types of restaurants, cafes, charity shops, pubs, book stores (one just for children), patisseries, three banks (one of them ours), a pet shop, two hairdressers, two cathedrals, two upper-crust grocers and a small first-run cinema. And that was only one arm (there are three, maybe four roads radiating from its center).
The youth there do not walk on their toes, their necks craning to see who or what might be stalking them from the shadows; instead, blushing young boys carried bouquets of flowers for their mothers (it’s Mother’s Day today), young couples strolled with prams and without, and every single person had an expression approximating ecstasy, though possibly I was projecting.
It all reminds me of the area I lived in before I left home, except vaster and more quaint, resembling certain parts of Vancouver as well (call it the hills and the chilled-out Starbucks-goers). There are even a few unexpected delights: a pub inside a converted stone cathedral and a breathtaking view from one of the spokes off Muswell Hill Broadway.
We had an early dinner at La Porchetta (situated minutes from where we’ll be living) and saw something we’d never seen before: diners jumped out of their seats as orchestral-sized music was suddenly piped from the speakers. Around the corner came four staff members - one playing a trumpet, one hiding a candlelit bowl of ice cream behind a menu and one singing happy birthday to a ten-year-old girl with black hair. The forth man twirled a massive disc of thin pizza dough, which he dropped resolutely on the girl’s head, where it fainted, sticking to her face, hair and neck.
And I revised my plans for Bruce’s thirty-seventh birthday.
Overall, it was a very good decision, and I owe Bruce my eternal happiness yet again. As do his family – they are now no more than a 45 minute drive away, which means we can see them more often. They didn’t really believe us when we said our visits would technically be longer if we moved to Canada, and I guess we didn’t really believe it either. They’re good people, and I’m happy for the chance to get to know them even better.
Speaking of family, I should really call my parents. They’re moving to a different apartment at the end of the month too, and probably still feeling a bit sad about our decision to stay here. Ironically, though, my family never feels closer than when we are furthest from one another.
29 February 2008
Chuffed, as we say
Well, I survived the event and even felt a wee bit hot (I’ll reserve the two-tees-in-hot-blogger-special for another day) if I do say so myself (I just did!).
Today everyone is feeling a bit less than ritzy though, and I’ve a lot of work to keep on top of and grumpy faces to keep from shouting at me.
Nonetheless, I wanted to post some photos so that my mother* can see what our new flat looks like. We found exactly what we were looking for, in the very posh Muswell Hill area, and will be moving to our new digs on 1 April.
Check it out:
Front!
Back!
Inside!
The living room comes with more furnishings than depicted, with a gigantic bed and wall of wardrobes in the bedroom, so now we can save up for dream furniture at our leisure, rather than splash out on top of a terrifying deposit.
And that garden back there? That’s not shared! Meaning we can have nude garden parties! How about it, Shhh?
So it’s goodbye troubled Bermondsey, hello Muswell Hill (and poverty) (hopefully not too much poverty) (or nudity)!
* I assume it’s her, so am writing freely about my drug addiction on a different, secret** site instead.
** Wouldn’t you like to know.
Today everyone is feeling a bit less than ritzy though, and I’ve a lot of work to keep on top of and grumpy faces to keep from shouting at me.
Nonetheless, I wanted to post some photos so that my mother* can see what our new flat looks like. We found exactly what we were looking for, in the very posh Muswell Hill area, and will be moving to our new digs on 1 April.
Check it out:
Front!
Back!
Inside!
The living room comes with more furnishings than depicted, with a gigantic bed and wall of wardrobes in the bedroom, so now we can save up for dream furniture at our leisure, rather than splash out on top of a terrifying deposit.
And that garden back there? That’s not shared! Meaning we can have nude garden parties! How about it, Shhh?
So it’s goodbye troubled Bermondsey, hello Muswell Hill (and poverty) (hopefully not too much poverty) (or nudity)!
* I assume it’s her, so am writing freely about my drug addiction on a different, secret** site instead.
** Wouldn’t you like to know.
28 February 2008
I feel pretty
Last night I went to buy a new dress for a fancy dress work thing. What should have been a relatively simple exercise - given that I found the dress within an hour of looking - ended with Bruce waiting miserably by himself amidst lingerie while I stood topless in a change room trying desperately to make something of the strapless bra-of-many-straps puzzle I’d been handed by the sales girl.
Let this be a lesson to you, ladies of fashion – if you buy a backless dress with a peep front, well. You’re a bit stupid then, aren’t you? Especially if you’ve been wearing the same cotton casual under-things since about twenty years ago, when you hit puberty and vowed never to let a stranger follow you into a cubicle with a tape measurer ever again.
That’s not to say I wasn’t using the power of my mind to try and will the sales girl to ask if I needed help so that I could reach through the curtain and drag her in and make her show me how to build a backless bra using two cups, three long straps and a short elastic bit (she didn't). But sales girls are not paid enough to know anything at all about what they are selling in this country. She was kind enough to let me sneak in a few more garments after the shop had closed, though, so I forgive her.
And now I’m stuck with this dress that looks fine from the front (peep peep!) and slightly ridiculous from the back. I paraded around in front of sales girl number two asking “If you were a girl and you saw someone in a backless dress with her bra strap showing like this, would you think it looked stupid?”
“No, it looks not stupid” she said in near-perfect English. Then she smiled reassuringly, as if to put a finer point on it.
Which at half eight on a Wednesday night was good enough for me. I’ve got a cardigan anyway, just in case I can sense mirth from the other, more sensibly dressed women at the event. Though I am hoping someone shows up looking like a chandelier, because that always trumps a visible bra strap.
Oh, and remember when tights used to be really itchy because they employed some type of unconditioned wool, but you weren’t allowed to take them off because then your legs would show and godforbid you show a little leg at age five? Well now you can have that itchy-legged feeling all over again, as a full-grown woman! I don’t know why fashion has to hurt, but it does.
And that’s all I have time for today, because I’m doing a few more hours work and then I have to go to the toilet and grapple with ten tiny buttons and a sash.
Let this be a lesson to you, ladies of fashion – if you buy a backless dress with a peep front, well. You’re a bit stupid then, aren’t you? Especially if you’ve been wearing the same cotton casual under-things since about twenty years ago, when you hit puberty and vowed never to let a stranger follow you into a cubicle with a tape measurer ever again.
That’s not to say I wasn’t using the power of my mind to try and will the sales girl to ask if I needed help so that I could reach through the curtain and drag her in and make her show me how to build a backless bra using two cups, three long straps and a short elastic bit (she didn't). But sales girls are not paid enough to know anything at all about what they are selling in this country. She was kind enough to let me sneak in a few more garments after the shop had closed, though, so I forgive her.
And now I’m stuck with this dress that looks fine from the front (peep peep!) and slightly ridiculous from the back. I paraded around in front of sales girl number two asking “If you were a girl and you saw someone in a backless dress with her bra strap showing like this, would you think it looked stupid?”
“No, it looks not stupid” she said in near-perfect English. Then she smiled reassuringly, as if to put a finer point on it.
Which at half eight on a Wednesday night was good enough for me. I’ve got a cardigan anyway, just in case I can sense mirth from the other, more sensibly dressed women at the event. Though I am hoping someone shows up looking like a chandelier, because that always trumps a visible bra strap.
Oh, and remember when tights used to be really itchy because they employed some type of unconditioned wool, but you weren’t allowed to take them off because then your legs would show and godforbid you show a little leg at age five? Well now you can have that itchy-legged feeling all over again, as a full-grown woman! I don’t know why fashion has to hurt, but it does.
And that’s all I have time for today, because I’m doing a few more hours work and then I have to go to the toilet and grapple with ten tiny buttons and a sash.
27 February 2008
A New York state of mind
That badge up there was given to me by the lovely and prolific Lass, a freelance writer from Texas who subverts any notions I may have held about Texans and their penchant for fried chicken, Richard Nixon and the electric chair. (I said may have.) She is one classy lady, with the same cheap taste in sweets as me, and I’m tickled that she chose to include me as a member of her online posse.
Earlier this month, I was recognised in a similar vein by Quelle Ergsome, who I’ve been following across the internet for years like some awe-struck little sister who goes Aw, I want to knit a pair of socks in less than a week and make tasty-sounding vegetarian dishes and have a party for all my friends too! and then stomps her foot and runs off to her bedroom to disembowel some Barbie dolls.
The fact of the matter is, I’m always touched and not a little surprised (so A LOT surprised then) when fellow bloggers shine a spotlight on me, partially because it can be such a solitary exercise and I assume that mostly stragglers skim to find out if I’m losing my marbles again or a banjo star or in a family way or divorced. And partially because I’m not used to kindness of the no-strings-attached sort, which is why my husband sometimes wants to shove me in the washing machine, turn the dial to WOULDJA CALM DOWN ALREADY and hit START.
So I’m an asshole and I forget to give props to those online writers who have no idea how much I rely on their openness, honesty and genuine insights into the human condition, because sometimes I forget that I’m not the only person in the world who feels anxious or irrational or oversensitive or un-fabulous. And that it’s okay to have the opposite of these feelings too.
I can’t pick only ten, because half of them are locked and half need no introduction, but you know who you are. So have an E, guys - it’s on me.
Alright, enough with the group hug. Let’s move on to…
Work! I had such a good day at work yesterday that I’m coming down a little bit and don’t feel like doing anything now. That’s the way I function though: up, down, up, down, round and round forever. I think I might also have a natural Extreme Happiness Inhibitor (EHI), which prevents me from overreacting to positive situations on the off-chance I get crushed.
No, I’m much more comfortable hovering inches above misery’s ocean floor, bumping heads with the small blind creatures that live in its perpetual darkness. It’s much easier to just hang about until I’m needed rather than wait for someone or something to dump me there from a helicopter.
I think my inner voice must belong to an angry taxi driver living in New York, as I spend my morning walk to work having thoughts like:
Jaysus Christ, you’re practically a giant and you can’t walk faster than a shuffle? Whatsamadda, you got your head caught in the Goodyear blimp or something? MOVEITBUDDY!
Look lady, don’t punish ME just because YOU decided to put on stupid shoes this morning.
Aw fantastic, now I godda walk behind these assholes. Why do suits always godda walk so goddamn slow when they get together? Mother of Christ, I just want to make that green light oh great now it’s red THANK YOU! Thanks for nothin’.
Meanwhile, my iPod is shuffling undecidedly between Bjork and Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, singing me ever closer to a neurotic meltdown. My walks to work are never boring, I’ll give them that much.
I saw someone on a motorbike who had pulled over to the shoulder and was now trying to decipher a road map. The motorbike was an EMT-issued vehicle, and although I felt really sorry for whoever was on the receiving end of that service, I couldn’t help wishing I’d brought my camera.
26 February 2008
Where I complain about the Oscars and other oblique issues
I’ve found a new and improved way of living, which leaves very little room for anxiety. Basically, you put your overstuffed iTunes on shuffle and stop worrying about who made tea for whom and who should you make tea for today?
Am I on the tea train? Am I not on the tea train? Who cares! I’ll make a cup of tea for myself when I feel like one or, hell! I’ll make everyone a cup of tea! Hey! You over there on the south side! You want a cuppa too?! O! Kay!
And then you stop worrying about what everyone thinks of you and just do your job the best way you know how, and if they don’t like it, well, stuff ‘em, hey?
Easy fucking peasy.
Yesterday I felt like Carrie Bradshaw in the opening credits of Sex and the City – walking along the city sidewalks, very much in my element, feeling sorta fabulous, when all of a sudden: WHOOSH! A bus flies by, flinging muddy puddle water at my designer pink chiffon dress, rendering me decidedly un-fabulous.
But then I got over it, because know what? Once you’ve hit your stride in life, a little bit of mud doesn’t make much of a lasting impression. Cover me in the stuff and I will still be fa-bu-lous. Oh I’ll cry a bit! But not for long.
Can I complain for a few minutes though? Okay good thanks.
So what was up with the Oscars? I mean, I know what’s up with the Oscars – they take an okay film, clock it on the head with a gold-painted statuette and raise it to the height of the Mother Theresa of all filmmaking, whilst giving nary a hat-tip to anything worthwhile. But what was up with the nominations, even?
Once There Will be Blood flickered up onto the big screen, it took me nearly forty-five minutes to catch my breath. I mean, wow! Wowowowowow! This is not the type of film critique that won me awards back in University, I know, but I have no other words! I was completely mowed down by the film in general, and the one thing about it that struck me the hardest was the soundtrack.
Did anyone notice the la-la-lackadaisical tippy-tap of the score in Atonement? Me neither!
But There Will be Blood has replaced The Conversation for me as the ultimate film soundtrack (barring any soundtracks containing pop tunes I might actually play at home), because, better than the cinematography, better than the mis-en-scene, this element exemplified the queasy ignorance of the period and the crushing impassiveness of the setting. It reminded me of the way Wisconsin Death Trip made me feel as I was reading it. Really, you couldn’t ask for more from a soundtrack.
But the Academy would still rather heap praise onto a conceptually uninteresting piece containing the innovative sound of…a typewriter. Because guess what. OMG she is TYPING the BOOK of the FILM we are WATCHING on a TYPEWRITER! *We faint at the ingeniousness of it all*
Meanwhile, There Will be Blood doesn’t even make the cut for notable soundtracks.
And that is the way of the world, good peeps. Mediocrity will rise to the top to sit upon the ornate heads of artists. It keeps the little guys feeling like big guys without ever asking them to lift a finger.
Whoops, and I’ve officially taken my complaint and upgraded it to a rant. Ah well. It's my soapbox, I can rant if I want to.
Am I on the tea train? Am I not on the tea train? Who cares! I’ll make a cup of tea for myself when I feel like one or, hell! I’ll make everyone a cup of tea! Hey! You over there on the south side! You want a cuppa too?! O! Kay!
And then you stop worrying about what everyone thinks of you and just do your job the best way you know how, and if they don’t like it, well, stuff ‘em, hey?
Easy fucking peasy.
Yesterday I felt like Carrie Bradshaw in the opening credits of Sex and the City – walking along the city sidewalks, very much in my element, feeling sorta fabulous, when all of a sudden: WHOOSH! A bus flies by, flinging muddy puddle water at my designer pink chiffon dress, rendering me decidedly un-fabulous.
But then I got over it, because know what? Once you’ve hit your stride in life, a little bit of mud doesn’t make much of a lasting impression. Cover me in the stuff and I will still be fa-bu-lous. Oh I’ll cry a bit! But not for long.
Can I complain for a few minutes though? Okay good thanks.
So what was up with the Oscars? I mean, I know what’s up with the Oscars – they take an okay film, clock it on the head with a gold-painted statuette and raise it to the height of the Mother Theresa of all filmmaking, whilst giving nary a hat-tip to anything worthwhile. But what was up with the nominations, even?
Once There Will be Blood flickered up onto the big screen, it took me nearly forty-five minutes to catch my breath. I mean, wow! Wowowowowow! This is not the type of film critique that won me awards back in University, I know, but I have no other words! I was completely mowed down by the film in general, and the one thing about it that struck me the hardest was the soundtrack.
Did anyone notice the la-la-lackadaisical tippy-tap of the score in Atonement? Me neither!
But There Will be Blood has replaced The Conversation for me as the ultimate film soundtrack (barring any soundtracks containing pop tunes I might actually play at home), because, better than the cinematography, better than the mis-en-scene, this element exemplified the queasy ignorance of the period and the crushing impassiveness of the setting. It reminded me of the way Wisconsin Death Trip made me feel as I was reading it. Really, you couldn’t ask for more from a soundtrack.
But the Academy would still rather heap praise onto a conceptually uninteresting piece containing the innovative sound of…a typewriter. Because guess what. OMG she is TYPING the BOOK of the FILM we are WATCHING on a TYPEWRITER! *We faint at the ingeniousness of it all*
Meanwhile, There Will be Blood doesn’t even make the cut for notable soundtracks.
And that is the way of the world, good peeps. Mediocrity will rise to the top to sit upon the ornate heads of artists. It keeps the little guys feeling like big guys without ever asking them to lift a finger.
Whoops, and I’ve officially taken my complaint and upgraded it to a rant. Ah well. It's my soapbox, I can rant if I want to.
25 February 2008
Brave new self
My husband did some serious damage to his liver (and reputation as the most sober husband on earth) last night. And yet I’m the one feeling hungover this morning – why?
It’s becoming more and more difficult to rake back personal time at work. Everyone deserves a lunch hour, and everyone is responsible for ensuring they take one, but with the amount of work I do on a daily basis, I can barely justify doing no work for an entire hour, even to myself.
This morning I woke to the noise of birds, which was something I noticed a lot during that period of a few months when I was not well in the head. Their morning song seemed like a recording at that time; it was just another superficial element of a convincing backdrop concocted by the party (or parties) who were collaborating to keep me from understanding my predicament. Or so I believed.
I capitalised on the lucidity of this hazy recollection, extending the meaning to encapsulate what I find so impossible to nail down about my experience now. The only way to achieve continuity is to live without ever having to abandon your own foundational context. I’ve lost this context twice in my life: once when I went mad, and once when I fell in love (which is a bit like going mad) and moved away from home.
This morning, I had to concede that the life I experienced in the hospital almost six years ago is still the same life I lead now, in London. I won’t say there’s little difference between a mental ward and London, though I guess someone more cynical than me might try and make that comparison. But even though both experiences are vastly different in terms of what they mean, they share the same undigested quality.
The only way to measure experience is with the levelling tool of identity. Lose that essential component to life-building, though, and you’d be hard-pressed to understand much of anything. Okay fine, I’d tell my addled brain, Let’s regroup here on January 2008 at oh nine-hundred hours and assess where we’re at. Except that no thoughts resembling mine ever showed up to the meeting place.
Psychologists are forever telling you that it’s a bad idea to fracture identity, but when you discover something you find impossible to explain, the only thing to do is to stretch yourself until you can account for it. If not me, then some other self.
And this is the other me. The one who is not alone, bitter, narrow-minded and afraid. I can be all these things, of course, but I will never again be all these things, and only these things, all at once. These are the fragments of my identity that, compiled, would exclude everything I am becoming today, and that self is growing stronger by the minute.
But I’m sorry you had to weed through this to find out that none of it was about you. On the other hand, maybe you found yourself washed up on the shore of some brave new world too, in which case, I extend my hand across the divide to shake yours.
It’s becoming more and more difficult to rake back personal time at work. Everyone deserves a lunch hour, and everyone is responsible for ensuring they take one, but with the amount of work I do on a daily basis, I can barely justify doing no work for an entire hour, even to myself.
This morning I woke to the noise of birds, which was something I noticed a lot during that period of a few months when I was not well in the head. Their morning song seemed like a recording at that time; it was just another superficial element of a convincing backdrop concocted by the party (or parties) who were collaborating to keep me from understanding my predicament. Or so I believed.
I capitalised on the lucidity of this hazy recollection, extending the meaning to encapsulate what I find so impossible to nail down about my experience now. The only way to achieve continuity is to live without ever having to abandon your own foundational context. I’ve lost this context twice in my life: once when I went mad, and once when I fell in love (which is a bit like going mad) and moved away from home.
This morning, I had to concede that the life I experienced in the hospital almost six years ago is still the same life I lead now, in London. I won’t say there’s little difference between a mental ward and London, though I guess someone more cynical than me might try and make that comparison. But even though both experiences are vastly different in terms of what they mean, they share the same undigested quality.
The only way to measure experience is with the levelling tool of identity. Lose that essential component to life-building, though, and you’d be hard-pressed to understand much of anything. Okay fine, I’d tell my addled brain, Let’s regroup here on January 2008 at oh nine-hundred hours and assess where we’re at. Except that no thoughts resembling mine ever showed up to the meeting place.
Psychologists are forever telling you that it’s a bad idea to fracture identity, but when you discover something you find impossible to explain, the only thing to do is to stretch yourself until you can account for it. If not me, then some other self.
And this is the other me. The one who is not alone, bitter, narrow-minded and afraid. I can be all these things, of course, but I will never again be all these things, and only these things, all at once. These are the fragments of my identity that, compiled, would exclude everything I am becoming today, and that self is growing stronger by the minute.
But I’m sorry you had to weed through this to find out that none of it was about you. On the other hand, maybe you found yourself washed up on the shore of some brave new world too, in which case, I extend my hand across the divide to shake yours.
24 February 2008
Paved paradise
Why is it that asteroids hardly ever stop by Earth for a bit of death and destruction on their way to final destinations anymore? Don’t get too comfy, peeps of divine faith, hybrid vehicles and peaceful Nations, because outer space steps aside for no planet.
Speaking of stepping aside, nobody in London will do that for you either. Shoulders square, opposing armies of shoppers march staunchly into enemy territory like matching Tetris pieces that interlock perfectly before passing straight through. It’s a spatial anomaly made possible only by the mad contortions of a single person who cannot trust the pattern, and so behaves as though she’s lost her right shoulder if you’re passing her on the left, vice versa on the right, until her husband gently suggests she retires from acrobatics and walks like a proud member of the two-shouldered species.
And that is when a good game of Tetris turns suddenly into Space Invaders and I’m body-checking men, women and children so that I might pass freely without having to gimp myself in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed. Is it worth it? I’m not sure, but I’m feeling a bit more limber today and that’s what counts.
It only took us a little over a year to discover the Canada Shop, just down the street from the Maple Leaf pub, and although its modest corner must fend off the more substantial stock of vegemite and Twirls belonging to its domineering Commonwealth brethren, I nearly wept at the sight of Jell-o powder, Kool-Aid and Robin Hood brand flour. O processed, innutritious chemicals of my environmental development, how I’ve missed you!
I’m not a fan of Jell-o or Kool-Aid (or baking) but you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone, so I let nostalgia be my guide, picked up a few things that I may or may not use (Swiss Chalet gravy?) and felt instantly Canadian. Well, North American. There was no pemmican or bannock, curiously, but I’ll take what I can get (or get what I can pay for, anyway).
Oh, and I’ve discovered one less reason to move to Canada: Tim Horton’s coffee, at the Canada shop. Now all I need is a filter-drip coffee maker, which is not easily found in a country that likes its tea.
Some very important football is taking place this afternoon, and kick-off starts at three. I have a few hours yet to decide if I really want to sip soda with Bruce and his closest mates down at the pub, or if wrapping up on the sofa with a good book for a few hours is more my speed on a chilly Sunday afternoon.
Speaking of stepping aside, nobody in London will do that for you either. Shoulders square, opposing armies of shoppers march staunchly into enemy territory like matching Tetris pieces that interlock perfectly before passing straight through. It’s a spatial anomaly made possible only by the mad contortions of a single person who cannot trust the pattern, and so behaves as though she’s lost her right shoulder if you’re passing her on the left, vice versa on the right, until her husband gently suggests she retires from acrobatics and walks like a proud member of the two-shouldered species.
And that is when a good game of Tetris turns suddenly into Space Invaders and I’m body-checking men, women and children so that I might pass freely without having to gimp myself in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed. Is it worth it? I’m not sure, but I’m feeling a bit more limber today and that’s what counts.
It only took us a little over a year to discover the Canada Shop, just down the street from the Maple Leaf pub, and although its modest corner must fend off the more substantial stock of vegemite and Twirls belonging to its domineering Commonwealth brethren, I nearly wept at the sight of Jell-o powder, Kool-Aid and Robin Hood brand flour. O processed, innutritious chemicals of my environmental development, how I’ve missed you!
I’m not a fan of Jell-o or Kool-Aid (or baking) but you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone, so I let nostalgia be my guide, picked up a few things that I may or may not use (Swiss Chalet gravy?) and felt instantly Canadian. Well, North American. There was no pemmican or bannock, curiously, but I’ll take what I can get (or get what I can pay for, anyway).
Oh, and I’ve discovered one less reason to move to Canada: Tim Horton’s coffee, at the Canada shop. Now all I need is a filter-drip coffee maker, which is not easily found in a country that likes its tea.
Some very important football is taking place this afternoon, and kick-off starts at three. I have a few hours yet to decide if I really want to sip soda with Bruce and his closest mates down at the pub, or if wrapping up on the sofa with a good book for a few hours is more my speed on a chilly Sunday afternoon.
21 February 2008
Canawhat?
So, the Brit awards! Wow. Well, anyone who does sound engineering on the albums certainly deserves an award, because the live performances were all indisputably crap. I’m not sure how Mika manages an entire show, if indeed he does – even he was looking distressed by his own appalling vocals in the second song.
I perked up vaguely when the Arctic Monkeys - pissed as farts and wearing traditional English garb - came onstage for their award and began chiding the BRITs School kids (the UK’s answer to the Mickey Mouse Club). Sharon couldn’t keep her shit together either, which was fun.
Today I am having a good day, and will probably go to hell or wherever people stupid enough to count their hours before their day hatches like I did just then end up (if you can sort out that sentence then I congratulate you). But it’s true – work has been satisfying on numerous levels these past few days, and I think it’s because I’ve gained some small recognition from the heavies finally.
I’ve also discovered that if your plate is full, you only need to start feeding the choicest morsels to the dogs. Not that there are dogs under my desk or anything, but I only take ownership over things that are mine now. Easy peasy. You don’t know what I’m banging on about so I’ll switch gears now.
Bruce and I went to see a flat last night, and as we were descending the escalator at Embankment Station, the realtor called to say that it was gone. It’s just as well, because in retrospect, the flat wasn’t exactly what we’d wanted, and to be fair, we got a bit carried away too early on. We’re fairly sure that we will find just the right thing at a time that won’t cost us thousands of pounds in one go. Yes, whew indeed!
With work evening out (is that right? ‘evening’ out?), I can finally look ahead to happier things. In April we’re going to Norway for work (Bruce) andco-dependency pleasure (me), and then we’re setting sail for ATP in May. I’m hoping I will spend more time watching bands and eating pizza and having fun than last year, when I came down with the flu pretty much the first hour we arrived. Then Bil said something about Iceland and Bruce said something about Expensive and I don’t know who to believe, but that’s TBD.
My good friend Lizzie (I can’t seem to abandon her childhood moniker, even though everyone else has) is coming in March as well, and it sounds like we might be going somewhere? I dunno, we’re going to talk it out when she calls. She’s starting off in Manchester though, and I think she’d definitely planned on seeing Paris and Barcelona.
Good god, this could be a travel-heavy spring.
I perked up vaguely when the Arctic Monkeys - pissed as farts and wearing traditional English garb - came onstage for their award and began chiding the BRITs School kids (the UK’s answer to the Mickey Mouse Club). Sharon couldn’t keep her shit together either, which was fun.
Today I am having a good day, and will probably go to hell or wherever people stupid enough to count their hours before their day hatches like I did just then end up (if you can sort out that sentence then I congratulate you). But it’s true – work has been satisfying on numerous levels these past few days, and I think it’s because I’ve gained some small recognition from the heavies finally.
I’ve also discovered that if your plate is full, you only need to start feeding the choicest morsels to the dogs. Not that there are dogs under my desk or anything, but I only take ownership over things that are mine now. Easy peasy. You don’t know what I’m banging on about so I’ll switch gears now.
Bruce and I went to see a flat last night, and as we were descending the escalator at Embankment Station, the realtor called to say that it was gone. It’s just as well, because in retrospect, the flat wasn’t exactly what we’d wanted, and to be fair, we got a bit carried away too early on. We’re fairly sure that we will find just the right thing at a time that won’t cost us thousands of pounds in one go. Yes, whew indeed!
With work evening out (is that right? ‘evening’ out?), I can finally look ahead to happier things. In April we’re going to Norway for work (Bruce) and
My good friend Lizzie (I can’t seem to abandon her childhood moniker, even though everyone else has) is coming in March as well, and it sounds like we might be going somewhere? I dunno, we’re going to talk it out when she calls. She’s starting off in Manchester though, and I think she’d definitely planned on seeing Paris and Barcelona.
Good god, this could be a travel-heavy spring.
19 February 2008
The votes are in
For some odd reason I am not run off my feet today. So I’m stopping in for a proper update, for anyone still interested.
I don’t know if it’s possible to fall for a place, but if it were possible, then I think London might be the place for me after all. I admit that I found Vancouver’s superficial charms (trees, fresh air, mountains) rather titillating over Christmas, but complicated, smelly, cynical London is my one true love.
It’s difficult to explain because I spent so many weeks hating everything about it – the smells, the crowds, the attitudes (cultural and social) and the impossible great maze of it all. Even the loveliest things about the city seemed trite.
Once I stopped objectifying the experience and concentrated on living, however, I noticed how very attached I am to its unique attributes. I don’t think I can ever set foot in a venue for film or music that is older than a few hundred years, for instance. The funny, ill-timed lights and impassive pedestrians; the half-giddy stair decent while the bus is still moving; the unpredictable nature of a building’s insides, its façade giving nothing away – I just couldn’t imagine a life without these things.
And that’s only the clockwork – I haven’t quite nailed down what I find so satisfying about the quaint conventions of shopping and cooking, or of restaurants even. No customer service is replaced by a sense of privacy, and that extends to social relationships. Do you ever get the feeling that you can almost see what any given friend might be up to at any given moment? Well I don’t – not any more. Your guess is as good as mine, and actually, I don’t even have a clear idea of my own spatial or temporal location. Spontaneity isn’t a way of life here, it’s pretty much mandatory.
Waking up in London is a bit like waking up in Disney Land, if you’re a kid, and you’re the sort of kid who likes entertainment parks. The basic elements are the same, but you can expect to have a very different day-to-day experience, no matter what you had in mind.
Another ex-pat and friend of mine once said that London washes over you – whether it’s in a good or bad way depends on your frame of mind. Before Christmas, Bruce and I had hit a wall here. We resented anything and everything that got in the way of our divine right to sit in front of the television, cuddling and eating sour Skittles. It was all London’s fault that we sometimes had to leave the sofa, and Vancouver became our Atlantis.
Then Bruce went to Jordan for work and I went through the motions by myself for a week. When he got back, we both realised how good we have it here, and that we stand an even better chance of doing the things we want to do by staying put.
So I guess we’re staying after all. I’m happy with that decision on a number of levels, the main one being that I think I could get to know myself even more, outside the context and constraints of ‘home’. More than that, I needed to choose this life with both options open, so that I could be sure it’s what I really want. And it is.
I don’t know if it’s possible to fall for a place, but if it were possible, then I think London might be the place for me after all. I admit that I found Vancouver’s superficial charms (trees, fresh air, mountains) rather titillating over Christmas, but complicated, smelly, cynical London is my one true love.
It’s difficult to explain because I spent so many weeks hating everything about it – the smells, the crowds, the attitudes (cultural and social) and the impossible great maze of it all. Even the loveliest things about the city seemed trite.
Once I stopped objectifying the experience and concentrated on living, however, I noticed how very attached I am to its unique attributes. I don’t think I can ever set foot in a venue for film or music that is older than a few hundred years, for instance. The funny, ill-timed lights and impassive pedestrians; the half-giddy stair decent while the bus is still moving; the unpredictable nature of a building’s insides, its façade giving nothing away – I just couldn’t imagine a life without these things.
And that’s only the clockwork – I haven’t quite nailed down what I find so satisfying about the quaint conventions of shopping and cooking, or of restaurants even. No customer service is replaced by a sense of privacy, and that extends to social relationships. Do you ever get the feeling that you can almost see what any given friend might be up to at any given moment? Well I don’t – not any more. Your guess is as good as mine, and actually, I don’t even have a clear idea of my own spatial or temporal location. Spontaneity isn’t a way of life here, it’s pretty much mandatory.
Waking up in London is a bit like waking up in Disney Land, if you’re a kid, and you’re the sort of kid who likes entertainment parks. The basic elements are the same, but you can expect to have a very different day-to-day experience, no matter what you had in mind.
Another ex-pat and friend of mine once said that London washes over you – whether it’s in a good or bad way depends on your frame of mind. Before Christmas, Bruce and I had hit a wall here. We resented anything and everything that got in the way of our divine right to sit in front of the television, cuddling and eating sour Skittles. It was all London’s fault that we sometimes had to leave the sofa, and Vancouver became our Atlantis.
Then Bruce went to Jordan for work and I went through the motions by myself for a week. When he got back, we both realised how good we have it here, and that we stand an even better chance of doing the things we want to do by staying put.
So I guess we’re staying after all. I’m happy with that decision on a number of levels, the main one being that I think I could get to know myself even more, outside the context and constraints of ‘home’. More than that, I needed to choose this life with both options open, so that I could be sure it’s what I really want. And it is.
X365: 20 of 365 – Claire…
is awfully distracted by whatever hair accessory you’re wearing. Her eyes ping unnervingly between your face and your hair. Because she likes it? Or it’s an atrocity? Spell it out, Claire.
18 February 2008
As sick as I am, I would never be you
I’m nearly finished Submarine by new author Joe Dunthorne and can honestly say that it’s the most enjoyable thing I’ve read in several years. The voice is spot-on, the writing deft and uncomplicated, and my inner cynic has been trip-wired into laughter more times than it would care to admit. I looked at the inside back dust jacket and saw why – the guy is only 26.
Give someone a fresh pair of eyes possibly unclouded by stoic years of dense postmodern theory and they may not come back with the Gobstopper of all literary mastication. But then who really wants to spend a lifetime teasing out meaning from a single text? Dr. Who fans, that’s who. But who else? (James Joyce can go drown in a lake of his own tears, if he hadn't already expired.)
My parents rang up last night to say that they’d been busy - “With visitors,” my father said (“With realtors” my mother clarified) - but that they still cared. “We’re so pleased you two are coming, so pleased. Okay? Bye now!”
Apart from that misplaced postscript, I can’t say that’s been our overall impression of the situation. Even if it was, it’s becoming harder to imagine a better life anywhere other than right here. We are independently, carefully balanced on a self-actualised pinnacle that might as well be on the moon in zero gravity, for all its potential to be replicated any other where or way.
For the first time in my life, I do not feel like things are in the process of falling apart. In fact, things feel remarkably stable. I have a job that is tough but rewarding, a family that is close but not smothering, and friends that like and respect me. London used to frighten me with its indifference and warped architectural memory; now it’s begging to feel not only like home, but like some devastatingly beautiful and true ship that saved my moored and savage life.
I suppose you can guess the Captain.
Give someone a fresh pair of eyes possibly unclouded by stoic years of dense postmodern theory and they may not come back with the Gobstopper of all literary mastication. But then who really wants to spend a lifetime teasing out meaning from a single text? Dr. Who fans, that’s who. But who else? (James Joyce can go drown in a lake of his own tears, if he hadn't already expired.)
My parents rang up last night to say that they’d been busy - “With visitors,” my father said (“With realtors” my mother clarified) - but that they still cared. “We’re so pleased you two are coming, so pleased. Okay? Bye now!”
Apart from that misplaced postscript, I can’t say that’s been our overall impression of the situation. Even if it was, it’s becoming harder to imagine a better life anywhere other than right here. We are independently, carefully balanced on a self-actualised pinnacle that might as well be on the moon in zero gravity, for all its potential to be replicated any other where or way.
For the first time in my life, I do not feel like things are in the process of falling apart. In fact, things feel remarkably stable. I have a job that is tough but rewarding, a family that is close but not smothering, and friends that like and respect me. London used to frighten me with its indifference and warped architectural memory; now it’s begging to feel not only like home, but like some devastatingly beautiful and true ship that saved my moored and savage life.
I suppose you can guess the Captain.
17 February 2008
X365: 19 of 365 – Sandwich girl
You made me a sandwich, the day after Valentine’s Day. You’d been beaten up pretty badly. We cracked jokes. I couldn’t understand you because of your accent, and because you mumble.
X365: 18 of 365 – James Ash
I blame you for any subsequent upheaval in relationships that stemmed from a paralysing fear of betrayal, when really, I should blame adolescence. But every difficult lesson needs a poster child.
X365: 17 of 365 – Vicky M
You lied constantly; you hit me when we were friends and you put a cigarette out on my neck when we weren’t. I felt pity when you were ostracised much later.
16 February 2008
Not writing, but frothing at the mouth
I’m not sure if my mother is reading here, but I’m going to have to assume that she has more respect for my (publicly accessible) privacy than she did when I was fourteen. In fact, I’m sure she averted her browser the second she realised that this is the online equivalent of my bedroom and went off to make a sandwich instead.
The fact that she hasn’t called me since I posted about the possibility of her reading here isn’t very comforting, but nonetheless. Hello.
Bruce ordered an original Drowning by Numbers film poster from France the other week, and this morning it finally arrived in the post. He tore open the padded envelope and unfolded it once, twice, three times, four, five…I lost count. It’s in French, it smells musty, the art is expectedly cryptic and unsettling, and shares the surface dimensions of a king-sized bed. We had no idea! And now we have to find a home with walls that are big enough to hang it on.
I suggested we mount it and then hang it five inches from the ceiling from thin silver chains. Bruce said he would consider that. I’m not holding my breath on finding the perfect wall though.
Tonight three miracles took place consecutively. No, four!
One: I made pork medallions with fine cut runner beans and a balsamic reduction
Two: It turned out
Three: Bruce declared it my greatest culinary triumph to date
Four: I got him to watch The Darjeeling Limited and he did not hate that either
There is a fifth miracle but you will have to talk to us in person to find out. And even then, we may not tell you. Hint: it does not involve tentacles, not on any level.
The fact that she hasn’t called me since I posted about the possibility of her reading here isn’t very comforting, but nonetheless. Hello.
Bruce ordered an original Drowning by Numbers film poster from France the other week, and this morning it finally arrived in the post. He tore open the padded envelope and unfolded it once, twice, three times, four, five…I lost count. It’s in French, it smells musty, the art is expectedly cryptic and unsettling, and shares the surface dimensions of a king-sized bed. We had no idea! And now we have to find a home with walls that are big enough to hang it on.
I suggested we mount it and then hang it five inches from the ceiling from thin silver chains. Bruce said he would consider that. I’m not holding my breath on finding the perfect wall though.
Tonight three miracles took place consecutively. No, four!
One: I made pork medallions with fine cut runner beans and a balsamic reduction
Two: It turned out
Three: Bruce declared it my greatest culinary triumph to date
Four: I got him to watch The Darjeeling Limited and he did not hate that either
There is a fifth miracle but you will have to talk to us in person to find out. And even then, we may not tell you. Hint: it does not involve tentacles, not on any level.
14 February 2008
He loves me
Today has been the busiest day of my life. I’ve said that every day for the last few weeks, but only because it’s true! I spent two days away from my desk to help out at an event, and will be paying for it for the next year I’m sure.
Bruce sent flowers to work, but you have to actually pick them up from the post office – they won’t deliver them to you. So I went to the basement hoping against hope it wasn’t a mistake. Not because I couldn’t believe he’d sent them, but because it would be just my luck - to think I was getting flowers when really, nobody understands a word I mumble when I answer the phone.
By 5:20, I was still in a meeting with fellow inmates of the wawaweb, attempting to hurry things along psychically by swinging my leg impatiently in the direction of time moving forward. We’d booked dinner at a French restaurant, which was situated relatively close by, but only if I ran.
And ran I did! So fast and far from my desk that I forgot to bring the flowers with me, making me the Worst! Wife! in London! though Bruce was very understanding (he only looked vaguely crestfallen) and we had a lovely dinner anyway.
Life is moving far too quickly. I don’t know what to do about it sometimes, except move with it.
Bruce sent flowers to work, but you have to actually pick them up from the post office – they won’t deliver them to you. So I went to the basement hoping against hope it wasn’t a mistake. Not because I couldn’t believe he’d sent them, but because it would be just my luck - to think I was getting flowers when really, nobody understands a word I mumble when I answer the phone.
By 5:20, I was still in a meeting with fellow inmates of the wawaweb, attempting to hurry things along psychically by swinging my leg impatiently in the direction of time moving forward. We’d booked dinner at a French restaurant, which was situated relatively close by, but only if I ran.
And ran I did! So fast and far from my desk that I forgot to bring the flowers with me, making me the Worst! Wife! in London! though Bruce was very understanding (he only looked vaguely crestfallen) and we had a lovely dinner anyway.
Life is moving far too quickly. I don’t know what to do about it sometimes, except move with it.
10 February 2008
Epilogue
We don’t own much, in terms of furniture. We have a small sofa, a piano, a television; we own a book shelf but we don’t own a bed, a writing desk, a dining table. We have those things too, but they’re on loan. Our new home could resemble a Rubik’s cube after some of its teeth have been knocked out.
Words like to tumble around, without cohesion mainly, so I don’t record much. It’s a good thing too, as this type of writing recalls that unsophisticated form of poetry they insist you try out in high school, where the lines break in such a way as to create a picture of what the poem is about.
You know.
..............This............
...........is a poem..........
........that I've written........
...oh look, it is a pile of shit.....
I wonder if I will ever find the perfect time and place to sit down and write anything much.
If so, I’m guessing it won’t be here. Or now.
Words like to tumble around, without cohesion mainly, so I don’t record much. It’s a good thing too, as this type of writing recalls that unsophisticated form of poetry they insist you try out in high school, where the lines break in such a way as to create a picture of what the poem is about.
You know.
..............This............
...........is a poem..........
........that I've written........
...oh look, it is a pile of shit.....
I wonder if I will ever find the perfect time and place to sit down and write anything much.
If so, I’m guessing it won’t be here. Or now.
09 February 2008
Last Chance
Have you been lurking around this journal two-to-three times a day since my second-last post? Because even if you don't know your internet provider, surely you must know if you are doing that. And I'll tell you right now, Shaw, you're the only one.
Unless you say otherwise, I'm assuming you're my mother and I'm deleting friday films today. It's just not worth it.
Unless you say otherwise, I'm assuming you're my mother and I'm deleting friday films today. It's just not worth it.
07 February 2008
Where I use a big word, and it isn't falafel
Well if today isn’t your lucky day! I was about to get all philosophical on your ass but then I was sidetracked by work and now I've completely forgotten what I was going to say.
I’m having issues with work (again) (surprise!) whilst simultaneously torturing myself with that whole inner/outer beauty thing that is so (un)important to women and society in general, and do I have enough to sprinkle liberally onto the high-carb pasta of my excellent personality? Yes, even disestablishmentarianists worry about these things sometimes, so lay off would you!
And yet in spite of this familiar roster of pain, I am oddly at peace with the world. Probably because I’m just about to tuck into a falafel sandwich and berry spritzer from Pret.
I think I’ve solved the mystery of Shaw, all by my lonesome, because I suspect Shaw is in complete ignorance of its own IP address and broadband service provider. Which, fine! As long as you weren’t the one responsible for the self-esteem issues I developed in my formative years, you are most welcome to this page. One and all.
Well, and that’s lunch people. It’s either a big long rant or I get a decent lunch from down the road and talk with my mouth full for a few minutes, your choice. (It’s my choice actually and today I choose lunch!) (And loads of exclamation points!)
I’m having issues with work (again) (surprise!) whilst simultaneously torturing myself with that whole inner/outer beauty thing that is so (un)important to women and society in general, and do I have enough to sprinkle liberally onto the high-carb pasta of my excellent personality? Yes, even disestablishmentarianists worry about these things sometimes, so lay off would you!
And yet in spite of this familiar roster of pain, I am oddly at peace with the world. Probably because I’m just about to tuck into a falafel sandwich and berry spritzer from Pret.
I think I’ve solved the mystery of Shaw, all by my lonesome, because I suspect Shaw is in complete ignorance of its own IP address and broadband service provider. Which, fine! As long as you weren’t the one responsible for the self-esteem issues I developed in my formative years, you are most welcome to this page. One and all.
Well, and that’s lunch people. It’s either a big long rant or I get a decent lunch from down the road and talk with my mouth full for a few minutes, your choice. (It’s my choice actually and today I choose lunch!) (And loads of exclamation points!)
04 February 2008
We interrupt this programme
I have been mindlessly writing in this thing (or variations thereof) for about five or six years now. It’s only been within the last year that the anonymity afforded me by a pseudonym was most likely breached by a family member or two (or three). Hence the new address.
But last night, after finding a suspiciously familiar IP address from Shaw that I can’t account for, I got to thinking that maybe my mother knows how to find things online by putting search terms into a browser after all.
I know! Where on earth do parents learn these things? It must be the other, more technologically-advanced parents who shoot their mouths off in the remote aisles of Safeway where our parents can overhear, because I sure as hell didn’t teach her that!
This got me thinking about the other people in my life I’d rather not invite backstage, where all the drama actually takes place. Which once more delivered me into the arms of an age-old dilemma belonging exclusively to private people who write personal information on a publicly accessible space: what am I doing this for?
The obvious answer is: I enjoy writing here. Coming here and posting something - anything at all - makes me feel as though I own a little piece of my day, which otherwise belongs to a job that is pretty intent on destroying my spirit. I do this job willingly (gladly, even) because I know that in the long run, it will help me to achieve some of the things we are very intent on achieving this year. This is a choice I’ve made, and I’m not going to complain about it (much) (overly much).
No, my real issue is with the people who come here to siphon off that last little sip of bliss in an eight-hour grind with their long-reaching straws so they can call me up out of the blue to find out if I’m still planning to move to Vancouver, mother.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But until I know who that Shaw address belongs to (and I hope you’ll just come right out and tell me that I’m off my rocker, Shaw), I’m not going to write a single word more - in this journal or any others.
I enjoy the spontaneity that online writing lends someone as fearful of literary permanency as me, but not to the extent that I could pull down the sheet and expose the real hands of this shadow-puppetry I endeavour to make for a modest audience of (I’m hoping) close friends and perfect strangers.
Expanding my soapbox any further than this makes me cringe, for a variety of reasons I’m sure I could work out with a therapist. But I’m hoping I won’t have to. C’mon Shaw, who are you?
But last night, after finding a suspiciously familiar IP address from Shaw that I can’t account for, I got to thinking that maybe my mother knows how to find things online by putting search terms into a browser after all.
I know! Where on earth do parents learn these things? It must be the other, more technologically-advanced parents who shoot their mouths off in the remote aisles of Safeway where our parents can overhear, because I sure as hell didn’t teach her that!
This got me thinking about the other people in my life I’d rather not invite backstage, where all the drama actually takes place. Which once more delivered me into the arms of an age-old dilemma belonging exclusively to private people who write personal information on a publicly accessible space: what am I doing this for?
The obvious answer is: I enjoy writing here. Coming here and posting something - anything at all - makes me feel as though I own a little piece of my day, which otherwise belongs to a job that is pretty intent on destroying my spirit. I do this job willingly (gladly, even) because I know that in the long run, it will help me to achieve some of the things we are very intent on achieving this year. This is a choice I’ve made, and I’m not going to complain about it (much) (overly much).
No, my real issue is with the people who come here to siphon off that last little sip of bliss in an eight-hour grind with their long-reaching straws so they can call me up out of the blue to find out if I’m still planning to move to Vancouver, mother.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But until I know who that Shaw address belongs to (and I hope you’ll just come right out and tell me that I’m off my rocker, Shaw), I’m not going to write a single word more - in this journal or any others.
I enjoy the spontaneity that online writing lends someone as fearful of literary permanency as me, but not to the extent that I could pull down the sheet and expose the real hands of this shadow-puppetry I endeavour to make for a modest audience of (I’m hoping) close friends and perfect strangers.
Expanding my soapbox any further than this makes me cringe, for a variety of reasons I’m sure I could work out with a therapist. But I’m hoping I won’t have to. C’mon Shaw, who are you?
03 February 2008
It'll only hurt for a lifetime
Oh nothing much. We had a gathering last night for the first time in ages. These fine lovely friends (and one without an online presence, as far as I'm aware) came around for games and food and far too many glasses of wine, and though I'm not feeling brilliantly, I think I got off relatively easy. These last few months off the drink have done wonders for my liver, on top of everything else (skin, weight, mood, etc.), and I think I might meander back in the direction of that wagon over yonder and have myself another sit-down on its kindly passenger seat.
Today Bruce and I were driven around Muswell Hill, a trendy suburb of North London, to have a gander at the properties and neighbourhood. The difference between there and where we live currently isn't so much night and day as it is used condoms and angora jumpers. You want the latter, come around our area, though I recommend you make the extra treck for the posh sweater.
We met briefly with an estate agent who was this close to getting dumped by my mistrustful-of-all-things-agency husband, though we will try and remain open-minded for the benefit of our future new home.
Meanwhile, we're moving ahead with the application process so that we have everything in place the instant we decide to give London the old heave ho and set sail for Canadialand. Land of the free, home of the large Tim Hortons coffee with Timbits, mmmmm.
I've brought some work home with me (well, the intention to work anyway, as the internet constitutes my workspace, wherever it lies) in the hopes that I can make this upcoming week slightly less hellish than it's going to be. So that's what I'm off (here) to do now.
Today Bruce and I were driven around Muswell Hill, a trendy suburb of North London, to have a gander at the properties and neighbourhood. The difference between there and where we live currently isn't so much night and day as it is used condoms and angora jumpers. You want the latter, come around our area, though I recommend you make the extra treck for the posh sweater.
We met briefly with an estate agent who was this close to getting dumped by my mistrustful-of-all-things-agency husband, though we will try and remain open-minded for the benefit of our future new home.
Meanwhile, we're moving ahead with the application process so that we have everything in place the instant we decide to give London the old heave ho and set sail for Canadialand. Land of the free, home of the large Tim Hortons coffee with Timbits, mmmmm.
I've brought some work home with me (well, the intention to work anyway, as the internet constitutes my workspace, wherever it lies) in the hopes that I can make this upcoming week slightly less hellish than it's going to be. So that's what I'm off (here) to do now.
01 February 2008
The cinematic experience
My mother used to say that writing comes easy if you start by getting down one true sentence. I can’t do that at the moment, so I’m calling it a day.
I didn’t know she couldn’t write, at the time I internalized that lesson. Or that writing has nothing to do with truth.
Did you know that the most worthwhile people on earth are those who do their best to dull the sheen of what makes them extraordinary?
Since I’m lying, I should tell you that the only thing that divides us from immortality is ego. You can live forever as an object. But as a subject - you’re already gone.
Either way, you should do what you want.
I didn’t know she couldn’t write, at the time I internalized that lesson. Or that writing has nothing to do with truth.
Did you know that the most worthwhile people on earth are those who do their best to dull the sheen of what makes them extraordinary?
Since I’m lying, I should tell you that the only thing that divides us from immortality is ego. You can live forever as an object. But as a subject - you’re already gone.
Either way, you should do what you want.
31 January 2008
Eh Joan
So Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking has been produced for the stage. I know because somebody bought me season tickets to the National Theatre, so I get all the advance ticket booking notifications (after the Queen, politicians, double-agents, CEOs of major corporations, and friends and family of the National Theatre buy up their share, of course).
And it got me thinking (magically!) about how on earth does somebody make a play of that book? And then I figured it out:
SCENE 1 – AT THE HOME OF JOAN DIDION AND JOHN GREGORY DUNNE
JOAN DIDION busies herself making dinner. Offstage, JOHN GREGORY DUNNE presumably sips brandy by the fire.
JOAN [shouting]: John? Would you like butter and bacon bits on your potato or just sour cream?
THE SILENCE IS DEAFENING.
JOAN: John?
JOHN DOESN’T ANSWER. JOAN GOES TO INVESTIGATE.
JOAN [offstage]: Oh my God! John! What should I do? Call 911? Okay!
SCENE 2 – AT THE HOSPITAL
DOCTOR: Joan, I’m afraid your husband is gone. He was pronounced DOA.
CHILDREN DRESSED AS DEMONS DO AN INTERPRETIVE DANCE AROUND JOAN TO DEMONSTRATE HER MENTAL TURMOIL. IT’S NOT MEANT TO BE TAKEN LITERALLY YOU DIMWITS, IT’S A METAPHOR.
JOAN: Nooooooooo!
SCENE 3 – AT THE HOME OF JOAN DIDION
JOAN IS IN AN EMPTY LIVING ROOM, FONDLING HER HUSBAND’S ARMCHAIR. SUDDENLY, SHE GLANCES DOWN.A REVERSE SHOT REVEALS JOHN’S BELOVED SLIPPERS JOAN PICKS UP A PAIR OF SLIPPERS AND CUDDLES THEM TO HER CHEST.
JOAN: Maybe if I sing the alphabet backwards and list the Presidents of the United States in order while wearing John’s beloved slippers on my head, he’ll come back. He always did look a bit like Nixon!
SCENE 4 – AT THE HOME OF JOAN DIDION
JOAN: I can’t believe he’s gone. It was just a normal evening. I was making dinner.
JOAN GENTLY KNOCKS HER HEAD AGAINST THE WALL THREE TIMES AND TURNS HER SOCKS INSIDE OUT.
&etc.
Actually, they’ve probably found a better way of creating dramatic action out of book-long introspection. Because surely people aren’t going to sit through a whole play made of up Joan’s internal monologue, eh?
The Stars show was packed, by the way. I guess they’ll be turning up on Nokia ads and squeezing themselves into skinny jeans now.
There’s something about fame that makes you believe you would look okay in a pair of skinny jeans, but don’t believe the hype. Especially if you’re Jack Nicholson.
And it got me thinking (magically!) about how on earth does somebody make a play of that book? And then I figured it out:
SCENE 1 – AT THE HOME OF JOAN DIDION AND JOHN GREGORY DUNNE
JOAN DIDION busies herself making dinner. Offstage, JOHN GREGORY DUNNE presumably sips brandy by the fire.
JOAN [shouting]: John? Would you like butter and bacon bits on your potato or just sour cream?
THE SILENCE IS DEAFENING.
JOAN: John?
JOHN DOESN’T ANSWER. JOAN GOES TO INVESTIGATE.
JOAN [offstage]: Oh my God! John! What should I do? Call 911? Okay!
SCENE 2 – AT THE HOSPITAL
DOCTOR: Joan, I’m afraid your husband is gone. He was pronounced DOA.
CHILDREN DRESSED AS DEMONS DO AN INTERPRETIVE DANCE AROUND JOAN TO DEMONSTRATE HER MENTAL TURMOIL. IT’S NOT MEANT TO BE TAKEN LITERALLY YOU DIMWITS, IT’S A METAPHOR.
JOAN: Nooooooooo!
SCENE 3 – AT THE HOME OF JOAN DIDION
JOAN IS IN AN EMPTY LIVING ROOM, FONDLING HER HUSBAND’S ARMCHAIR. SUDDENLY, SHE GLANCES DOWN.
JOAN: Maybe if I sing the alphabet backwards and list the Presidents of the United States in order while wearing John’s beloved slippers on my head, he’ll come back. He always did look a bit like Nixon!
SCENE 4 – AT THE HOME OF JOAN DIDION
JOAN: I can’t believe he’s gone. It was just a normal evening. I was making dinner.
JOAN GENTLY KNOCKS HER HEAD AGAINST THE WALL THREE TIMES AND TURNS HER SOCKS INSIDE OUT.
&etc.
Actually, they’ve probably found a better way of creating dramatic action out of book-long introspection. Because surely people aren’t going to sit through a whole play made of up Joan’s internal monologue, eh?
The Stars show was packed, by the way. I guess they’ll be turning up on Nokia ads and squeezing themselves into skinny jeans now.
There’s something about fame that makes you believe you would look okay in a pair of skinny jeans, but don’t believe the hype. Especially if you’re Jack Nicholson.
29 January 2008
I'm thinking of a dream I had
I am disabling the ‘speak too soon’ feature on my mouth and reverting to self-congratulatory retrospection, should the situation ever warrant it. Because work is indeed a nightmare and not even the misty watercoloured memories of my spun sugar weekend can help me now.
Some stupid bird outside with nothing better to do at four in the morning than dig for worms and sing ‘Like a Virgin’ into its hairbrush at top volume is what finally woke me from a lovely dream wherein my line manager fired me and let me go home. I spent the next hour and a half having angry conversations with him in my head on the living room sofa before allowing that maybe it wasn’t the most productive way to spend the wee hours and forcing myself to go back to bed.
Now that I’m at work, I feel like I should probably speak too soon and say that things have been going markedly better than yesterday. It’s all about attitude I think. If you have a good attitude and ignore any poor ones meanwhile, you should be able to maintain a clear enough head to solve the problem of how on earth do I build a website in five days. For instance. But I will not say such things, not yet (possibly not ever).
So, Stars tonight, and then a small gathering at ours to look forward to this coming Saturday. It’s great to plant stepping stones across the vast pond of your week, but even better to pave the whole thing over with enjoyment if you can. Gosh I’m feeling didactic today, I’d better let you go or next I’ll be telling you what you should have for breakfast.
Eggs! Because they suppress your appetite for much longer than toast or cereal!
28 January 2008
Not the greatest
I’ve made a compromise on the cheese sandwich, by also bringing in hummus?
Well, I’ve transformed the sandwich into fussy fingerfood, with the hummus, is what I’ve done. Though why we can’t just officially ban lunch in this country is sort of beyond me! People have enough to do in their day as it is. Specifically this person.
I’m trying to see the silver lining on this massive storm cloud that is the helpful redefinition of my job role, but right now all I can see is the insurmountable, time-sensitive, highly-flammable (why not) work that lies ahead of me. Take ‘excite’ out of ‘exciting’ and replace it with ‘frighten,’ and you get my job! Want it?
This past weekend, though, was totally worth whatever terrors are soon to emerge on the workfront (please let me off just this once, little jinx fairy!), because although none of it was planned, we still somehow managed to hit critical mass in terms of both activity and enjoyment.
We finished off Sunday by seeing a live performance of Cat Power in Shepherd’s Bush. I was expecting a bit of strangeness, having seen her at ATP last spring (if I squinted really hard and jumped high enough to see over the crowd), but nothing could have prepared me for the constant pacing, partial ranting and obsessive backwards stalking that was Chan Marshall on stage last night.
You have to be able to look past her irrational outbursts and intense fidgeting, her awkward gestures and moments of utter panic about what is going on around her in order to properly enjoy the husky heartbreak of her vocals. I think she told off about three different people and even dropped her mic at one point, but it was still an unforgettable event. It’s only too bad she focused mainly on her new covers album, and butchered the old favourites by changing up everything except the lyrics.
The opening band was a novelty for about 10 minutes: a DJ, a lanky blonde French woman with a bad voice and the tallest brunette in bunny ears with no skill for roller skating - though that’s mainly what she did when not sitting cross-legged blowing soap bubbles from a wand - that you have ever seen. Yes, I’d say 10 minutes.
Tomorrow, we’re going to see Stars at Koko. Bruce is concerned they’re not big enough here to fill the venue, but I guess we’ll see about that. I don’t know who is popular where or why anymore, I only know what I like! And the world revolves around me mainly, so.
Oh didn’t you get the memo?
Well, I’ve transformed the sandwich into fussy fingerfood, with the hummus, is what I’ve done. Though why we can’t just officially ban lunch in this country is sort of beyond me! People have enough to do in their day as it is. Specifically this person.
I’m trying to see the silver lining on this massive storm cloud that is the helpful redefinition of my job role, but right now all I can see is the insurmountable, time-sensitive, highly-flammable (why not) work that lies ahead of me. Take ‘excite’ out of ‘exciting’ and replace it with ‘frighten,’ and you get my job! Want it?
This past weekend, though, was totally worth whatever terrors are soon to emerge on the workfront (please let me off just this once, little jinx fairy!), because although none of it was planned, we still somehow managed to hit critical mass in terms of both activity and enjoyment.
We finished off Sunday by seeing a live performance of Cat Power in Shepherd’s Bush. I was expecting a bit of strangeness, having seen her at ATP last spring (if I squinted really hard and jumped high enough to see over the crowd), but nothing could have prepared me for the constant pacing, partial ranting and obsessive backwards stalking that was Chan Marshall on stage last night.
You have to be able to look past her irrational outbursts and intense fidgeting, her awkward gestures and moments of utter panic about what is going on around her in order to properly enjoy the husky heartbreak of her vocals. I think she told off about three different people and even dropped her mic at one point, but it was still an unforgettable event. It’s only too bad she focused mainly on her new covers album, and butchered the old favourites by changing up everything except the lyrics.
The opening band was a novelty for about 10 minutes: a DJ, a lanky blonde French woman with a bad voice and the tallest brunette in bunny ears with no skill for roller skating - though that’s mainly what she did when not sitting cross-legged blowing soap bubbles from a wand - that you have ever seen. Yes, I’d say 10 minutes.
Tomorrow, we’re going to see Stars at Koko. Bruce is concerned they’re not big enough here to fill the venue, but I guess we’ll see about that. I don’t know who is popular where or why anymore, I only know what I like! And the world revolves around me mainly, so.
Oh didn’t you get the memo?
27 January 2008
Why oh why would I want to be anywhere else?
We’ve been toying with the idea of moving to Canada for a while now, but after Bruce came back from Jordan and the sun re-emerged for two days in a row, things became a little less clear.
Lily Allen got one thing right, at least, in the ready-made lyrics of her twee discography, which is that a nice day in London beats the hell of out a nice day anywhere else in the world (I’m paraphrasing here, obviously). I’ve since realised also that I can be ecstatically happy anywhere, as long as I’m with Bruce (my apologies to your gag reflexes).
Yesterday we woke up early and had breakfast at our local café before heading down to Neil’s Yard for haircuts. Hair by Fairies is a low-budget, high-quality miracle, as even in a wee city of little consequence, where there’s nobody to impress except your boyfriend and the baby hipsters selling ice cream, you could expect to pay at least $40 for one of their cuts. But you only have to pay £12, and they’re always spot on.
I won’t describe the cuts except to say that we both left with far less hair than what we went in with, which brought about a welcome change for us both.
After a film (The Savages), an early dinner (Adams Rib) and a bit of window shopping in the fresh, sleepy air, we were ready to scrap the whole idea of moving. And then we found ourselves crammed between a crying baby and a golden retriever on the 453 (“Hi, my name’s Meltdown Touchy Breaks, I’ll be your driver for today”) and were unsure again.
One thing we did decide is that no matter what happens this year, we are going to continue on as usual and not postpone any major decisions on the off-chance we end up going. There’s no reason not to find a two-bedroom flat with a garden in a nicer part of town come spring, for instance, and continue to work and save, while taking holidays and doing whatever it is that newlyweds set out to accomplish these days.
We’re in no big rush, and as these are the best years of our lives, I’m more inclined to slow down and start enjoying the days for what they are now. And I think I’d really miss Never Mind the Buzzcocks.
24 January 2008
AHAHAHAHAHA
"You wouldn't expect your cat or dog to do the washing up or cleaning round the house."
Certainly not...
(Y'all come back now, hear?)
Certainly not...
(Y'all come back now, hear?)
Seven hour party person
At the moment, I’m eating more brie on a bagel than any single human being has the right to before six o’clock on a Saturday (that’s eighteen hundred hours, for those of you on a twenty-four hour clock).
It seems my recent lunch phobia is reserved solely for my own sandwich-making efforts, as I’ve been eating this sandwich from downstairs with unbidden relish (in the pleasure sense, though there is some kind of onion chutney involved). Or maybe my tastes are far too refined for Tesco brand spreads.
Bruce called around noon to say that he’d landed safely (after telling me he was still in Jordan, because I guess he likes it when I cry) (just kidding) which means that my world is back in order. I won’t feel like he’s home yet until I get some visual proof, though, at the very least.
All in all, something that could have been a calm and positive experience for me turned into something rather pathetic and anxious. On the one hand, it doesn’t much matter now as that was the last time he’ll have to travel without me (as far as we know). But on the other hand – fuck. I need to sort myself out one of these days.
I thought I was being clever by soaking the dishes in hot soapy water several hours before the cleaner came, as the cleaner either doesn’t know how to wash a dish properly or doesn’t care. But the few remaining dishes I didn’t get a chance to wash before she came are a right two and eight. The rest of the flat is spotless (save for the dust).
So at approximately six o’clock (eighteen hundred hours!) you can picture me breathing a massive, onion-y sigh of relief as I turn my key in the door and for once in too many days have someone reply when I call out ‘hello?’
Gosh, I think we're supposed to be seeing Cat Power tonight...
It seems my recent lunch phobia is reserved solely for my own sandwich-making efforts, as I’ve been eating this sandwich from downstairs with unbidden relish (in the pleasure sense, though there is some kind of onion chutney involved). Or maybe my tastes are far too refined for Tesco brand spreads.
Bruce called around noon to say that he’d landed safely (after telling me he was still in Jordan, because I guess he likes it when I cry) (just kidding) which means that my world is back in order. I won’t feel like he’s home yet until I get some visual proof, though, at the very least.
All in all, something that could have been a calm and positive experience for me turned into something rather pathetic and anxious. On the one hand, it doesn’t much matter now as that was the last time he’ll have to travel without me (as far as we know). But on the other hand – fuck. I need to sort myself out one of these days.
I thought I was being clever by soaking the dishes in hot soapy water several hours before the cleaner came, as the cleaner either doesn’t know how to wash a dish properly or doesn’t care. But the few remaining dishes I didn’t get a chance to wash before she came are a right two and eight. The rest of the flat is spotless (save for the dust).
So at approximately six o’clock (eighteen hundred hours!) you can picture me breathing a massive, onion-y sigh of relief as I turn my key in the door and for once in too many days have someone reply when I call out ‘hello?’
Gosh, I think we're supposed to be seeing Cat Power tonight...
23 January 2008
I used to wish the phone would ring
Have you ever noticed how it’s your own weakness that invites antagonism? The things you fear most are what will chase you to the ends of the earth. In a dream, once you confront the monster, doesn’t it lose its claws?
I don’t know, but strength improves your armour – it adds a sheen that reflects the sun so brightly, your enemies will think you’re a supernova. And nobody fucks with a supernova.
Damnit, I’ve got a meeting to get to.
I don’t know, but strength improves your armour – it adds a sheen that reflects the sun so brightly, your enemies will think you’re a supernova. And nobody fucks with a supernova.
Damnit, I’ve got a meeting to get to.
22 January 2008
Wrist in pace
I've been saying "Heath Ledger died" outloud, over and over to myself, in an Australian accent. Not because I care particularly. But try it, it's really easy!
21 January 2008
Oookay
There’s a woman I sometimes see at the same point on my route to work in the mornings, travelling in the opposite direction on foot. Her awkward frame and cautious advancement brings to mind a set of china teacups, precariously stacked and then carried tremblingly off to the kitchen. I used to think I wanted to be very thin, and I still do, but that’s maybe a bit too thin.
Completely unrelated to this, I’ve been going off food recently, specifically sandwiches, to the extent where I have had to cut out all sandwich fillings save for cheese. But today, somehow even cheese on bread managed to creep me out. It felt like I was eating something dusty, even though it tasted fine and the bread and cheese were both newly purchased. I don’t like eating cooked food at lunch, but not eating lunch at all isn’t an option.
So I think I may have to bite the bullet and start taking leftovers to heat up in the microwave. I’ll need the biggest bullet you’ve got, though, as the idea of eating a hot, whiffy lunch in an open concept office is about as appealing to me as the idea of masturbating in front of Santa Claus. Less, even.
(Somewhat related,) I watched a bizarre French film (redundant?) off pay-per-view last night, called L’Ennui. I thought it would be an easy way of staying engaged in something, as conventional narratives register less and less the longer I’m alone.
Luckily it turned out to be a much smarter film than its explicit synopsis gave it credit for, and it’s been repeating on me all morning. One thing I can’t get over is how the leading lady (uh, girl) and I seem to share a similar body type (though I have nicer breasts, obviously). It makes me think that rake thin girls aren’t all that, necessarily.
I can’t imagine Ms Tipsy Teacups being very sensual astride her chauvinistic mate, for instance, and nor would I want to imagine such a thing! Nonononono. My imagination has officially fled the country. I am all about staying in the moment now, just as the Dog Whisperer prescribed.
At the moment, one of the few remaining sales people on this floor just about fell off his chair for no reason. That was funny.
Completely unrelated to this, I’ve been going off food recently, specifically sandwiches, to the extent where I have had to cut out all sandwich fillings save for cheese. But today, somehow even cheese on bread managed to creep me out. It felt like I was eating something dusty, even though it tasted fine and the bread and cheese were both newly purchased. I don’t like eating cooked food at lunch, but not eating lunch at all isn’t an option.
So I think I may have to bite the bullet and start taking leftovers to heat up in the microwave. I’ll need the biggest bullet you’ve got, though, as the idea of eating a hot, whiffy lunch in an open concept office is about as appealing to me as the idea of masturbating in front of Santa Claus. Less, even.
(Somewhat related,) I watched a bizarre French film (redundant?) off pay-per-view last night, called L’Ennui. I thought it would be an easy way of staying engaged in something, as conventional narratives register less and less the longer I’m alone.
Luckily it turned out to be a much smarter film than its explicit synopsis gave it credit for, and it’s been repeating on me all morning. One thing I can’t get over is how the leading lady (uh, girl) and I seem to share a similar body type (though I have nicer breasts, obviously). It makes me think that rake thin girls aren’t all that, necessarily.
I can’t imagine Ms Tipsy Teacups being very sensual astride her chauvinistic mate, for instance, and nor would I want to imagine such a thing! Nonononono. My imagination has officially fled the country. I am all about staying in the moment now, just as the Dog Whisperer prescribed.
At the moment, one of the few remaining sales people on this floor just about fell off his chair for no reason. That was funny.
20 January 2008
Can't put your arms around a ghost
It took me 31 years to have an epiphany. My very first one. It’s such an obvious one too, it hardly qualifies, but I’ll tell you anyway, if you’d like.
There is no answer to life because everyone has a different question. The best thing you can do is find someone who has the same question as you and then fall in love with them.
Whenever anyone told me they were lonely and wanted a boyfriend/girlfriend, I could never understand that feeling. I’d never been without one since I discovered that boys could do more than call you names and push you over, for one thing. But on the other hand, lonely or not, it plain doesn’t make sense.
I know what it’s like to feel lonely for someone in particular. But how can you feel the lack of someone you haven’t even met?
Then I met Bruce and I think I understand. I was never looking for happiness, because I didn’t know that existed either.
What I’m trying to say is that people spend their whole lives taking aim and missing, aiming and missing, because they only have a general sense of what they’re taking aim at. You can have the husband, the job, the city, the children, the money, but that’s it. Materialistically speaking, you’ve achieved your goal, so you can go ahead and die now.
Obviously not. You don’t know what you’re living for until you find it, and then you discover that it was never in the thing itself. When you got that bottle of Channel no. 5 for Christmas, did the joy end there? No, you had to slather it on every morning and then one day annoy me with your stench at the IMAX theatre while I was trying to be suitably impressed by animated, naked, gold-plated Angelina Jolie in 3D.
It’s the same with love – once you’re in it, that’s where the journey begins and not a moment sooner. You may as well throw out the maps now because you’ll never arrive at your destination; all you’ll want is just one more day with that person, one more look, one more feeling, just five more minutes, I’ll be right there…For as long as you can manage.
Though you probably figured that one out a long time ago, hey? Well nobody ever said an epiphany had to be original.
Where's my unhappy ending gone?
Today I went grocery shopping.
I know that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but believe me, when your instinctive reaction to being alone is to shut down completely, doing something like leaving the house to forage in the urban jungle is a very big deal.
It’s strange to think that I have no problem managing a troublesome workload across several teams and domains and yet the prospect of dodging strangers to put produce in a cart and then handle a transaction at the end of it all makes me break out in a sweat, even if all goes well.
The Dog Whisperer had an episode where some woman was prone to anxiety attacks and needed a work dog to be with her at all times, because the work dog had a calming effect on her. Bruce is like my work dog, I guess, as these are anxieties I completely forget I have until he’s not around.
I really like the programme, not only because Caesar makes me laugh whenever he imitates the behaviour of a dog, but because I get to see a wide range of women behaving more neurotically than their pets.
In the same way that Caesar’s pack keeps every individual member-dog in check, I’m able to gauge my behaviour against the general masses and see that 1. I’m not so bad, really and 2. There are areas I need to improve in.
If I could live the balanced life of a calm, submissive animal, I think all my problems would be solved. I don’t need a pack or a work dog to tell me this, but it helps to remember that unless something really bad is taking place over an extended period of time, it’s pointless to get worked up about life when it’s just going along as life does.
I know, I know. I need to get out more. This week though, I promise.
I know that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but believe me, when your instinctive reaction to being alone is to shut down completely, doing something like leaving the house to forage in the urban jungle is a very big deal.
It’s strange to think that I have no problem managing a troublesome workload across several teams and domains and yet the prospect of dodging strangers to put produce in a cart and then handle a transaction at the end of it all makes me break out in a sweat, even if all goes well.
The Dog Whisperer had an episode where some woman was prone to anxiety attacks and needed a work dog to be with her at all times, because the work dog had a calming effect on her. Bruce is like my work dog, I guess, as these are anxieties I completely forget I have until he’s not around.
I really like the programme, not only because Caesar makes me laugh whenever he imitates the behaviour of a dog, but because I get to see a wide range of women behaving more neurotically than their pets.
In the same way that Caesar’s pack keeps every individual member-dog in check, I’m able to gauge my behaviour against the general masses and see that 1. I’m not so bad, really and 2. There are areas I need to improve in.
If I could live the balanced life of a calm, submissive animal, I think all my problems would be solved. I don’t need a pack or a work dog to tell me this, but it helps to remember that unless something really bad is taking place over an extended period of time, it’s pointless to get worked up about life when it’s just going along as life does.
I know, I know. I need to get out more. This week though, I promise.
19 January 2008
Painting the coat red
This day could have gone one way or the other, I wasn’t sure. Seeing as how I’m still in pyjamas, though, I guess it went the other.
I spent four hours downloading music from our library onto the iPod Touch I got for Christmas, giving unfamiliar selections a quick listen to determine if they were worth trying out. And that’s about it.
Rather than cooking, I took the easy option of instant porridge for breakfast and a cheese sandwich for lunch. Thank goodness there’s a ready meal in the fridge for later.
One of our friends we rarely ever see anymore asked me to come out for someone’s birthday drinks. I briefly considered it, as it seems unlikely this day is going to get any livelier on its own. But I’m not really feeling the standing up vibe, let alone the get-on-the-tube-and-drink-and-dance-and-make-awkward-conversation vibe.
Most things I’d like to do at this point are not even possible. Such as:
Lying very still in a shoebox fit with a lid that has a million tiny pinpricks, the whole operation rotating slowly on a turntable. Someone would agree to play music appropriate to lying still in a shoebox, gazing at fake constellations. They wouldn’t speak to me; they would just quietly switch tracks all evening.
Dragging a large basin into the living room and filling it with perfumed oil and leaves and soft petals and heating it up slowly with an electric kettle conveniently located on a bathside table. A blindfolded someone would play music appropriate to having a sensual bath alone in one’s living room.
Curling up in a rocking chair in a remote country home, in a white room that has only a dresser, a mirror and a large, soft mattress hung low inside a cast-iron frame. I’m wearing a rough, cotton nightgown and my hair is tangled and unwashed but my feet are scrubbed pink and I’m just about to become aware that Bruce has been watching me from the doorway, a glass of iced tea in his hand and dust on his shoes. (The iced tea is for me.) (I gave the DJ the night off.)
Being tucked into the cab of a Ferris wheel with two heavy blankets over my lap, drinking coffee and watching the sea rise up to meet me and fall away again, over and over for hours, or until I had to pee.
I think I might have a bath.
17 January 2008
Captain's log: oop!
Bruce called me at work about ten minutes after he was supposed to be airborne. When I asked him what was going on, he told me about this. Not very reassuring, but I have high hopes that his flight will be cancelled until tomorrow and I can spend another evening with him. Well, moderate hopes.
Okay, it’s hopeless. I’m sure a little glitch like that isn’t going to hold things up for long, especially not at an airport as vast and hectic as Heathrow. But it was worth imagining anyway.
It is amazing how much your perception can change when someone you love leaves you to your own devices for a while. My legs felt like lead weights as I walked to work this morning, as though my heart had turned to stone and cracked open and the two halves had sunk into my knees.
Unless Bruce comes home again, I’m probably going out for dinner tonight, which will be a nice, positive way to kick-off his not being here. If I can get into an upswing immediately, I’ll stay swung up there long enough for the initial blahs to wear off. And then I can make the most of this time I have to myself.
All this stupid, useless time.
Okay, it’s hopeless. I’m sure a little glitch like that isn’t going to hold things up for long, especially not at an airport as vast and hectic as Heathrow. But it was worth imagining anyway.
It is amazing how much your perception can change when someone you love leaves you to your own devices for a while. My legs felt like lead weights as I walked to work this morning, as though my heart had turned to stone and cracked open and the two halves had sunk into my knees.
Unless Bruce comes home again, I’m probably going out for dinner tonight, which will be a nice, positive way to kick-off his not being here. If I can get into an upswing immediately, I’ll stay swung up there long enough for the initial blahs to wear off. And then I can make the most of this time I have to myself.
All this stupid, useless time.
16 January 2008
Ella ella ella ella
When the editor told a boldfaced lie in order to steal my umbrella last night, it was the straw that finally broke the back of a day already rife with colleague-inspired stupidity. By the time I reached home, I was soaking wet and the cleaner had only just arrived, which meant we had to spend another hour away from home, in the rain, as grocery shopping was pretty much the only option.
I’m okay now, though I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the divorce papers were on their way to my office. I’m not sure what it is that sometimes replaces my good-natured optimism with blind rage, but it’s bigger than me and I’m just thankful that it makes an appearance in my life much less frequently than it once did.
Tomorrow Bruce flies to Jordan, where he won’t be tied to a cluster bomb of Israeli insurgency and dropped on a hospital because those things don’t happen there and anyway, he’s going for business, not journalism or politics or anything that would inspire someone to want to hurt him! Unless they take offence to his interpretation of the founding member of the organisation on the opening night of their play. I wish I had Bruce’s job, I really do.
No, instead he will be in a resort, meeting friends from all over the world, drinking, dancing, and taking his lunch breaks all bundled up by the frozen outdoor pool. It’s only one week, though, and I am slowly inventing ways to feel less lonely.
I’m having dinner with a colleague next week (the one who never lets me do anything) and a common friend sometime in the next few days. There are drinks on Friday, because there are always drinks on Friday - somebody at work makes a cup of tea and that’s cause for a drink on Friday - so I may just attend this time around. Except in my case, I’ll have a thimbleful of wine and fall over, because my tolerance has failed.
I also thought about. Well. About writing something I guess. I mean, I always come up with some idea or other when I’m walking to work, which is nearly every day. It seems wrong to not explore those things, although whenever I read or hear about the act of writing from any writer, new or established, I feel a bit queasy in the irony organ.
I’m thinking the only viable place for words nowadays are down a trash compactor or on an internet server where they can be chewed up by ads or replaced with different words altogether or die in a fiery blaze of FLICKR IS HAVING A MASSAGE or DIARYLAND’S FALLEN AND CAN’T GET UP.
Because it preserves the impetus, while eliminating the embarrassing issue of detritus.
15 January 2008
No trick pony
The guy who won the T. S. Eliot prize for poetry did something revolutionary like use ‘thus’ twice in a row or whatever. I couldn’t really tell from his reading, but it sounded like he ended one line on ‘thus’ and began the next line with ‘Thus.’ Genius! I hope that one day I too am ‘captured’ by poetry, so long as poetry doesn’t put me in an orange onesie and threaten to forcibly remove my head.
My manager has a newplaything assistant of sorts, which takes the pressure off me quite a bit. Well, it alleviates his specific brand of pressure anyway. Now I am beholden to none, responsible for all, blah blah blahdiblah. I’m on lunch now, obviously.
A friend of ours signed us all up for this. It is a free photographic treasure hunt, which somehow relates to a film festival and, distantly, celebrity spotting. We’re to bring an idea and a prop of some kind, so my idea is to take photos. My prop will be Bruce’s camera, as it’s served me well in all sorts of sticky photo-taking situations.
I have a new flickr, by the way – a joint flickr account with Bruce. We decided we’d only add people we know in real life, which cut down our collective contact lists by quite a number.
It’s only so that my mother can find us and then not feel horrified when I post photos of her. If you want the link, though, I can send it to you. YES YOU. I have no idea who I’m talking to, by the way, but if there’s a You reading this, then I guess it’s you.
Well.
What-a-would-you-like-a-to-know-about-a-my-life? I will describe things annoyingly in a poor Bulgarian accent. Though it’s down to you, what you want to hear about first.
For now, I will make up a poem on the spot, to celebrate someone-or-other winning the T. S. Eliot prize for poetry:
Giddy Up
OH how I met with the Director
I didn’t hear a word he said
I was trying to read email
Email pop-ups that kept
Popping-up on my screen
Screen
Screen
Screen
Sorry, I’ve gotta get that thing fixed
OH how I’d love to dump this job on its ass
Except that jobs don’t have asses
Asses are for people
Who need something to sit on
Lily Allen wrote a song
About her bum-bum
It wasn’t very good or funny
Because artists are one-trick ponies
Screen
-FF
My manager has a new
A friend of ours signed us all up for this. It is a free photographic treasure hunt, which somehow relates to a film festival and, distantly, celebrity spotting. We’re to bring an idea and a prop of some kind, so my idea is to take photos. My prop will be Bruce’s camera, as it’s served me well in all sorts of sticky photo-taking situations.
I have a new flickr, by the way – a joint flickr account with Bruce. We decided we’d only add people we know in real life, which cut down our collective contact lists by quite a number.
It’s only so that my mother can find us and then not feel horrified when I post photos of her. If you want the link, though, I can send it to you. YES YOU. I have no idea who I’m talking to, by the way, but if there’s a You reading this, then I guess it’s you.
Well.
What-a-would-you-like-a-to-know-about-a-my-life? I will describe things annoyingly in a poor Bulgarian accent. Though it’s down to you, what you want to hear about first.
For now, I will make up a poem on the spot, to celebrate someone-or-other winning the T. S. Eliot prize for poetry:
Giddy Up
OH how I met with the Director
I didn’t hear a word he said
I was trying to read email
Email pop-ups that kept
Popping-up on my screen
Screen
Screen
Screen
Sorry, I’ve gotta get that thing fixed
OH how I’d love to dump this job on its ass
Except that jobs don’t have asses
Asses are for people
Who need something to sit on
Lily Allen wrote a song
About her bum-bum
It wasn’t very good or funny
Because artists are one-trick ponies
Screen
-FF
14 January 2008
One hundred
I think that if I never left work, I might be able to stomach it. The problem isn’t being in this seat, panicking and doing various bits and pieces – it’s the anticipation of being in this seat, panicking &etc. It’s like Day Hospital: you know, either commit me or let’s not pretend I should sometimes be painting watercolours side-by-side with those who cannot stop washing their hands. I can’t go from 0 – 100 in a matter of seconds, and certainly not vice versa. I can, however, stay at an even 100 if I don’t sleep or go home.
In spite of the fact that, when I went to purchase the new Stars album at HMV in Vancouver, a simpering sales girl I’d rather not discover commonalities with said it was soooo good, I’m listening to this album on repeat. Because it is soooo good, but also because I’m running low on supplies. Somebody needs to discover a revolutionary new sound and then download some tracks and then burn them onto a CD for me. Please.
We’ve finally caught up with all our television shows, culminating in Channel 4’s Big Fat Quiz of the Year, which was a big fat disappointment from last year’s Big Fat Quiz. Now I know far more about Lily
Beginning Thursday, I get to rediscover what it’s like living alone, though only for the week. Probably it will be much like it was when I was living alone in Canada, minus the booze and cigarettes and pizza. And Canadians. Actually, it will be nothing like that time, because I plan to not leave the house unless it’s for work. It takes too much effort to go anywhere and mainly I just can’t be bothered anymore. In fact, you can find London in Coventry until further notice.
13 January 2008
Saturday in her Sunday best
I am doing…okay. We went to Borough market this afternoon, and bought Clementines, figs, fancy lemonade and cola. I also bought some Japanese rice snacks, which contained a moldy peanut, which I stupidly ate because I was tipsy off a glass of red wine and had decided it couldn’t possibly be a moldy peanut. But it was a very moldy peanut.
The market was cold, dim and lovely. There were wild game hanging against the side of a stall - a pheasant and two of the largest hares I’ve ever seen. Bruce ate venison and I had some world famous quiche, or maybe just regionally famous quiche.
Bruce is going to Jordan next week for work. I’m trying not to worry too much, but I wouldn’t want to alter my personality by being completely insensate or anything. It’s got to be one or the other; I’m not so good at in betweens, as you know.
There’s nothing at all to worry about, except that it’s much harder to control events from a distance. If I know what the driver, pilot or doctor is up to, things are usually okay. Actually, if I’d written nothing about it and worn a certain bracelet, I could probably have prevented most traumatic incidents in my life.
The market was cold, dim and lovely. There were wild game hanging against the side of a stall - a pheasant and two of the largest hares I’ve ever seen. Bruce ate venison and I had some world famous quiche, or maybe just regionally famous quiche.
Bruce is going to Jordan next week for work. I’m trying not to worry too much, but I wouldn’t want to alter my personality by being completely insensate or anything. It’s got to be one or the other; I’m not so good at in betweens, as you know.
There’s nothing at all to worry about, except that it’s much harder to control events from a distance. If I know what the driver, pilot or doctor is up to, things are usually okay. Actually, if I’d written nothing about it and worn a certain bracelet, I could probably have prevented most traumatic incidents in my life.
11 January 2008
About the weather
Today we stood in the rain, waiting for the bus, our silence seldom interrupted by one or the other saying, “We should go home.”
We really should have. Instead, I’m at work, watching grey cloud-matter travel furiously north and trying to keep my mind on what I’m supposed to be doing.
We really should have. Instead, I’m at work, watching grey cloud-matter travel furiously north and trying to keep my mind on what I’m supposed to be doing.
08 January 2008
Putting out the trash
Apparently some boy in Mexico glued himself to his bed so that he wouldn’t have to go back to school after the holidays. I know how he feels, but I’m not clever enough to come up with those kinds of solutions.
I’m off to the doctor again tomorrow, hopefully for the last time, at least for a while. People start to wonder, when you’re sick so much. Either that or they’re jealous that they can’t be sick more often. Sickness is like a gold ticket in my place of work, but one you use cautiously.
Before the holidays, another sales person was fired after only a few weeks. Two new people started yesterday, both from Australia. I’m curious to know why they would choose to come here - from sunny, clean and roomy to crowded, rainy and miserable - but then maybe they would ask me the same thing.
Seeing how tentatively new people interact tends to drive home how integrated I actually am now. It’s nothing I feel proud of. Today somebody screwed me over unintentionally and unapologetically, for a very stupid reason. It’s just part of the culture, when you’re making six figures (I doubt he is, actually, but he certainly makes more than me).
Let’s see, what else can I bore you with…
I’d meant to see some people who were visiting London, but in the end, I only managed lunch with Cloudesely. It was strange to see him in this context, as usually our meetings involve chance run-ins at the pub back home. One of my cats sat with him on the sofa while he had his breakfast, which I tried not to be too jealous of. I hear he reads here sometimes. Hi Cloudesely! (And sorry, Stuart!)
We’re having an influx of overseas visitors in the next five months and I’m going to have to book time off soon and start making my travel plans. I’m not sure how that will work out, as we’re trying to save money right now, for one thing.
I’m only writing here because I’m too tired to go for a walk and I don’t want to be bothered on my lunch hour. I’m almost completely done with writing online. I’d rather just keep up with my friends. When someone I know says, “I read in your blog…” I feel a twinge.
It’s a complicated twinge. On the one hand, I feel like those people who embarassingly circulate newsletters about their lives to friends and relatives, except worse (I post it to strangers). And on the other, I just plain feel bad about not keeping up with close friends in a more direct manner.
It was never my objective to solicit notoriety or respect online, even less so when I saw the standard of its readership (present company excluded, of course). Out of the millions of people out there who make it their business to know someone else’s, I have the email address of every single one that matters (so, five or something). I should try using them sometime.
That’s not to say it isn’t a good time-waster. And my writing muscles have definitely benefited from all the exercise (dangling participles and sentence fragments are a good thing, yeah?).
Bruce is going to be in Jordan next week, so I may be here more often at that time, and during other times of loneliness or stress. The internet makes a good dumping ground at least.
Blah, another half hour to go and then it’s back to work.
I’m off to the doctor again tomorrow, hopefully for the last time, at least for a while. People start to wonder, when you’re sick so much. Either that or they’re jealous that they can’t be sick more often. Sickness is like a gold ticket in my place of work, but one you use cautiously.
Before the holidays, another sales person was fired after only a few weeks. Two new people started yesterday, both from Australia. I’m curious to know why they would choose to come here - from sunny, clean and roomy to crowded, rainy and miserable - but then maybe they would ask me the same thing.
Seeing how tentatively new people interact tends to drive home how integrated I actually am now. It’s nothing I feel proud of. Today somebody screwed me over unintentionally and unapologetically, for a very stupid reason. It’s just part of the culture, when you’re making six figures (I doubt he is, actually, but he certainly makes more than me).
Let’s see, what else can I bore you with…
I’d meant to see some people who were visiting London, but in the end, I only managed lunch with Cloudesely. It was strange to see him in this context, as usually our meetings involve chance run-ins at the pub back home. One of my cats sat with him on the sofa while he had his breakfast, which I tried not to be too jealous of. I hear he reads here sometimes. Hi Cloudesely! (And sorry, Stuart!)
We’re having an influx of overseas visitors in the next five months and I’m going to have to book time off soon and start making my travel plans. I’m not sure how that will work out, as we’re trying to save money right now, for one thing.
I’m only writing here because I’m too tired to go for a walk and I don’t want to be bothered on my lunch hour. I’m almost completely done with writing online. I’d rather just keep up with my friends. When someone I know says, “I read in your blog…” I feel a twinge.
It’s a complicated twinge. On the one hand, I feel like those people who embarassingly circulate newsletters about their lives to friends and relatives, except worse (I post it to strangers). And on the other, I just plain feel bad about not keeping up with close friends in a more direct manner.
It was never my objective to solicit notoriety or respect online, even less so when I saw the standard of its readership (present company excluded, of course). Out of the millions of people out there who make it their business to know someone else’s, I have the email address of every single one that matters (so, five or something). I should try using them sometime.
That’s not to say it isn’t a good time-waster. And my writing muscles have definitely benefited from all the exercise (dangling participles and sentence fragments are a good thing, yeah?).
Bruce is going to be in Jordan next week, so I may be here more often at that time, and during other times of loneliness or stress. The internet makes a good dumping ground at least.
Blah, another half hour to go and then it’s back to work.
07 January 2008
'avin' it
After the worst sleep of my life (two and a half hours, I reckon), I am somehow sitting at my desk, moving through a massive pile of work like a sleeper moves through dreamscapes (slowly).
I think I’d be panicking were it not for the fact that panicking takes more energy than I can afford at present. My mind is also on other things.
Some of you have been asking me about my flickr, so I’ll tell you: I deleted it. I’m going to erect one that includes images my parents can see, since they are snoops of the highest order and will find my face anywhere it appears, regardless. I won’t send them a link though, because they like a challenge.
It’s lunch, but I’m trying to decide if I can afford to not be working right now. I was supposed to be back last Friday but misunderstood the dates on my ticket. My boss said, “Well, there’s not much you can do once you’re there,” as though maybe there was something I could have done. Boo.
The CEO sent a Christmas card to my home. In it, he invited me to have a web-tastic 2008. I…don’t know what to say about that really.
I think I’d be panicking were it not for the fact that panicking takes more energy than I can afford at present. My mind is also on other things.
Some of you have been asking me about my flickr, so I’ll tell you: I deleted it. I’m going to erect one that includes images my parents can see, since they are snoops of the highest order and will find my face anywhere it appears, regardless. I won’t send them a link though, because they like a challenge.
It’s lunch, but I’m trying to decide if I can afford to not be working right now. I was supposed to be back last Friday but misunderstood the dates on my ticket. My boss said, “Well, there’s not much you can do once you’re there,” as though maybe there was something I could have done. Boo.
The CEO sent a Christmas card to my home. In it, he invited me to have a web-tastic 2008. I…don’t know what to say about that really.
06 January 2008
And then
Well, I did it. I survived two overseas flights, two bouts of jetlag, the hellish onset of pneumonia and (the occasionally hellish) two weeks living with my parents over Christmas and New Years.
Christmas day wasn’t much to write home about (and the cats can’t read), but the moment I knew I could get out of bed without wanting to fall back into it, we set out to explore the city in as many ways as we could fathom (seventeen, all itemized).
Most of our time was spent with my niece and her new boyfriend, both of whom were great company and accommodated our desire to see and do things that didn’t include sitting on the sofa discussing eagles (a desire I will leave to my parents, bless ‘em). They have a gorgeous, big apartment in the West end of downtown Vancouver, which made theirs a good home base for activity.
We went to Granville Island for lunch and Kitsilano for shopping, English Bay for the Polar Bear swim (we talked my niece’s boyfriend into doing this so we could take photos) and Gas Town for New Year’s Eve.
The four of us rang in the New Year upstairs in a tiny wine bar belonging to the Irish Heather, and there were maybe two other tables of people, which made for a very chill and intimate evening. Across the way, a fetish party was in full swing by ten, with dozens of buff men and women taking their clothes off on the massive balcony they occupied. After much shouting and charades, a group from our side crossed over into the nubile atmosphere of theirs, which left us nearly alone for midnight. It was nice.
Bruce and I did plenty on our own as well – we visited the aquarium in Stanley Park, shopped on Robson and Granville Street, saw some impressive video instillations at the Vancouver Art Gallery and, of course, caught a few good films (Juno and Sweeney Todd).
We didn’t see my sister or nephew again until the last day, as they finally succumbed to whatever made everyone else in the family ill at Christmas and weren’t feeling up to leaving the house. But it was a good last impression, and my family felt full and content in a way it hadn’t ever before, at least not for me.
Coming back to England was difficult. I don’t think I realised how much of a struggle it can be living in London, at least not until I left and the ice melted from my temporary shield. It’s going to make being at work much harder knowing that a day’s travel could result in the comforting embrace of mountains, fresh air and good customer service, among other things. As much fun as I’ve had here, at heart I’m just another Canadian girl, pining for Canada. Who knew?
But we’ve been talking a lot over the last few days, about how to make things even better for ourselves. We haven’t worked out the details, but there will be some exciting changes coming up for us this year. I guess if there’s one thing I’ve learned from meeting Bruce, it’s that I can expect the unexpected. Yeah. There are kids screaming bloody murder beneath my window and I want to nail them with something frozen, though there’s no snow in London.
Christmas day wasn’t much to write home about (and the cats can’t read), but the moment I knew I could get out of bed without wanting to fall back into it, we set out to explore the city in as many ways as we could fathom (seventeen, all itemized).
Most of our time was spent with my niece and her new boyfriend, both of whom were great company and accommodated our desire to see and do things that didn’t include sitting on the sofa discussing eagles (a desire I will leave to my parents, bless ‘em). They have a gorgeous, big apartment in the West end of downtown Vancouver, which made theirs a good home base for activity.
We went to Granville Island for lunch and Kitsilano for shopping, English Bay for the Polar Bear swim (we talked my niece’s boyfriend into doing this so we could take photos) and Gas Town for New Year’s Eve.
The four of us rang in the New Year upstairs in a tiny wine bar belonging to the Irish Heather, and there were maybe two other tables of people, which made for a very chill and intimate evening. Across the way, a fetish party was in full swing by ten, with dozens of buff men and women taking their clothes off on the massive balcony they occupied. After much shouting and charades, a group from our side crossed over into the nubile atmosphere of theirs, which left us nearly alone for midnight. It was nice.
Bruce and I did plenty on our own as well – we visited the aquarium in Stanley Park, shopped on Robson and Granville Street, saw some impressive video instillations at the Vancouver Art Gallery and, of course, caught a few good films (Juno and Sweeney Todd).
We didn’t see my sister or nephew again until the last day, as they finally succumbed to whatever made everyone else in the family ill at Christmas and weren’t feeling up to leaving the house. But it was a good last impression, and my family felt full and content in a way it hadn’t ever before, at least not for me.
Coming back to England was difficult. I don’t think I realised how much of a struggle it can be living in London, at least not until I left and the ice melted from my temporary shield. It’s going to make being at work much harder knowing that a day’s travel could result in the comforting embrace of mountains, fresh air and good customer service, among other things. As much fun as I’ve had here, at heart I’m just another Canadian girl, pining for Canada. Who knew?
But we’ve been talking a lot over the last few days, about how to make things even better for ourselves. We haven’t worked out the details, but there will be some exciting changes coming up for us this year. I guess if there’s one thing I’ve learned from meeting Bruce, it’s that I can expect the unexpected. Yeah. There are kids screaming bloody murder beneath my window and I want to nail them with something frozen, though there’s no snow in London.
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