Thursday, July 31, 2003

Your homework for the coming week:


(There will be a test.)

Wednesday, July 30, 2003


I'm sick. Woke up this morning to find that I'd lost my voice. Currently dragging around with a temperature and many achey bits. Been a while since I've had a fever, and I've been hoping to get one; I belive that running a temperature now and again is good for the body. There's some research to indicate that fever can protect one from cancer. Fever is the breath of Sekhmet, a hot wind purging the body of poison.

Which doesn't make me any less fed up, of course.

Last night I got a sign from the entities. I found a tarot card in the street near Placa Catalunya; The Chariot, to be precise. One of the local fortune-tellers must've dropped it. Lurid's been encouraging me to try reading the tarot for money, and that night we'd had a lengthy discussion about it. I give good readings, but I haven't done any in so long, I feel nervous about it. Plus there's the practicalities-- I don't speak enough Spanish to read for people yet.

Monday, July 28, 2003


Should prolly do a post about yesterday in the park, but right now I've only got one thing on my mind.

Why can't I get a job? Why? WhywhywhywhywhywhyWHYYYYYY? I'm getting turned down for everything! Every damn thing! The stupid burger joints don't want me! The stupid shops don't want me! The stupid bars don't want me! The stupid cafe in the stupid station doesn't want me! Screw you job-giving people! I hate you! You suck! All I wanted was some shitey little job washing up in a kitchen or something, and you can't even let me have that? I hate you! I hateyouhateyouhateyou! You stupid uptight jerks!

And nobody's buying my stupid jewellery! I work really hard at that stuff and the guy next to me with a big pile of mass-produced crap made at gunpoint by child-slaves in Indonesia which which looks exactly the same as any other piece of mass-produced crap made at gunpoint by child-slaves in Indonesia is doing a roaring trade. Karma be damned: next week I'm just going to go down the wholesalers and buy a bunch of mass-produced crap made at gunpoint by child-slaves in Indonesia. You want crap? Fine! Here, have some crap! Have a big pile of crap that looks just like the next pile of crap! Look, you can have the exact same "unconventional" earrings that all the other "unconventional" people are wearing. (That's how you know you're unconventional, you see.)

You know what? Screw this.

Screw walking around town all day, screw tweaking my CV, screw pouring my energies into a bottomless pit of futility, screw having to go home every day and tell my boy that he's still gonna have to support the five-and-a-half-foot long leech that's stuck to his bank-book, screw flypitching, screw snotty tourists who come over and peer at my stuff and look like there's a bad smell under their noses. Screw this whole pointless existance.

And most of all, screw you.

Oh, and I started a thread on my board with a review-y thing of May.

Sunday, July 27, 2003

Make up your own title, you bone-idle gits.

Hrmmmm. Been slack on the blogging lately. Not had much to write about; everything that's been happening lately is happening inside my head.

The language exchange night went fine, and I shall definately return next Tuesday (hopefully dragging Lurid along this time). Still can't understand nine-tenths of what everyone is saying, but it'll come. It'll come.

Having a bit of a crisis of confidence about the writing. I feel I lack the proper discipline; I'm still punting out stuff that's poorly developed, flawed, often containing glaring errors in grammar or spelling (which I somehow manage to miss until the piece is already winging its way to some webzine editor's inbox). Don't know what's wrong with me; how'd I get so damn sloppy? Repetition, cliche, typo, roaming comma, repetition, missed apostrophe, Attack of the Spurious Adjectives, repetition repetition rgrgrgrgrgrhhHH...

Mordant Moral Faliure: Beserk
Mordant Go for the eyes, Boo! Go for the eyes! RAGHHHHHHHH!

I'm trying to put together a couple of articles at present: some kind of travel thing with which I hope to temp the local English language publications, and something on teenage boot camps, which I will either punt out to emergencyPARADIGM or the new and improved Disinfo... that's if I ever get it finished. There's just too much data, and it's all really horrific data too. I read this stuff-- the articles, the court transcripts, the messageboards-- and I run out of places in my head to put it all. I start wanting to puke, or cry, or hit people, or call down the wrath of Freya, or just run out into the street and start punching the ground because of the complete impossibility of doing anything about these terrible, horrible places that torture vulnerable young people for money. Some reporter I am, huh?

But I've got to persevere. The more articles that are out there on the Web, the greater the likelyhood that these clueless rich tosspots will stumble across a little smidgin of truth inamongst all the glossy brochures.

A lot of people reading this will probably be thinking "yeah, well, the boot camps are nasty but what about all the other stuff? Iraq, Liberia, war, famine, torture, death, cash crops-- how come you've fixated on a bunch of rich American kids?" And they'd have a point, of course. The thing is... I know about all those things. And I don't just know in my head, I know in my gut, too. I'm haunted by them. They flutter round inside my head: the ghosts of all those people who have died and will go on dying in my name, who are enslaved in factories and on plantations so that I can buy cheaper goods. And I do what I can to change that. I write letters, I boycott this brand or that brand, I pass on information, I march, I do whatever. Every so often I give up (because I know I can't change anything, who am I? I'm nobody!), but I always begin again. You have to keep going, keep trying, even when you know intellectually that it's all pointless. It's not about what you do or don't change, it's about being someone you can stand to look at in the mirror.

The boot camp thing, though... that, I feel, could change, and change rapidly. There should be a change in the law, there should be legal protection for the kids concerned, there should be an end to the criminalisation and pathologisation of adolescence, sure, but you don't need those things to make the boot camps and the house-arrest programmes and all of that disappear. The way I see it is this: the boot camps are a product. All that needs to happen to kill a product is for people to stop buying that product.

('Course, then you've got to worry about what they buy instead...)

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

Okay, you ethereal types...

Heads up.

I'm off to my first ever language exchange night at a certain bar in about half an hour, and I'd like to make a couple of requests puhleeeees.

1) Give me my GUMPTION. I must and shall have GUMPTION.

2) I do not wish to get chatted up. This happens less frequently than it used to for I am an old boiler and I have divested myself of my crowning glory. And I dress funny. However, there are still some who won't take the hint.

3) I would like to meet some fun people, with whom I have stuff in common. Preferably these would be vaguely arty folk who could help me with path-y stuff.

4) I flat out DEMAND... that you accept my gratitude for your help today, including those nice bits of cheap fabric remnant you helped me find, and for pointing out that want-ad in the sushi bar. Thanks, guys. Or girls. Whatever.
Making stuff.

My consecrated hematite Wealth bracelet broke the other week. It was just hematite chips on elastic and the elastic snapped when I was having a beer in the Placa George Orwell. (Remind me to stop consecrating cheap jewellery in future.)

I saved all the bits, but I'm not sure what to do with it next. I was just going to restring and reconsecrate it, but something stopped me. I suspect that it wanted to be free. Bloody iron ore-- these metallic doobries are a bugger for getting ideas.

So I plan to redesign the bracelet. I'm going to use most of the hematite chips and some other suitable materials and remake it from scratch. A few of the hematite chips will of course be incorporated into my next batch of beadwork, to be offered for sale on Sunday. So that's another chore to look forward to this week.

Stupid magick.
Mmm, swords.

Oooh, they're so shiny and pointy! I want all of them. Lovely lovely pointy swords. Mmmmmmmm. Swords. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

Also I want a flowing cloak and a swordsman's shirt, and some nice pointy boots. Some personal mist that would swirl about me on demand so's I could always make dramatic entrances would be good, but the costume people don't seem to sell that. I already have a long-haired bloke to stand next to me and look all brooding, so that's a plus.

Countess Junior Grade of The Flobee Hair Suction System, Mordant Carnival, L.C.S.W, to you lot.

(Random name & title generator robbed off of Solonor)


It's like saying something like, "Well yeah, I sent that mind eating demon after that guy, but it's ok because I practice white magick and he practices black magick. He does bad evil nasty things and I'm a happy fluffy fairy bunny witch who does good deeds, like helping old women cross the street".

Trijhaos made me eject fluid from my nose again. It's not fair.

Monday, July 21, 2003

Another open letter to the Entities.

Okay, guys. I think I've finally got myself pointed in the direction that you want me to be pointed in. Doing the jewellery, check. Making the ickle pritty wire trees, check. Keeping my eyes open for cool stuff to nick from skips, check. You have my gratitude for helping me sell that necklace on Sunday.

No, I'm not being sarky. I didn't really expect to sell anything, so the necklace was a plus. Thanks. You guys have been great, and I'm sorry that I needed so much poking to get me on the path. What can I say? You knew what I was like when you took the gig.

Now then. In order for me to keep to the mission, I need a little more help. Obviously I need to sell more stuff than that, but what I need right now-- like, tomorrow-- is a hint as to what I can be doing money-wise for the rest of the week. Can't just sit around from Monday to Saturday, hoping that this Sunday will be the charm.

So I'm asking you ethereal types once again: Help me out. Introduce me to someone who can point me in the right direction, show me where I can set up shop. See if you can't find me a job that works for you. Above all: give me the gumption I'll need to make the most of the chances I get.

Throw me a bone, eh? I can't go on like this, no money coming in and all that. It makes my stomach hurt.
The lost afternoon.

Inbetween those last two posts there should have been a little something on how I had a really great time on Saturday. Lurid and myself went to the Parc Güell to meet a 'Lither and a couple of said 'lither's mates. We had a great time, eventually fetching up on the beach to drink sangria. It was loads of fun, and I really hope they enjoyed it too.
Sold out.

Got to the park about 5pm, stayed till 9. Sold one (1) necklace. Ho, hum.

It was nice in the park tho'. Sort of like a mini-festival. There were jugglers, loads of really good jugglers, people playing guitars, a human pyramid, stands selling burritos, lukewarm sangria, herbalized tortilla and suspicious chocolate cake, people walking round with cool boxes ("AguacocacolacervecaAAAAA!") , cyclists, unicyclists, bemused tourists who'd come for the geological museum, and drums drums DRUMS. The drums were awesome beyond words. There were little knots of drummers all over the place, creating this thick sonic tapestry. It drew you in, made you part of it. After a while I found I was humming happy little made-up tunes to the rhythm of the drums.

I really want a drum now. And a sword.

Anyhow. I'm not totally gutted about the whole "one necklace in 4 hours" thing. It was my first time out and I reckon that with better presentation and a wider variety of stock I could do loads better. Hey, if I can sell one necklace when all I've got's an old pillowcase with my stock Sellotaped to it, what couldn't I do with a proper display?

Been thinking about how I might vary my stuff a little. I reckon that I should try and go for the wannabe mage market; pentegrams, chaostars, planetary symbols, etc etc. Also, I'm really good at making those kitschy little wire "bonsai" trees, so I might do two or three of those. Then there's "found object" sculpture; I used to really enjoy making semi-arty stuff out of crap that other people had chucked out. Not saying it'd sell, but it might get people interested.

But this is only a Sunday thing. What about the rest of the week? Well, getting a licence to sell stuff here is pretty much a nonstarter, but there's still the street-theatre option. Admittedly I'm no good at juggling, unicycling, dancing, or playing music, but I'm really really got at staying dead still. No, really. I used to be a life-model for a beginner's art class. I can hold a pose for forty minutes straight. So I'm thinking, human statue. Hmmm. Of course one would need a suitable costume, but I'm pretty inventive in that regard.

I would like a costume with a sword. A big shiny pointy sword. Then all you sword-having people would have to stop laughing at me.

If I had a drum and a sword I would be invincible, and nobody would ever tell me to file anything again.

Saturday, July 19, 2003

...mark out the losers in your office so you know whose opinions you can safely ignore.

fridgemagnet puts his finger on one of the main reasons why I really hate working with other people: you're all a bunch of know-nothing, style-over-content bozos. I hate working with other people because work, like justice, must be seen to be done. So what if you've been slaving in the file room since 7:30am? Your upline manager doesn't get in till nine-thirty, and she won't see you. Worse, if you're so busy trying to put some order to the chaos that her lousy management has created that you don't come up for air till 10:30, you'll have to put up with the smarmy bint asking you if your alarm clock's broken. Attempting to reason with her is a waste of time. She'll just nod and smirk. Most people grasp the concept of object permenance in infancy but not your upline manager, oh no. You don't exist if she can't see you. Someone who does no work but makes a lot of work-flavoured noise, on the other hand, will be showered with praise and get promoted over your head and then get the perm posting they've been fucking promising you for the last three months which is the only reason you've been coming in at 7:30am and RGHGGHGHGGGGGFUCKINGBASTARDS!

I really hope this fly-pitching thing takes off. Much as I want a job, the thought of working with you losers again fills me with nausea.

Still jobless and still broke. You got it.

Didn't go into town job-hunting yesterday. Thought I'd stay at home for once, give my Castillian some love. Spent most of the day going through this book of grammar excercizes and listening to Spanish telly. I prefer DVDs-- it's easier to follow what's being said if there are subtitiles because I read Castillian better than I speak it.

I think I'll do the same again today. I've got an SF novel which I keep meaning to work through with the dictionary. I'm going out later, but not till this afternoon.

Okay, post over. You can get back to making snide comments about people who whine about their lives and then don't try to fix them now.

Thursday, July 17, 2003

I still don't have a job. Why don't I have a job? This is beyond merely depressing or annoying. This is Kafkaesque, is what it is! Give me a sodding job! I've lost count of the number of CVs I've handed out, calls I've made, streets I've walked down, temp agencies I've signed up with, and nothing. I don't even get a rejection letter or anything. Just... dead silence. It's not even as if I'm setting my standards too high. All I want is some crappy little minimum-wage thing, mopping floors or waitressing or machine-minding. This sucks. I go into town every day, I check the noticeboards, I check in with the managers of the bars that have my CV, I do everything I can think of to find work. And still nothing. Nothing. What the hell is wrong?

Having been denied legal employment, I've decided to try fly-pitching. No joy there, either. Went to the Parc but everyone there was asleep. Put my stuff out but nobody bought anything. Then there was this big police lorry driving around, and the park keeper kept wandering past, and I had to keep stuffing everything back in my bag. (If they catch you fly-pitching here they take your stuff off you and you have to pay €100 to get it back.) In the end my paranoia got the better of me and I went home. I'm going back on Sunday, because I've heard that everyone fly-pitches there on a Sunday. Nobody gets busted because there's just too many people: buskers, jugglers, traders, dope-dealers, all sorts. Sounds like fun.

Wednesday, July 16, 2003

Bloody furious again.

This time it's Magical Aqua that's got me all riled up. Not, I hasten to add, at the author, but at what she's being put through by her L.E.A. (Local Education Authority).

Magical Aqua's author, Lucy, is a teenaged girl who suffers from M.E. From what I read in her journal she's fighting the disease tooth and nail, but she can't really attend school. This is because her symptoms (which vary over time but often include severe pain, fatigue to the point where she can barely sit up for any length of time, insomnia and nausea) are too severe.

But physical disability should be no barrier to a young person's eduaction, right? I mean, there's laws and things, right? This is what you pay your taxes for, right? Wrong, according to the relevant L.E.A. They've been stringing this young woman along since 2001, failing to provide home tuition, failing to explain why. Same old story: "You're someone else's problem, we've lost your files, it's not my department, blah blah blah." I suppose they were hoping that the problem would disappear when she hit 18.

This is a disgusting way for a bunch of supposedly responsible adults to behave. I had a lot of contact with various L.E.A.s and their so-called education advisors when I was a kid and I have nothing good to say about them. I'm sorry to see that the callousness and incompetence that I recall is still alive.
The BabyInk thing was a hoax.

Whew. Now I don't have to go all the way to America just to kill them.

Tuesday, July 15, 2003

Just time for a quickie...

I still don't have a job.
I am sick of non-job-havingness.
If I do not get a job soon I will release a mutant strain of athlete's foot into the El Corte Ingles zapateria.

This is your last warning. Job me, you CV-eating gits, or things round here are going to get... itchy.

Monday, July 14, 2003

There was supposed to be a post here.

And the links had proper names and stuff. Then blogger ate them. Make up your own damn post and your own bloody titles. Then go and boil your collective noggin.

Saturday, July 12, 2003

Search refrerrals: Yet another reason to hate your putrid guts.

"macaque choking pictures". I kid you not. Someone came to my blog and tracked stupid all over the floor again.

Oh, and the person who came here looking for "barcelona sex shops": did you find any and where are they?
More lousy parents.

Hey, mums! Is your offspring insufficiently adorned for your taste? Is slathering your kid with designer lables no longer doing it for you? Don't feel that Junior expresses your personality adequately? Never fear, Baby Ink is here! Real permanent tattoos for infants as young as 6 months!

(link via kookymojo.)

Come close, people, while I explain something to you know-nothing, more-money-that-sense-having, baby-torturing bloody morons: A CHILD IS AN AUTONOMOUS ENTITY! A person. A small, smelly, annoying, mewling, puking, noisy person, true, but a person nonetheless. Not a billboard, not a prizewinning extension of yourself, not a punchbag, not a bargaining chip in your mindless, pointless battles with your mindless, pointless ex. Get that concept into your self-absorbed brains before I have to come down there and SMACK it in.

God, I hate Homo Sapiens. Pollution, Boot camps, Guantanamo Bay, more pollution, nukes... you're a bunch of shaved apes who haven't leared not to shit where they eat and devour their young. No wonder I'm going bonkers-- I've had to share a planet with you freaks for nearly three decades. I wish you'd hurry up and kill yourselves.
More psi fun

Further to yesterday's entry: I will use the Recorded Experiment setting instead of constantly chickening out and using the demo setting just because I intened to make my scores public. It doesn't matter if this doesn't work. It's not like everyone's going to dance round me singing "You've got no psi powers! Nyahh, nyahh nayhh nyahh nyahh!

This is a game. Fun. Playing. You remember fun.

Friday, July 11, 2003

Psi fun.

Having been unable to climb up off my psionic plateu, and being eager to have some kind of external, non-subjective record of my acheivements (if any), I've dug up this site that I was playing with a bit last year. It has a number of retropsychokinetic games you can play, which also function as experiments. If you so choose, you can have your results included on their database. I'm going to try and do a little every day (mostly using the bell-curve game), see how I get on.

The RetroPsychoKinesis Project
More on Tranquillity Bay and sundry other kiddie gulags.

The more I delve into this subject, the angrier I get. It's a nightmare: unimaginable stories of brutality, physical, emotional, sexual and spiritual abuse. Nobody should have to go through these experiences, but these are bloody children. The worst thing some of them have done is talk back to their folks.

Please take a few minutes to visit one of these (especially grant's blog) and read the articles, comments and the court transcripts.

grant is collating links and info here

mudshow thread here, now longer, rantier and linkier

Barbelith Underground thread here

If anyone reading this can give me some pointers as to how I can get involved in fighting these places and the people that run them, if you know of a campaign or can tell me which authorities I should get all activisty towards, please get in touch. Email me, tag me, leave a Shout Out, or post to my board.

Wednesday, July 09, 2003


Got an email rejection last week, for a story I'd sent to Bloodlust UK. I mention this because it was a really, really good rejection letter. It was both helpful and courteous, explaining clearly and concisely why the didn't feel the story was right for them, what they liked about it, and what they didn't like. In my long career as a literary nonentity, I've recieved many rejections and I would give this one an eight, maybe even a nine. I almost wrote back to tell the editior how impressed I was with the quality of the rejection, but felt that I risked being taken the wrong way.

To give you some idea of what I look for in a rejection letter, here's a few pointers:

If you haven't read the story, don't pretend that you have. Create a standard letter explaining why you can't read new stuff at the moment.
Do not stick the boot in. You can ruin someone's whole day quite effectively with a simple "thanks but no thanks." You do not need to use profanity.
"We didn't feel the story was strong enough" is a lame comment. Make up your mind what's wrong with the piece and say that, or use a standard letter.
Above all, don't give up! Sure, you'll take a few knocks along the way, but persevere. Someday you'll be able to write rejection letters like a pro!
Tranquillity Bay

Lazy rich screwups farm our their child abuse.

Can't be bothered to physically assault and verbally humiliate Junior yourself? Don't worry! When you're rich, you can get other people to do it for you!

Lengthly rant over at thee mudshow, here.

(Link ponced from fridgemagnet).

Tuesday, July 08, 2003

Sun, sea, and salty goodness.

You should see the Med under the brilliant afternoon sun! Green-blue, almost glowing, sparkling, with tiny white boat sails off in the distance. It looks like a dream ocean, like something from the imagination. Beautiful.

Myself, Lurid Arcive, and M. all spent the weekend in Sitges, a seaside town round the coast from Barca. It was excellent. We arrived on Saturday afternoon and were lucky enough to find a room in a fairly pleasant little hotel (spaces are limited at this time of year). Having dumped our stuff, we had a slightly overpriced meal at the Pic Nic cafe and then went for a dip in the Med. Haven't been sea-bathing since I was a kid, so I had a great time, sploshing around and trying not to get my glasses knocked off by the more boisterous waves. The beach was crowded and there was quite a bit of litter floating around, but otherwise the water looked pretty clean.

After salting and sunning ourselves satisfactorily, we all sloped off down the shops and stocked up on beer and fizzy drinks. (Not touching the minibar). Then we adjourned to the hotel, where we sat around on the balcony, lolling on sun loungers and jawing idly as the sun got lower and the air cooled. Come the evening, we set off on a bar crawl. We started out at Parrots (gaybargaybargaybar), then just kind of sauntered up and down, stopping at various points for beer, food, and in one case a slightly disappointing ice-cream. The best part of the evening for me was walking along the rocks with an overpriced six-pack just after midnight, then drinking beers as we watched a little flotilla of catamarans set out onto the black waters, their white sails ghostly against the sky. I don't know what they were up to-- perhaps there was some kind of licence-related night sailing requirement being fulfilled. It was a rather poignant sight.

We passed a rough night, thanks to the minestrations of the local gnats, then got up and fought the other residents for scrambled eggs and coffee. Then we went and flopped around on the beach, chugging back fizzy water, lemonade and beer, and snacking on peanuts, cheese and brioche. Myself and M. developed a hopeless crush on one of the drinks sellers, a handsome fellow with long dark hair and muscular arms. Yum. (Can the self-loathing, XYers-- you blokes are nice to look at.) Swam. Basked. Re-applied sunblock. More swimming. More bask. More beer. More suncream. Zizz. More swim.

Eventually we decided to call it a day. We pootled around the town a bit, then headed back to the sticks to nurse our sunburn.

So long, Sitges. We'll always have... Parrots.

*Crickets chirp*
*Frogs croak*
*Tumbleweed tumbles*
*Bell tolls*

Aww, c'mon, guys.

And then Monday happened, and M. went to live somewhere else where she didn't have to sleep on the floor, and today I went into town, got hot and tired, completely failed to find a job, and somehow had a tenner nicked.


Thursday, July 03, 2003


So one of my bestest freinds is in town-- M., who lived upstairs from me and Lurid Archive back in Dryrotsville. She's staying with us, which is very cool, and since she used to live in Barcelona herself she's been showing us some of her old haunts. Last night we ended up wandering the maze of tiny streets near the bottom of the Ramblas, looking for her old local. It was one of the coolest bars I've ever been in: tiny, with green paint on the crumbling walls and red on the low ceiling. The light came from dim lamps with red fringed shades, and from a bright red fluorescent tube overhead. The only consessions to the lush July heat were the open door and two oscillating fans. They were playing Bjork on the crappy CD player. It was awesome.

Not, however, as awesome as the next place we went. It was one of the secret bars that are apparently scattered all over town. I'm surprised that M. was able to find it, even after getting some vague directions off the barman; she'd only been there once before. We walked up and down the street a couple of times, trying to suss out which door to knock on, as guys in yellow overalls hosed down the narrow roads with powerful jets of water. There was almost nothing to indicate that this place was any different from all the other quiet, shuttered homes and businesses in the area, except for the very very faint strains of music coming from inside. We knocked tentatively on the door, and were admitted by the rangey blonde barwoman. Tracking water over the black and white tiled floor, we trooped inside.

The building smelled like Dryrotsville used to smell at the height of the Leaky Bath Catastrophe: damp and musty. We stared at the sculpture hanging over the bar, a three foot long tangle of chains, gas masks and other oddments, while the woman served us three sweating bottles of beer. There were only a couple of other customers. We brushed by them and went to sit in the back, a tiny snug with old, flyspecked mirrors on the walls. Not all the walls were plastered; one was still bare, the great rough stones gleaming with moisture. The light was so dim I could hardly see, coming as it did from only two fittings. One of the bulbs had been covered with streaky reddish paint to subdue it, and was further obscured by a lampshade that seemed to be made from an X-ray of someone's pelvis. The stools and tabled were all quite heavy, and mostly looked to be made of iron. (I tried to take a rubbing of the engraved metal rim of our table, but it didn't come out. Stupid biro. I'm getting some proper brass-rubbing crayons.) On one wall hung a pair of mannequin's legs, clad in black tights, clunky pinkish sandals and a length of (yes) heavy chain. A crucifix fashioned from a lifesize baby doll smirked in one corner, an inverted cross visible on its sooty babygro. We couldn't stay for too long, unfortunately; we left around half-midnight to get the bus home. I was by this time very tipsy and excited, in that jangly overtired way.

It was a great night out.

Tuesday, July 01, 2003

Stop shoving.

Further to my continual and ongoing rant about no job and crap job and why don't the Powers fix my life and whine and sulk et hoc genus omnes...

In a recent comment, angel said: "Have you thought of making creative/interesting stuff to sell at markets?"

And I said: "I've been thinking of making beadwork jewellery to sell. My freind is in town and she says there's an art/craft collective here-- could be just the break I need."

Her contact with said collective arrives in town in about a week. I shall be pushing actively for involvement in said collective. Unfortunately most of my art/craft stuff is in storage back in London, so I have a week to throw some bits together. Should be time enough-- my language course finishes today so I'll have rather less on my plate. I reckon I'll make a few pieces of bead jewllery, just simple stuff. If I have time I may whip up some small paintings, but that's less important.

I am starting to think this was the direction that I've been pushed in for the last few months, if not longer. Synchronicities abound. I've frequently considered doing something like this but didn't know how to go about it and lacked the confidence to really try. Also I generally don't meet that many arty-crafty people-- it's hard to do things in a vacuum, without input from others.

And yes, the writing is still my number one priority. But I need to find a way of earning some money, like, yesterday, and I'd prefer it if I could earn said money in a way that doesn't make me go totally mental please.