Sunday, June 29, 2003

Bog off.

I'm getting rid of that stupid site tracker. There's never any good news there. Most of the people who come here are sad sacks looking for "some pix of a dog and a rilly rilly FAT CHICK like going for it", or "some pix of a CAR CRASH all with blood and dead guys and stuff". I mean, you want to look at that stuff, that's your wossname, fine, have fun, but learn to use a bloody search engine. You see, a search engine is not a person. It does not understand hilarious colloquial names for parts of the human body. Furthermore it does not respond to threats, or to repetition; typing the same query again but with capitals, exclamation marks, added profanity and/or extra instances of the word "beaver" will avail you naught.

And that's not the worst of it. Having polluted my referral logs with your fetid imaginings, you keep coming back. You run exactly the same foul and moronic search again and again, and you keep coming back to my blog from said foul and moronic search. What is going through your minds-- do you think a weblog will suddenly metamorphose into a bestaility and car wreck site if you look at it often enough? Are you doing this just to bother me? I hate, loathe, despise and pity you.

Except for the pity part. I lied about the pity.

Saturday, June 28, 2003

I've changed my mind.

Things are fun, today at least, and I am appreciating every lucious moment and hurling my fun-having into your face like a big squishy Pie of Fun, but they (things) are not good. If things were good, I would have a job, and my job would be to write stuff.

I have no focus and I can't finish anything and right now I can't start anything and arrgggghhh. Argh argh argh. Why the hell did I decide to go into electronics?
Why, having gone into electronics and having found it impossible to find work in the field besides checking for shorts and dry joints, did I persist in banging my head against that brick wall?
Why am I here, now, in this life?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why do I have writer's block all the time now?
How come it took me so long to get a grip on what I needed to be doing?
Why can't I come up with one teeny-tiny workable idea?
Why does everything I write seem so cheap and trite an derivative and somehow rootless, like bad fanfic in search of a fandom?
Why does everything take so damn long when the days go by so fast?
Why doesn't anyone tell me what the rules are until the game's over and I've lost?
Is my life really over, am I really washed up at 29?
What is it with people like me, why do we do what we do?
Why do we take the shit that we take?
How come, after a total of six years of studying (not to mention various short courses in this, that and the other), I can't earn more than the minimum wage?
How come it's still poxy jobs with poxy money and poxy H&S violations that have so far left me in near-constant pain, cost me much of the feeling in two fingers of my right hand and will indubitably cost me more the longer I keep doing jobs like that?
Should I just chuck it all in and join the Exodus Collective?
Where can I find a job doing what I'm good at?
Why, when I can paint, draw, write, sing, solder, read circuit diagrams, knit, sew, spin, dye, conduct minor household repairs, dig, plant, pot on, take cuttings, sweep (floors and streets both) and use many popular software packages, can I not find someone to pay me to do one or a combination of those things?
Why are half the things I'm good at several hundred years out of date?
Why aren't there any jobs out there where I can actually use the skills I have rather than having to learn a bunch of new and frankly very boring skills on the fly so I'm underperforming and I look like a moron and I never get promoted or even given a long-term contract?
Why does everyone keep telling me to go into IT?
Do I look like I'm going to enjoy a long and productive career in IT?
How come I'm still searching for work that is so far below my skills level?
How come I can't even get the work that is so far below my skills level?
What is my skills level?

Do I even belong in this world?

Where do I go if I don't?
Happy Deathday!
Your name:mordant carnival
You will die on:Saturday, December 13, 2014
You will die of:Food Poisoning
Created by Quill

But I'm so young and beautiful!

Oh, no. Wait. That was some other chick.
acidexia is back.

And here, too.

I am pleased.
Busy, busy, busy.


Lurid's now been back from his travels for a week or so, and since the big 'puter is currently in an advanced state of fuckedness (the back plate is live and the hard-disk is dead) we're reduced to fighting over the laptop. Hence the bloglessness and the lack of Evil on thee mudshow. Sorry, guys; hopefully things will get back to normal soon.

Energy work: plateu-ed. Not a problem, though-- this always happens with any developing skill. Just need to work steadily on and not a) get discouraged or b) start imagining results where no results are.

Novel: bloodybuggeringbastardingnoveldamndamndammitARRRRGGHH.

Sundry other writing: Okayish.

Castillano: Fuego mal, arbol guapo.

Job: May be some reception work at a hostel in town. Or there may not. We shall see.

Went up Montserrat today. Was lazy and took the cable car, rather than walking. My excuse is that I sort of overdid it in the pool* yesterday and my legs were still a bit stiff. Didn't participate in any religious goings-on, but I did queue up for ages to see the Black Virgin. She is a very eerie icon; I felt some kind of energy radiating from her, not inimical or threatening in any way but completely unlike anything I've ever worked with. Didn't pluck up courage to touch her. Maybe next time.

Now I'm back in Bagsnatcher Central with L.A. Not sure what we'll be up to later, but it's certainly lively in Barça today. There are Harley Davidsons everywhere (it's the centenery, y'know), and we passed an embryonic Pride happening on the way here. Might try and hunt down a Goth club, or might just head on home and chill out in the pool** for an hour or so. Life is quite undeservedly gooood.

*The free open-air swimming pool for residents of where I live.
**Nothing to add, really. This footnote exists purely to rub in the whole pool thing.

Sunday, June 22, 2003

Thinking aloud.

I finally did it. I shaved off the rattail. Never again will anyone (coughGaneshcough) be able to accuse me of having a mullet. I was shaving my head and it was taking so damn long, it was such a hassle, and then I got to the back. I was thinking about how I was going to have to shave round the stupid thing and what a fiddle that would be, and I just went rghghghghh. Sides which, I'm thinking of getting a tatt on the back of my neck, which would be hidden by the hair. The skin there has been asking for a tattoo, just like the skin on the side of my head used to beg before I got my rose done. It's a nagging physical sensation, as if someone was holding their hand out over that point, not quite touching it. When the ink is in place then contact will be made, the circuit completed. I belive the thing my skin requires is an angelic figure of some kind. I'm searching for the right image.

My novel is trying to kill me. This is the hardest thing I've ever done. I know it's all there, all the componants are in place, waiting within the empty page for me to find them, yet... I keep getting lost on the way. What the hell happened to my imagination? Why can't I think anymore? And then I want to abandon it, and I can't: it throws up some enticing image or concept, and I have to go back. This thing will have blood from me before it's done, you mark my words.

I love the view from my window. Just now I'm watching some people (an adult and a kid?) flying a big kite in the field across the way. It's one of those huge ones like a parachute; must take a hell of a lot of strength to hang on to it.
Sidebar issues and a terrible confession.

What with the move and various hard-drive crashes and the fact that it's cheaper to surf from Bagsnatcher Central than to use the dialup, my access to my bookmarks is somewhat limited these days. I find I actually need to keep my sidebar something like up-to-date if I don't want to spend half my time Googling stuff. Yeah, I know some of the links are dead. Sometimes it's just because I know that X has a link to Y's new place and I can just go via their blog instead; sometimes it's because I still feel sad and angry that Y got harrassed out of blogdom by some shithead stalker and can't quite bring myself to remove the link. Sometimes it's because I knackered my sidebar and had to go back to an old copy which had the dead link in it. And sometimes it's because the deadlinkee was a boring little erk whose site I never visited much anyway, so I haven't noticed the deadness.

The lack of reliable bookmarks also means that I now have to own up and link to Neil Gaiman's pointy pointy blog. You can all stop laughing now.

Saturday, June 21, 2003

Your soul came from the Bowels of HELL! You're a
demon preying on the mortals of Earth. BACK TO

Where Did Your Soul Originate?
brought to you by Quizilla

But then you already knew that.

I'm getting increasingly worried about the state of my writing. It's not so much of a problem on this thing, since it's basically just a braindump, and there's no problem with my technical/report writing skills. But the fact remains that over the last few years I've fallen into some bad habits (like starting sentances with "but", for instance). Or maybe I was just never that good?

Reading over those articles, as well as working on the dreaded Book, has really brought home to me how slack I've got. This is supposed to be my craft, you know? A thing which is honed and polised through out the years to become a big... uh... honed, polishy thing. It's not just style I'm concerned with, the ability to find the best turn of phrase, to avoid cliche, etc etc. It's basic stuff like grammar, spelling, proofreading. It's like I got as far as GCSE Eng. and then stalled; or, to be more accurate, degenerated. Can't seem to collect my thoughts anymore.

Don't really know what to do, but if I really intened to drag on with this thing then something's got to change. I've signed up for a writing excercise mailing list (my brain promtly went fzzzt in the face of the first couple of assignments, but hey), and I'm going to try and find some online lessons-- some in creative writing, some in English Language round about the A-Level mark.

Funny to think that the only actual writing-related qualification I possess-- the only one I ever tried for-- is the GCSE in English that I got when I was 15. (I got a B.)

Friday, June 20, 2003

More Work.

Today was less blah, but there's still a blah factor. I'm hoping that a good long work bashing sesh tomorrow will help put things to rights. Apparently it's not just me; a couple of folk on my language course are also bemoaning their joblessness. The bars in town go a bit quiet over summer, apparently; everyone's at the beach. If I don't get something soon I'm gonna end up trudging up and down the sand selling brewskis to the tourists. "CocacolaaAAA! AguaaAAA! FantaaAAA! CervezaaAAA!" Any work's better than no work.

Obviously I would prefer something writing-based, but I reckon that's a nonstarter. Still, maybe something voluntary in that field... we shall see, we shall see.

Trouble is... well, the trouble is that I don't know where to start. Unemployment here is pretty high, and most people seem find jobs through networking. Which is really, really bad news for me because as you may have gathered from the look and feel of this, my corner of the internet, little Mordant doesn't play well with the other kiddies. It's hard to schmooze when you despise everyone, especially people from the land which gave you birth. There's also the whole pervert mutant chaoette anarcho-someting-or-the-other issue; I somehow doubt I'm really going to fit in down the Let's All Sit Around And Complain Bitterly About How It Really Sucks To Voluntarily Leave Your Own Country For No Pressing Reason Other Than The Cheap Booze And Abundant Shiny Sunshine (Which Ironically Is One Of The Things We Bitch About) And Brag About How We've Been Here For 57 Years and We Still Only Know Three Words Of Spanish club.

I've looked into some of the expat women's organizations round here. They have coffee mornings.

And they play... bridge.

Thursday, June 19, 2003

There are entities beyond our ken and the entities read my blog (coz I'm hard) and putting things into words = magick.

Okay, Powers that Be, angels, aliens, demons, whoever. I've been patient for long enough. Now I'm going to stamp my tiny foot and demand ACTION.

First off, let's ginger this old nag up a bit, eh? Been blah on an epic scale lately. Sick of BLAH. Not asking to leap out of beddy-byes every morning with a song in my heart, just give me a little get up and go. I feel like my pleasure centres have been replaced with bathroom sealant. I crave oomph.

Second off: Less of the no job nonsense. It's just getting silly. Even the thrift store turned me down. Yes, things have got to the point where people don't even want me to work for fucking free. I'm doing my bit, but-- a little mystic help? A little astral nudge in my favour? A shiny cloak of irresistable hire-me glamour? Anything, really. I will be all grateful and a better person and stuff.

Wednesday, June 18, 2003

Dream on.

For some reason I have been making cameo appearances in other people's dreams lately, mostly as a power/authority/leader figure of some kind. I'm up to three people so far, which could still be dismissed as coincidence but is verging on the fishy. We shall see.

I can't see you.

But I know yoyu're there. Staring. Always staring. Watching. I hear the sussurus of your flickering eyelashes as you blink, once, maybe twice an hour. Staring! What do you want of me? What do you want of me, you squamous, blasphemous creatures? Get away! Get awayyyyy!

Sunday, June 15, 2003


You will have noticed a marked increase in bloggery from this quarter in recent weeks. This is partly to do with the fact that I don't have to fight Lurid Archive for the internet at the moment, but mostly it's because I'm having trouble writing the stuff that I want to be writing. (Yes, this is me with writer's block. Be afraid. Be very afraid.)

Aaaaanyway. I know what all you little fishies really come here for. You want to see the Fattest Woman On Earth, and her Dog-Faced Son. You want to see the Living Skeleton. You want to sit and watch the Amazing Geek eat a live chicken. You don't come for the inbetween days, you come for those too much info posts, doncha? And if you don't, well-- Browser. Back button. Fly, my pretties, fly!

So it happens that today is a hormonal kind of day, and I find that I am in full-on Ginger Snaps mode. An extraordinary, aimless rage consumes me, little tentacles of energy snapping out and snagging on things: my own flaws, all your screw-ups, life stuff, the horror of the world. Memories and newsfeeds. The images flash past my mind too fast to hang onto.


I'm sick of sane people. I'm sure I've mentioned this, but it bears repeatin' now: sane people suck. If you don't have at least a few little warps in your record then I have no time for you, for you are a dead thing that walks among the living and your soul is like unto those gritty bits in an economy beefburger. How the hell can you live in this world and not be crazy? Just a tiny weeny bit crazy? What is wrong with you people? Escapism I get-- I totally get-- but don't live your life pretending there's nothing to escape from. You insulate yourselves, numb yourselves to everything that might chafe at your conscience, rationalise every action you take until your passage through life is so slick that you might as well be Vaselined all over. But you miss that friction, don't you? You miss having something to gmaw on. So you pick fights. You scavenge, you scratch around, you nose and snuffle and dig until you find someone with a raw patch on them, someone a touch less mean than you, someone who either can't or won't fight back. You find the chink in the armour and then you de-gut them. Can't find a real person? Fine! There's always a straw-man caricature you can kick around, a made-up bugaboo to get between your teeth and worry at. But don't let anyone criticise you!, oh dear me no. Don't let anyone suggest that there might be the teeniest little flaw in your approach. Don't let anyone suggest that the only pain you are capable of comprehending is your own. If anyone gets on your case, then anything goes. No holds barred. Be imaginative! You can always find a way to be the hero, to rework and rewrite the story until you're a brave little David to a big bad Goliath. Deny, demand, rationalize.

No, actually: I was wrong. We're all mad. It's just that the majority of people are mad in a certain, very specific way, and since everyone around them is mad in the same way, they assume that must be sanity and get very very cross with anyone whose madness doesn't mesh nicely with their own.

Stupid Homo Sapiens Sapiens. I'm defecting. I'm joining the People's Republic of Coffee-tables. With my brains and their built-in magazine racks, we shall rule the WOOOORRRRLLLDDD!

Your time is done, primates.
Gazpacho moments.

Added yet more links to my already elephantine sidebar. This time it's my stuff-- three things I've written and had published online. I've been wrestling with the decision for a while. On one hand, I'm not proud of any of them. The quality of the writing isn't really up to snuff, and the damn things are so riddled with typos and sundry glitches that reading them makes my stomach churn. Be that as it may, it's probably better to have a few peices out there, however flawed, and to make them easily accessable from my main blog. Most of my regulars will already have read the damn things, but if you missed them the first time round then you have only to scroll down to [ Typo Hell ]. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Saturday, June 14, 2003

Hey la, hey la...

...My boyfriend's back. Well, almost. Gonna leave in a couple of hours to meet him at the airport. Which is, y'know, good and ungrimful and things.

This next part requires a little background. From a messageboard post I made some months ago:
The threads/paths... Some of them seem to be emotional narratives (which appear to me as thick ropes of plasticine-looking stuff) but a lot of them look like things I call probability strands. It's really hard to describe them since they aren't really three-dimensional shapes. If you can try and picture a long hollow cylindrical shape that's both convex and concave so that you see an inside and an outside at the same time, that's sort of how they look. They also have more colours than the Emotion strands.

(This, incidentally, is how I do a lot of my magick these days. I try and fix it so that events go down the right probability strand. Of course some events don't have a probability strand attached to them so I can't make them happen.)

Did a scry last night to find out about my chances of a job soon. Couldn't hold the trance for long becuase I was too tired but I definately saw quite a few probability strands connecting me to my desired short term future-state. They were nice and short, too, with few tangles. (The length of the strands tends to refer to time, the convolutions to difficulties encountered in achieving one's goal. Colours generally refer to the field of influence-- job-related probability strands generally show up yellow.) Some of the strands looked a bit stunted, though, and the future-state node was small and gnarly-looking, which means that my next job will probably suck. But hey, we didn't need to scry to find that one out, did we?

Beyond the immediate mesh of strands, I can see a large oblong mass, a bit like the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssy. I think this might be the main career-node, but there's not enough detail avaliable yet. I can do these scrys without entering a trance, but there's less detail and it's harder to interact with the strands. The job strands are particularly unweildy, perhaps because my desire for a nice job has little to do with right action/Will/whatever you call it. Magick to get what you want is always a lot harder than magick to get what you really need. (Stupid magick.)

Although I'm remaining fairly well grounded I am spending less and less time in what I might call normal human consciousness. When I do pop back, it's uncomfortable; restrictive. (How ya gonna keep them down on the farm, now that they've seen Paree..?) The trouble is that when I do go back, I forget there's any other way to look at the world. I get trapped in my old, linear/paranoiac/negativistic mindset, and all I can see is rejection, prejudice, obstacles. Every time you see me getting all mizogged about everyday things, that's me temporarily forgetting to be a magickian.

I almost never perform rituals now, preferring to potter around in my little string garden. I mean to get back into that again. Should I ever misplace my ability to see and interact with the probability web, it would be a real downer to have no fallback position. You can never rehearse the basics too much. You can never build too sturdy a foundation.

Nope, it's gone.

Lucky I write all my posts in Notepad, eh? Let's try that again...
Stupid Blogger.

Hmm. That last post seems to have gone byebye. Maybe a quick bump?

Friday, June 13, 2003

I am losing what little patience I had.

Right. I'm officially fed up and desirous of my life back.

I was absoultely determined that this week I'd get a firm job lead of some kind or another, but the cupboard has remained bare. I've already tried a lot of places and been turned away, so I'm having to look further and further afield. Extensive perusal of the job boards confirms that the Spanish electronics industry is just as dead here as everywhere else. Still and all, I'll see if I can't find a few companies in want of assembly staff.

On the voluntary front, I'm going to see if Humana need any staff in their thrift stores tomorrow. Unlikely that they'll have paying work, but that's not the point. The point is that a person needs a bit more shape to their day than two hours of language school in the arvo.

Am I really that unemployable? Seriously. Am I going to spend the rest of my life scratching around for crappy little jobs everywhere I go? I know my CV is a bit patchy, what with the discrepancy between my electronics quals and the kind of jobs I've been doing, but I'm getting turned down by burger bars, FFS. How can anyone be too shit to work in a burger bar?

I'm really starting to worry that I've blown it, that because my emlpoyment history is all this minimum-wage stuff nobody's ever going to consider me for anything else. You're only as good as your last job these days, and fresh starts get thinner on the ground the older you get.

This is ridiculous. I mean, me! Mordant Carnival! Turned down by purveyors of rancid lard and BSE! They should be kissing the hem of my combats and begging me to flip their bits of dead cow! Filthsome snitticles.

So I've been googling for, uhhh, adult emporia and events and so forth, where I might actually be appreciated. Should've tried the scene in the first place, but I came over all shy for some reason. Jeese, it's hard to find listings for s£x shops on the internet, particularly when you don't know how to say "s£x shop" en español. You think you have to wade through pr0n to get to an ordinary site? I can't even turn on the content filter; that would sort of defeat the object.

Thursday, June 12, 2003

Being boring.

One of those days. Meant to set off for town early and sniff out some job leads, but what with one thing and another I didn't get moving. Then I had a phone call from the language school telling me lesson was cancelled on account of staff sickness. That depressed the heck out of me for some reason.

Been too much of a shut-in lately. When I'm not at my class or surfing from bagsnatcher central, all I do is sit at home and study Spanish-- plus the odd break to play Icewind Dale. It's starting to mess with my mind. The other night I dreampt about a two-headed giant that wouldn't let me go past him until I'd conjugated several irregular verbs.

I reaaaally need to get out more.

Maybe getting out and about would be easier if I lived in town, but that's by-the-by. What I need is work, any work.

Trouble is... I'm all wrong for this, d'you see? I disconcert people. Too old to be a traveller scrounging for bar work. Not old or rich enough to be an expat looking for a place in the sun. I had this problem back in the UK, of course, being neither one thing nor the other, but here it's slightly worse because of the language barrier.

I'm going to redouble my efforts to find a job, be more assertive and imaginative. Besides all that, though, there's always voluntary work. Something I can fit around a paying job; half a day here, a couple of hours there. I'm not really sure where to start, but hey-- this is a university campus, there'll be something I can do. Maybe the SU needs something typing, or one of the thrift stores in town needs una dependienta? To recive, you must have your hands open, blah de blah de blah. Whatever.

Bored now. Job please.

Tuesday, June 10, 2003


Got sick of the psi site I was working from. Just too daft, you see. I realised that I've just had enough of a certain kind of daft. 'Scuse me, I feel a Bruce Banner moment coming on...

I'm getting more and sick of the denial-of-science crud that seems to infest everything these days. Don't like the scientific method? Don't think science has anything useful to say about the way the world works? Fine. Only do me a favour, yeah? Get the hell off the internet. That computer you're tap-tapping away at as you write yet another of your smug, pompous, reflexive diatribes is a product of the system you're so keen to denounce. In fact, get the hell out of modern civilization. Go and live in some desert place or a jungle or something, try and scratch a living in a hunter-gatherer stylee. Possibly you'll get some hideous disease, or something big and ugly will pass by and eat your legs; however, this shouldn't phase you at all because (as you keep telling me) we all create our own reality, maaaaan. I'm sure a clever little person like you will just whip out your copy of Solipsistic Wankage For Dummies and rustle up a new one.

See, if these jerks had an actual real Zen Master instead of a headful of skindeep Little Book of Po-mo slush, the Zen Master would have bonked them on their big stupid heads multiple times until they stopped coming out with this "reality isn't real" guff every time they opened thier mouths. There should be an emergency line where you could phone for an irate Zen Master to come round and bonk heads with a stick. Dammit, there should be some kind of Zen Fairy, some little sprite that appears whenever a nincompoop comes out with that "well, reality is, like, a mental construct, yeah? So we all create our own reality, you see? There is no spoon-- no, no, listen-- there is no spoon!" bilge, and whacks them repeatedly over the head with a really really big whacking stick. "Deconstruct this! BONK ON HEAD!"

See, as long as stick go BONK against skull, one needs science. As long as we are confined within the cloven pine of cause and effect, we shall need to understand the nature of the physical universe. Just trotting out stuff about how we shape the world with our minds and blah-de-blah-de-blah doesn't make the world disappear in a puff of special effects.

Don't tell me we can escape our linear, 2-and-a-half-D world when you don't even know what that means. You haven't escaped. You haven't even sorted out conjugal visits and a place on the prison's adult literacy programme. You haven't done squat except read the Illuminatus books, take very weak acid and then talk everyone's ear off. You are boring and repetative and need BONK on HEAD.

Also: Magick not parapsychology, fool. There's a certain amount of overlap, but it's not the same bunny. Not at all.

Also also: You do realise that the oh-so-liberating "all history is fiction!" thing you keep trotting out could be employed to bolster some verrry dubious political stances? Not going all Godwin's Law here, just sayin'.

Aaaanyway. What were we talking about again? Psi. Right. Having given up on Wingmakers, it's back to The Playful Psychic, where they at least pay lip service to the concept of reproducable results. Just going over the basics for now, psi-balls and the like. My psi-balls feel pretty good, firm and springy. I love playing with my psi-balls, squeezing and rubbing and... okay, okay, I'll stop. Seriously, there does seem to be a bit of an improvement, but it's hard to say. Could just be playing head-games with myself. We shall see. In any case I belive I shall stick to this excercize programme for now.

And in other news:

Book: Fine-tuning alphabet. Must have started it over at least a dozen times now. Working on humans-only scenes while the alphabet takes shape. Two characters keep wanting to cop off with each other. I don't want them to cop off. Mucks up plot. Will chuck a bucket of water over them in a minute. Also, I've developed a frankly bizzare crush on one of the bad guys. Stupid characters.

Spanish: Having trouble committing irregular verbs to memory. Stupid irregular verbs.

Job: No job. Fed up. Too old to waitress, apparently. Will poke agencies harder, but I fear the real answer is to call upon the Powers to aid me. Which I hate doing because every time I do it they send me something utterly FOUL, like litter-picking or whatever. Joke's over, guys. Whatever I was supposed to be learning from this-- graduated! Want nice happy job now. Go on. If you're going to play fast and loose with my metabolism and sleeping patterns, you can at least help me with the job thing.

I know you're reading this. I can hear you breathing.

Stupid Powers.

Monday, June 09, 2003

And the fun just keeps on leaving.

Turns out that the webzine in question is down. When I checked yesterday there was just a placeholder where the site should have been. Now the site's message board is back up, but nothing else is working.

Thing is, the exact same thing happened last summer. I sent off a story and the webzine disappeared due to hosing problems. I am a webzine jinx.


Decided to dust off the prehistoric animal story. I submitted it to another, unrelated webzine before leaving London, but since they haven't done me the courtesy of saying yea or nay in the nine or ten months that they've had it, fudge'em.

Sunday, June 08, 2003


You know I sent off that story the other day? Still haven't heard back, or even had an acknowledgement from the webzine. Don't know if a) the submission form thing I used isn't working, b) I somehow managed to mistype my email address, or c) the story was so poor and so far from what they want that they're just ignoring me and hoping I'll go away. Not the first time that's happened. I do make a point of reading a few issues of a zine before I submit anything, and these guys have bought from me before, but it's still entirely possible that I misjudged the market with this one.

Don't know whether to email them and find out what's happened, or just leave it alone and see if they get in touch. Feh.
Blair on those dodgy dossiers: "Mistakes were made".

%Gosh, really, Tone? You don't say.%

Thursday, June 05, 2003

In which the diarist rails against the Powers.

Right after I got my Sekhim and Reiki attunements, I noticed an appreciable decrease in my tolerance for such things as alcohol and caffine. (Not that I was ever particularly good at holding my drink, but still...) So I cut down, adjusted, reflected on how it was probably for the best etc. Then came the sugar crashes; no longer could I relive my PMS with a surfeit of fudge. Well, not unless I wanted to spend the rest of the day struggling to keep my eyes open, anyhow.

And now it's not just sugar, but large portions of anything starchy which have this knockout effect. It's okay if I have lots of veggies and fiberous stuff with it, but a few slices of white bread or similar seem to put me out like a light. And I can't offset the effects with a swift jolt of coffee or gallons of cola, because the gnawing pain behind my eyes kicks in a lot faster these days.

I am not impressed. Spirits, angels, higher self, whoever's responsible for this: You spooky perverts have a lot to answer for. First my already laughable drinking legs are swiped from under me, then you force me to ration my espresso, then you fix it so I can't eat obscene quantities of sweeties anymore, and now I can't even fill up on bread when I'm peckish. I feel emasculated! Okay, so I didn't eat that stuff all the time anyway, but at least I knew I had the choice. Cheap lager, junk food, crisps, chocolate-- these things were part of my IDENTITY, dammit! You won't be happy until I'm living on brown rice and beansprouts! I demand to be able to shovel vast amounts of utter trash into my body, as and when I feel the need!

Well, you haven't won yet. I defy you. I'm having this beer. And that processed cheese sarny. And some crisps and a mars bar. You can't stop me, y--



Tuesday, June 03, 2003


Began my new Spanish course yesterday (Monday). They're starting from a very basic level, which means it's a bit boring at the moment. However, it's a fairly intensive programme and I'm sure I'll be glad of the revision when we get onto the harder stuff.

After class I sauntered off to the beach to do my homework, then went to see The Matrix: Reloaded. I was pleasantly surprised by how much fun it was. Yay! Kicking! P.V.C.! Motorbikes! More kicking! XPLOSHUNS! Hot'n'cold running Hugo Weaving! Endearing attempts at plot-twistyness which wouldn't have surprised a crosseyed two-year-old! Keanu's muscles! And other bits! Which in no way diminished my L.F. crush! Much more kicking! Yayyyy!

The Matrix = kicking movie. Damn, it is such a relief that most people have finally got over all the quasi-Bhuddist mystical crap in the first film and stopped touting it as a radical brainscrunge. Reality might not be real, and could concievably be constructed by a big 'puter? Gosh-a-roonie. Being lied to by our authority figures, you say? Well, I never did. Use your consciousness to affect the world around you? Have a marzipan petit four. Have two. And the spoon thing-- Gordon Bennett. I thought people would never shut up about that bloody spoon! The number of times I heard that stupid phrase trotted out, often by people who were simultaneously demanding that I unquestioningly accept the existance of a whole canteen of monogrammed stainless-steel cutlery, including grapefruit-knife and melon-scoop. No, you jackass, I'm not hidebound by my rigid scientific background, it's just that you're full of horseapples. You're so spiritually bankrupt that you're looking to Hollywood blockbusters for enlightenment. Now shut up and go away-- I'm trying to watch the kicking movie.

Finished the re-write on my latest short story. I have a terrible suspicion it might be utterly lame, but I'm going to punt it out anyway just as soon as I sort out my PayPal ishoos. I may just set up a new account, since the old one hasn't got any money in it and I messed up the credit-card thingy anyway.

Sunday, June 01, 2003


Go away. I'm having an identity crisis.

I wish magick worked like on the telly, where you go off to a cave or a desert or a haunted house and spend a night or two undergoing hellacious trials, after which you emerge irrevocably altered but chock full of powers. Instead it's like building an actual size model of St. Paul's Cathederal out of legos. Stupid magick. I want my powers.