Soapbox splinters in my socks.
Hooboy. Struggling with that ranticle on transhuman stuff. I'm about two-thirds done, but I discovered a collosal flaw in my reasoning. I mean, I know I'm right, but I need to explain how.
Also, the damn thing seems terribly simplistic in places. I come off looking like Ms. State The Goddamned Obvious 2003, but I feel I have to go over this stuff because although things may seem obvious to me, I tend to run across people who aren't aware of them or haven't really thought about them. Which makes me wonder who I'm writing for-- am I perhaps not giving people enough credit? Blargh. Maybe reading some transhuman sites will help get my thoughts in order. I want a few decent links for further reading in any case.
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
On the make.
Okay-- having knocked the dust and cobwebs and the MY GOD WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT oh sorry it was just a leaf off my artsy side, it seems reasonable to run with it. (Especially since there's no way in hell I'm going to sign up for the OU this year. Not enough money and, to be quite honest, damn-all enthusiasm for academia at present.) So I've decided that by the time Lurid's job runs out (that's about a year from now), I want to have assembled a decent portfolio of artwork. I'm always doing this, BTW. I get my art skills so they're sort of okay, then I drop it all for a few months because of work or melty head or whatever and forget everything. Used to really bother me that I did that, but after awhile I noticed that every time I go back to something after a break, I suck at first but re-learn the skill pretty fast. By the time I drop it again I'll be a bit better than I was the last time I dropped it, and so on. Unless you can knock off a rich auntie or something, you have to resign yourself to this whole two steps forward, one step back deal, slotting in the non-moneymaking stuff when and where you can.
So, portfolio. Say, about 20 pieces, various subjects in various media, the first to be completed a month hence. Probably be a good idea to do some still-lives and stuff in pencil. I'll let you know how that goes. Hopefully I shall have a digital camera soon so I might be able to some of my things online.
On the writing front, I've been getting a lot better. Espresso is the new vodka'n'coke when it comes to my writer's block unblockers. The resulting bilge is useless for anything except dog-carcass fodder, but it gets you over the hump and that's the main thing. I've been finishing stuff off left, right and centre, and I'm psyching myself up for the next round of sending stuff out to webzines. Editors: Be afraid, be very afraid.
Okay-- having knocked the dust and cobwebs and the MY GOD WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT oh sorry it was just a leaf off my artsy side, it seems reasonable to run with it. (Especially since there's no way in hell I'm going to sign up for the OU this year. Not enough money and, to be quite honest, damn-all enthusiasm for academia at present.) So I've decided that by the time Lurid's job runs out (that's about a year from now), I want to have assembled a decent portfolio of artwork. I'm always doing this, BTW. I get my art skills so they're sort of okay, then I drop it all for a few months because of work or melty head or whatever and forget everything. Used to really bother me that I did that, but after awhile I noticed that every time I go back to something after a break, I suck at first but re-learn the skill pretty fast. By the time I drop it again I'll be a bit better than I was the last time I dropped it, and so on. Unless you can knock off a rich auntie or something, you have to resign yourself to this whole two steps forward, one step back deal, slotting in the non-moneymaking stuff when and where you can.
So, portfolio. Say, about 20 pieces, various subjects in various media, the first to be completed a month hence. Probably be a good idea to do some still-lives and stuff in pencil. I'll let you know how that goes. Hopefully I shall have a digital camera soon so I might be able to some of my things online.
On the writing front, I've been getting a lot better. Espresso is the new vodka'n'coke when it comes to my writer's block unblockers. The resulting bilge is useless for anything except dog-carcass fodder, but it gets you over the hump and that's the main thing. I've been finishing stuff off left, right and centre, and I'm psyching myself up for the next round of sending stuff out to webzines. Editors: Be afraid, be very afraid.
Straight Pride.
God, I hate humanity sometimes. Actually, I hate you all the time, but every so often something will come along that nudges my hate into a higher gear. Here's what done the nudging on this occasion: Straight Pride wear. Stupid bloody shirts for stupid bloody people. You might as well get someone to tattoo the words "Look at me! I'm a moronic SHAVED APE, congenitally incapable of ascribing personhood to anyone that isn't part of my narrow little tribe!" across your forehead.
You might say that a t-shirt with a couple of stick figures isn't worth getting all aerated about, and you'd be right. It's the thinking behind the t-shirts that gets me all hot under the collar. This attitude that because you don't have a yearly march or a special newspaper, you're somehow discriminated against. Hah! Discriminated? I WISH you were discriminated against! I wish that just for one day-- one day-- your whinging was justified. I wish you could experience the crushing misery of true discrimination. I wish you had to wake up and face a society where the vast majority of people just aren't like you, don't understand you, actively hate you. I wish your whinging straight behind had ever been booted out of a job because someone found out that you were shagging a member of the opposite sex. I wish you'd had anti-straight slogans painted on your car. I wish your kids had been beaten up and had their money and mobile phones nicked by their predominantly gay schoolmates. I wish you'd been burnt out of your home by your gay neighbours.
"Well, Mordant," I hear you whinge, "that's all well and good, but I gotta say I'd take gay people much more seriously if they didn't have to make so much fuss about thier... y'know... lifestyle. I mean, those Gay Pride parades, they're just so ludicrous. I'd have much more sympathy if all these homosexuals wouldn't show themselves up by dressing up in feather-boas and riding around on penis-shaped floats. I mean, you don't see straight people having a straight pride parade and-- What? No, I've never actually seen a penis-shaped float, but Jeremy at work knows this fellow and blah blah blahhh..."
Well, let's take a walk down the high street, shall we? Let's take a look at all these guys in feather-boas riding around on their penis-shaped floats. Oh, that's funny-- where'd they all go? Could it be that, having only ONE DAY A YEAR to be happy with one's sexuality instead of having to hide it for fear of physical assualt and/or murder, one might be forgiven for getting just a teensy bit carried away?
We don't need a Straight Pride Day, you rigid-minded and unlovely primates, because we already have a Straight Pride Whole Rest Of The Sodding Year.
I just love the way this site wheels out the dread spectre of "PC". "Beware!-- this is not a politically correct organization," they tell us, "cause 'Life isn't so why should we?'." Has anyone else ever noticed the way that the right-wing jackasses say PC when they actually mean "fair"? When they actually mean "Boo hoo, I really enjoy kicking people when they're down, and I wish to do so without fear of criticism! Wahhhhh!"? Shut up your foul whinging, you pathetic little gits. You and yours run the goddamn world. You run the governments, you run the banks, you run the papers and the TV stations. There is no PC brigade! You don't have any real enemies! There are no hoards of dungaree-clad lezzers walking the halls of the local high school, breaking open lockers and desks and administering punitive asscandlings to young Hustler readers. There are no simpering, ballgowned cabals overseeing employment legislation. There are gays in the media and gays in the government, sure, but you can bet your bottom dollar that the further up you go the sparser they get. If you think different, then frankly you'd better be on drugs; I'd hate to imagine anyone could be that deluded without drugs. Also, they must be really, really good drugs. Hey! I want some of your drugs. Give me them or I'll send the black lesbian cripples round to make all your pets be all gay.
It's your world, str8 white folks. You should be cracking open the champers, not cowering in your sorry toilet-door-looking t-shirts.
And before you all start, I must wearily trot out the following disclaimer: yes, the same goes for all the other groups that suffer discrimination, of course, including classism. (Classism still messes up lives like nothing else).
What you people need is a minority group that really can kick your collective buttocks. What you people need is mutants. I want there to be mutants. I'm not talking sappy little Jean Gray type mutants, all schnooglies and light-- I want kickass Magneto-type mutants! You wait till I achieve my full powers. Mean green Homo Superior, levitating on in to teach you the meaning of discrimination, laser-style! That'd show you.
(Oh, and when the righteous wrath of the right-wing toilet-door-wearing jackasses turns toward my inbox-- can you guys please use the correct slurs this time? I'm a straight white woman, so "fucking f****t" is innaccurate, as is the n-word. You'll be wanting to use "uppity bitch" or similar, FYI. Toodle-pip!)
God, I hate humanity sometimes. Actually, I hate you all the time, but every so often something will come along that nudges my hate into a higher gear. Here's what done the nudging on this occasion: Straight Pride wear. Stupid bloody shirts for stupid bloody people. You might as well get someone to tattoo the words "Look at me! I'm a moronic SHAVED APE, congenitally incapable of ascribing personhood to anyone that isn't part of my narrow little tribe!" across your forehead.
You might say that a t-shirt with a couple of stick figures isn't worth getting all aerated about, and you'd be right. It's the thinking behind the t-shirts that gets me all hot under the collar. This attitude that because you don't have a yearly march or a special newspaper, you're somehow discriminated against. Hah! Discriminated? I WISH you were discriminated against! I wish that just for one day-- one day-- your whinging was justified. I wish you could experience the crushing misery of true discrimination. I wish you had to wake up and face a society where the vast majority of people just aren't like you, don't understand you, actively hate you. I wish your whinging straight behind had ever been booted out of a job because someone found out that you were shagging a member of the opposite sex. I wish you'd had anti-straight slogans painted on your car. I wish your kids had been beaten up and had their money and mobile phones nicked by their predominantly gay schoolmates. I wish you'd been burnt out of your home by your gay neighbours.
"Well, Mordant," I hear you whinge, "that's all well and good, but I gotta say I'd take gay people much more seriously if they didn't have to make so much fuss about thier... y'know... lifestyle. I mean, those Gay Pride parades, they're just so ludicrous. I'd have much more sympathy if all these homosexuals wouldn't show themselves up by dressing up in feather-boas and riding around on penis-shaped floats. I mean, you don't see straight people having a straight pride parade and-- What? No, I've never actually seen a penis-shaped float, but Jeremy at work knows this fellow and blah blah blahhh..."
Well, let's take a walk down the high street, shall we? Let's take a look at all these guys in feather-boas riding around on their penis-shaped floats. Oh, that's funny-- where'd they all go? Could it be that, having only ONE DAY A YEAR to be happy with one's sexuality instead of having to hide it for fear of physical assualt and/or murder, one might be forgiven for getting just a teensy bit carried away?
We don't need a Straight Pride Day, you rigid-minded and unlovely primates, because we already have a Straight Pride Whole Rest Of The Sodding Year.
I just love the way this site wheels out the dread spectre of "PC". "Beware!-- this is not a politically correct organization," they tell us, "cause 'Life isn't so why should we?'." Has anyone else ever noticed the way that the right-wing jackasses say PC when they actually mean "fair"? When they actually mean "Boo hoo, I really enjoy kicking people when they're down, and I wish to do so without fear of criticism! Wahhhhh!"? Shut up your foul whinging, you pathetic little gits. You and yours run the goddamn world. You run the governments, you run the banks, you run the papers and the TV stations. There is no PC brigade! You don't have any real enemies! There are no hoards of dungaree-clad lezzers walking the halls of the local high school, breaking open lockers and desks and administering punitive asscandlings to young Hustler readers. There are no simpering, ballgowned cabals overseeing employment legislation. There are gays in the media and gays in the government, sure, but you can bet your bottom dollar that the further up you go the sparser they get. If you think different, then frankly you'd better be on drugs; I'd hate to imagine anyone could be that deluded without drugs. Also, they must be really, really good drugs. Hey! I want some of your drugs. Give me them or I'll send the black lesbian cripples round to make all your pets be all gay.
It's your world, str8 white folks. You should be cracking open the champers, not cowering in your sorry toilet-door-looking t-shirts.
And before you all start, I must wearily trot out the following disclaimer: yes, the same goes for all the other groups that suffer discrimination, of course, including classism. (Classism still messes up lives like nothing else).
What you people need is a minority group that really can kick your collective buttocks. What you people need is mutants. I want there to be mutants. I'm not talking sappy little Jean Gray type mutants, all schnooglies and light-- I want kickass Magneto-type mutants! You wait till I achieve my full powers. Mean green Homo Superior, levitating on in to teach you the meaning of discrimination, laser-style! That'd show you.
(Oh, and when the righteous wrath of the right-wing toilet-door-wearing jackasses turns toward my inbox-- can you guys please use the correct slurs this time? I'm a straight white woman, so "fucking f****t" is innaccurate, as is the n-word. You'll be wanting to use "uppity bitch" or similar, FYI. Toodle-pip!)
Monday, August 25, 2003
Just your average blog post.
My day was sort of crap. I refuse to bore myself by rehashing the details; suffice it to say that I am sick of the metro, banks, phones both mobile and immobile, and getting lost. I am now headachy and somewhat enervated. However, I am energized and sustained by my Hate of You, a warm little light in the darkness within.
I am also cross with my entities who are Not Helping at the moment. They've put some long-term stuff in motion, but I want stuff to happen NOW, dammit! I've been playing with the idea of doing a really big, impressive ritual working to get myself a job, but that's never gone well in the past. I always end up doing something which fills all the specifications of the spell and yet is utterly foul and not what I meant at all. I mean, how am I supposed to take over the world when I'm picking up littler in Hyde Park?
Stupid magick.
I meant it about becoming a hardcore skeptic, you know.
My day was sort of crap. I refuse to bore myself by rehashing the details; suffice it to say that I am sick of the metro, banks, phones both mobile and immobile, and getting lost. I am now headachy and somewhat enervated. However, I am energized and sustained by my Hate of You, a warm little light in the darkness within.
I am also cross with my entities who are Not Helping at the moment. They've put some long-term stuff in motion, but I want stuff to happen NOW, dammit! I've been playing with the idea of doing a really big, impressive ritual working to get myself a job, but that's never gone well in the past. I always end up doing something which fills all the specifications of the spell and yet is utterly foul and not what I meant at all. I mean, how am I supposed to take over the world when I'm picking up littler in Hyde Park?
Stupid magick.
I meant it about becoming a hardcore skeptic, you know.
"...sometimes something gets into your head and you just gotta break some rules, shake it up, and see that the damn thing gets out there into everybody else's heads and kicks their heads right in the nuts."
Indeed it does, Mister X, indeed it does.
I want Spiderman to come to my party now. I keep thinking of past parties that would have been vastly improved by a strange man in primary colours who liked to stand on fire hydrants. Oh, and who 'loves "playing with the kids" (young & old!)'.
I want short, disturbing Spiderman! NOW!
Indeed it does, Mister X, indeed it does.
I want Spiderman to come to my party now. I keep thinking of past parties that would have been vastly improved by a strange man in primary colours who liked to stand on fire hydrants. Oh, and who 'loves "playing with the kids" (young & old!)'.
I want short, disturbing Spiderman! NOW!
Sunday, August 24, 2003
Next day...
Thanks for nothing. Stupid entities.
I think I may give this up. I mean, I've got an excellent stall now, loads of different stuff, and still no-one's buying. Feel like I gave it a fair shot. I'm going to start flypitching down on the beach (on a smaller scale, so I can cut and run if the police turn up). Also going to try selling stuff to shops. Still want to do the eBay thing, but that might take a while to set up. If anyone has any experience of doing that kind of thing, drop me a line.
Time to start putting cards up, advertising for things like cleaning work and English conversation. Or childminding-- rich parents here always want English-speaking childminders. I've also been letting my hair grow back; I hate it, but it seems I need to be more acceptable to Them if I'm going to get a job.
I'll prolly still go to the park on Sundays, I'll just stop expecting to sell anything. There's loads of reasons to go there anyway. It's a nice atmosphere, you meet interesting people, there's lots to see, there's drums and sundry assorted noise. And there's the dogs-- I really like the dogs that the traders bring to the park. They're so lively and so full of personality. There's the occasional incident, but generally they're hardly any trouble, most of them having been trained from puppyhood to not run across people's stalls and stuff. They'll scamper all over the place, and never put so much as a toe on the groundsheets.
Then some bloody tourist'll come by, let their stupid mutt off the lead, and stand there like lemons while it trashes everything in sight.
Thanks for nothing. Stupid entities.
I think I may give this up. I mean, I've got an excellent stall now, loads of different stuff, and still no-one's buying. Feel like I gave it a fair shot. I'm going to start flypitching down on the beach (on a smaller scale, so I can cut and run if the police turn up). Also going to try selling stuff to shops. Still want to do the eBay thing, but that might take a while to set up. If anyone has any experience of doing that kind of thing, drop me a line.
Time to start putting cards up, advertising for things like cleaning work and English conversation. Or childminding-- rich parents here always want English-speaking childminders. I've also been letting my hair grow back; I hate it, but it seems I need to be more acceptable to Them if I'm going to get a job.
I'll prolly still go to the park on Sundays, I'll just stop expecting to sell anything. There's loads of reasons to go there anyway. It's a nice atmosphere, you meet interesting people, there's lots to see, there's drums and sundry assorted noise. And there's the dogs-- I really like the dogs that the traders bring to the park. They're so lively and so full of personality. There's the occasional incident, but generally they're hardly any trouble, most of them having been trained from puppyhood to not run across people's stalls and stuff. They'll scamper all over the place, and never put so much as a toe on the groundsheets.
Then some bloody tourist'll come by, let their stupid mutt off the lead, and stand there like lemons while it trashes everything in sight.
Saturday, August 23, 2003
In which the diarist yet again invokes a Higher Power.
Dear spooky invisible voyueristic pervert angelghostalienmonsterrightbrainhigherselfwhatevers,
Tomorrow is market day. Make me sell things pleasepleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease? I want some money to happen. And make it be a nice day, not too hot but without loads of wind or rain.
Or I'll go evil. Really evil. With all tentacles and stuff.
Thankyou.
Dear spooky invisible voyueristic pervert angelghostalienmonsterrightbrainhigherselfwhatevers,
Tomorrow is market day. Make me sell things pleasepleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease? I want some money to happen. And make it be a nice day, not too hot but without loads of wind or rain.
Or I'll go evil. Really evil. With all tentacles and stuff.
Thankyou.
Business as usual.
Went job-hunting again yesterday. No dice. Got kind of fed up, as you do. Met Lurid Archive in town later, and had a chat with him about changing my approach. We went to see Pirates of the Carribean, which put me in a much better temper. It's a really cute little film, lots of over-the-top fighting, great SFX, and Johnny Depp in lots of eyeshadow strolling around, idly stealing most of the scenes. Is is me, or do Dismal films suck less these days?
Anyway, change of approach. This whole pounding the streets looking for want-ads and signing up with temp-agencies plan of attack would have been a surefire winner back home, but here it's just not working. All that happens is that I get utterly cheesed off with everything. The time would be much better spent improving my Spanish and trying to find inroads into other kinds of employment.
I need to network more (yeah, cringe, but needs must ect chiz chiz), and to use my alternative skills. (Which reminds me, I have to get on the phone to someone from the Barcelona healer's network. They emailed me ages ago and I never got back to them.) I also need to find a magick shop-- I need a public tarot deck if I'm going to do readings for money. Don't want to use my own personal deck; I've had it since I was 12 and over the years it's developed a rather quirky personality. Great when reading for myself or for close friends, not so good for strangers. Plus I might end up reading for some skanky-auraed creepazoid and getting all invisible yuck on it. I hate that. You just keep getting the same damn cards time after time, no matter who you read for, until you sort the deck out. Bad enough when it's your public tarot but when it's your own personal deck, it's really very icky.
Or palms. I can do palms. I'm not great at them, but I'm okay.
On the handicraft front: I finally got around to painting the pebble pendants I made. They look well smart, if I so say so myself as shouldn't. I'm going to make a few more today; the epoxy putty should be nice and hard tomorrow morning and I can paint them them. A quick coat of acrylic varnish, et voila.
I also got this excellent dress yesterday. Pink fluffy bridesmade's frock, full-length, with artificial feather trim, just begging for some MC-style vandalism. Not quite sure what I'm going to do to it yet. I've got a few ideas, the most obvious of which involve pearls and safetypins. We shall see...
Went job-hunting again yesterday. No dice. Got kind of fed up, as you do. Met Lurid Archive in town later, and had a chat with him about changing my approach. We went to see Pirates of the Carribean, which put me in a much better temper. It's a really cute little film, lots of over-the-top fighting, great SFX, and Johnny Depp in lots of eyeshadow strolling around, idly stealing most of the scenes. Is is me, or do Dismal films suck less these days?
Anyway, change of approach. This whole pounding the streets looking for want-ads and signing up with temp-agencies plan of attack would have been a surefire winner back home, but here it's just not working. All that happens is that I get utterly cheesed off with everything. The time would be much better spent improving my Spanish and trying to find inroads into other kinds of employment.
I need to network more (yeah, cringe, but needs must ect chiz chiz), and to use my alternative skills. (Which reminds me, I have to get on the phone to someone from the Barcelona healer's network. They emailed me ages ago and I never got back to them.) I also need to find a magick shop-- I need a public tarot deck if I'm going to do readings for money. Don't want to use my own personal deck; I've had it since I was 12 and over the years it's developed a rather quirky personality. Great when reading for myself or for close friends, not so good for strangers. Plus I might end up reading for some skanky-auraed creepazoid and getting all invisible yuck on it. I hate that. You just keep getting the same damn cards time after time, no matter who you read for, until you sort the deck out. Bad enough when it's your public tarot but when it's your own personal deck, it's really very icky.
Or palms. I can do palms. I'm not great at them, but I'm okay.
On the handicraft front: I finally got around to painting the pebble pendants I made. They look well smart, if I so say so myself as shouldn't. I'm going to make a few more today; the epoxy putty should be nice and hard tomorrow morning and I can paint them them. A quick coat of acrylic varnish, et voila.
I also got this excellent dress yesterday. Pink fluffy bridesmade's frock, full-length, with artificial feather trim, just begging for some MC-style vandalism. Not quite sure what I'm going to do to it yet. I've got a few ideas, the most obvious of which involve pearls and safetypins. We shall see...
Friday, August 22, 2003
Me am bizzaro Julie Andrews.
Can't remember where I found this, but it was so cute I had to make up a little song about it...
Girls in black PRO-keds and effin strap dresses,
Three-row spiked wristbands and ball-chain necklaces,
Industrial leg-cincher skirts and D-rings,
These are a few of my favourite things...
Can't remember where I found this, but it was so cute I had to make up a little song about it...
Girls in black PRO-keds and effin strap dresses,
Three-row spiked wristbands and ball-chain necklaces,
Industrial leg-cincher skirts and D-rings,
These are a few of my favourite things...
You=
Mr. Pooter pretending to be Tyler Durden
Roderick Spode pretending to be Tyler Durden
Mary Whitehouse pretending to be Tyler Durden
A forgotten member of Take That pretending to be Tyler Durden
Some cheese pretending to be Tyler Durden
A small terrier cross pretending to be Tyler Durden
David Brent pretending to be Tyler Durden
Jack Hargreaves pretending to be Tyler Durden
Noel Edmonds pretending to be Tyler Durden
Pick a role model from something that isn't out on video for five nintey-nine at the petrol station.
Live in it instead of pinching a few of its accessories.
Then kill it. KILLITKILLITKILLIT.
(Evolve or die.)
Mr. Pooter pretending to be Tyler Durden
Roderick Spode pretending to be Tyler Durden
Mary Whitehouse pretending to be Tyler Durden
A forgotten member of Take That pretending to be Tyler Durden
Some cheese pretending to be Tyler Durden
A small terrier cross pretending to be Tyler Durden
David Brent pretending to be Tyler Durden
Jack Hargreaves pretending to be Tyler Durden
Noel Edmonds pretending to be Tyler Durden
Pick a role model from something that isn't out on video for five nintey-nine at the petrol station.
Live in it instead of pinching a few of its accessories.
Then kill it. KILLITKILLITKILLIT.
(Evolve or die.)
Thursday, August 21, 2003
Additional.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot about this other thing. Which was remiss of me, because it's one of the coolest bits of news I've had in ages: A couple of guys in Australia are soliciting submissions for their upcoming anthology, the working title of which is Daikaiju! Yes, it's an anthology of stories about GIANT MONSTERS! You know, like King Kong and Godzilla and those guys. Here's what they say:
Nothing in my slush-pile really fits the bill but the deadline's not till November of next year, so I should be able to whip up something tasty. Anyway, the simple fact that there's going to be a book of stories about giant monsters makes me really, really happy.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot about this other thing. Which was remiss of me, because it's one of the coolest bits of news I've had in ages: A couple of guys in Australia are soliciting submissions for their upcoming anthology, the working title of which is Daikaiju! Yes, it's an anthology of stories about GIANT MONSTERS! You know, like King Kong and Godzilla and those guys. Here's what they say:
We're not talking mere dinosaurs or eagle-sized mosquitoes here; these monsters must be unreasonably huge -- larger than the laws of physics can comfortable accommodate.
Nothing in my slush-pile really fits the bill but the deadline's not till November of next year, so I should be able to whip up something tasty. Anyway, the simple fact that there's going to be a book of stories about giant monsters makes me really, really happy.
Bugs.
I'm still trying to get a handle on the insect situation round here. Its all very well during the day, when you're gazing raptly at a swallowtail butterfly sailing lazily past on huge creamy wings, or tiny dust-coloured crickets that reveal a flash of blue wing as they fly off. When the sun goes down, though, it's a different story. I first moved here in April and the main problem was mosquitoes; chewing bits of me I'd rather not have chewed, bringing me up in massive lumps, trumpeting in my ear all night so I got shag-all sleep, and generally putting a dent in my mood. Lashings of insect repellant and one of those plug-in gadgets seem to have resolved that problem, but as soon as the mosquitos were taken care of all these other beasties came crawling, flying, and buzzing into my gaff. If you're not careful about pulling the blinds down when you turn on the lights at dusk, it takes about five minutes before the place looks like a set from Indiana Jones. Moths, cicadas, more moths, giant gnats, even more moths-- are moths supposed to squeak? Because I was trying to flick one out the window with the mop once and it kept squeaking at me. Really loud. It was weird. And I had a mantis in here the other night, just a little one, about two inches long. I was torn between two distinct and powerful emotions: Wonder ("Hey, look! A leeetle tiny mantis! Wow, never seen one in the wild before!) and Arrrrgh ("Arrrrgh! Bug! Bug! Weird leggy bug in flat! Arrrgh arrrgh arrrgh!")
But that's nothing to what my arch nemesis has to put up with. Bwhahahahaaaa.
In other news: Started wrting a promising rant today about transhumanism as it relates to why I hate everyone, but then I decided to go shopping and by the time I got home I'd gone off the boil a bit. I'm determined to finish it though.
I'm still trying to get a handle on the insect situation round here. Its all very well during the day, when you're gazing raptly at a swallowtail butterfly sailing lazily past on huge creamy wings, or tiny dust-coloured crickets that reveal a flash of blue wing as they fly off. When the sun goes down, though, it's a different story. I first moved here in April and the main problem was mosquitoes; chewing bits of me I'd rather not have chewed, bringing me up in massive lumps, trumpeting in my ear all night so I got shag-all sleep, and generally putting a dent in my mood. Lashings of insect repellant and one of those plug-in gadgets seem to have resolved that problem, but as soon as the mosquitos were taken care of all these other beasties came crawling, flying, and buzzing into my gaff. If you're not careful about pulling the blinds down when you turn on the lights at dusk, it takes about five minutes before the place looks like a set from Indiana Jones. Moths, cicadas, more moths, giant gnats, even more moths-- are moths supposed to squeak? Because I was trying to flick one out the window with the mop once and it kept squeaking at me. Really loud. It was weird. And I had a mantis in here the other night, just a little one, about two inches long. I was torn between two distinct and powerful emotions: Wonder ("Hey, look! A leeetle tiny mantis! Wow, never seen one in the wild before!) and Arrrrgh ("Arrrrgh! Bug! Bug! Weird leggy bug in flat! Arrrgh arrrgh arrrgh!")
But that's nothing to what my arch nemesis has to put up with. Bwhahahahaaaa.
In other news: Started wrting a promising rant today about transhumanism as it relates to why I hate everyone, but then I decided to go shopping and by the time I got home I'd gone off the boil a bit. I'm determined to finish it though.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Entities.
You do know that when I talk about entities that might be angels or aliens or spirits or just some guys that may or may not exist but nevertheless I direct weblog posts towards, you do know I mean entities that might be angels or aliens or spirits or just some guys that may or may not exist but nevertheless I direct weblog posts towards, and not actual people people, right?
Not everything is about you.
In other entirely nonworksafe but if you didn't already know that before you came here you deserve to get fired and never find another job again ever news: The Ministry for Depressingly Stupid Referrals has seen fit to drop this into my reluctant lap. The answer, my curious chum, is No they don't. Not as a rule. You could get the individual in question all addicted to some expensive drug, and then maybe they'd do what you're suggesting if you gave them a lot of the drug or lots of money to buy the drug. Or if you held someone they cared about to ransom and the ransom was doing that thing you just asked about, then yeah, maybe they'd do that thing you just asked about. Or if they were in some desert place and going to starve to death and the only person with food wanted them to do that thing you just asked about, then again, yeah, maybe.
The point I'm trying to make here is that the answer to your question is NO. Under normal, everyday sort of circumstances, a normal, everyday sort fo woman will not do that thing you asked about. Most women would be all "EWWWWWWWW!" The fact that you asked about it suggests that you're all messed up about women in some serious way, and that you should get help. Or just stop eating paint. Either way, learn to use a search engine so that you don't bother me with this kind of faith-in-human-nature-wrecking thing in future. I want to go on deluding myself that not everybody is messed up in the head, and you're making it really difficult.
I'm gonna start making my search referrals public, I think. Then people who know how to play with the internet properly can find out where you live and make all your shoes melt from h4xx0r powers.
You do know that when I talk about entities that might be angels or aliens or spirits or just some guys that may or may not exist but nevertheless I direct weblog posts towards, you do know I mean entities that might be angels or aliens or spirits or just some guys that may or may not exist but nevertheless I direct weblog posts towards, and not actual people people, right?
Not everything is about you.
In other entirely nonworksafe but if you didn't already know that before you came here you deserve to get fired and never find another job again ever news: The Ministry for Depressingly Stupid Referrals has seen fit to drop this into my reluctant lap. The answer, my curious chum, is No they don't. Not as a rule. You could get the individual in question all addicted to some expensive drug, and then maybe they'd do what you're suggesting if you gave them a lot of the drug or lots of money to buy the drug. Or if you held someone they cared about to ransom and the ransom was doing that thing you just asked about, then yeah, maybe they'd do that thing you just asked about. Or if they were in some desert place and going to starve to death and the only person with food wanted them to do that thing you just asked about, then again, yeah, maybe.
The point I'm trying to make here is that the answer to your question is NO. Under normal, everyday sort of circumstances, a normal, everyday sort fo woman will not do that thing you asked about. Most women would be all "EWWWWWWWW!" The fact that you asked about it suggests that you're all messed up about women in some serious way, and that you should get help. Or just stop eating paint. Either way, learn to use a search engine so that you don't bother me with this kind of faith-in-human-nature-wrecking thing in future. I want to go on deluding myself that not everybody is messed up in the head, and you're making it really difficult.
I'm gonna start making my search referrals public, I think. Then people who know how to play with the internet properly can find out where you live and make all your shoes melt from h4xx0r powers.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Took the stupid quiz again.
paranoid
Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?
brought to you by Quizilla
That's better.
paranoid
Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?
brought to you by Quizilla
That's better.
"Hitler sexier than a space ninja"-- you people
I am disturbed, but somehow unsurprised. I knew your heads were full of that yecchy stuff at the bottom of the soapdish, but now I have PROOF. You all fancy Hitler and I DISTAIN you.
I am disturbed, but somehow unsurprised. I knew your heads were full of that yecchy stuff at the bottom of the soapdish, but now I have PROOF. You all fancy Hitler and I DISTAIN you.
borderline
Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?
brought to you by Quizilla
WHAT? How dare they! BPD? I'm a paranoiac, people! A paranoiac with a tiny side order of schizotypal! Eveyone knows I'm a paranoiac! People who've only known me for a couple of minutes know I'm a paranoiac! I'm good at paranoia. How dare this stupid quiz suggest otherwise?
I bet the person who designed the quiz hates me and wanted to make me all grumpy.*
*SEE?
Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?
brought to you by Quizilla
WHAT? How dare they! BPD? I'm a paranoiac, people! A paranoiac with a tiny side order of schizotypal! Eveyone knows I'm a paranoiac! People who've only known me for a couple of minutes know I'm a paranoiac! I'm good at paranoia. How dare this stupid quiz suggest otherwise?
I bet the person who designed the quiz hates me and wanted to make me all grumpy.*
*SEE?
Monday, August 18, 2003
Spooky.
Really, I have got to get out of the habit of getting all excited every time my magick works. The Powers the Be have just delivered, big time, and my adrenal glands are being all weird about it. They're bouncing up and down like a couple of puppies.
Y'know the other day, when I mentioned to the Entities that I was thinking of selling my evil dollies on line, and that it would be nice to have a way of taking pix of them? Well, guess who's getting a digital camera in a few weeks' time. Turns out that my Mum has a spare one going begging, which will be mine when next I see her.
Which brings me to my next bit of news: I will soon be back in the UK for a spell. There's this wedding in Ireland, and a birthday in London, and some other stuff. I'll be around from early- to mid-September; details of pub crawls and sundry debauchery will be announced through the usual channels as and when I can be bothered.
It's been a funny weekend. There was this huge storm on Sunday morning, which kept popping back for curtain calls all day long. I gave the park a miss. Feel a bit guilty, but I don't imagine that very many people would have turned out anyway. Still looking for safe places to fly-pitch during the rest of the week. Somewhere the police wink at such mildly illegal behaviour; somewhere untrammelled by licened traders who are likely to cut up rough if they observe a distinctly unlicenced MC setting up shop; somewhere inhabited by other fly-pitchers of a gentle and non-territorial bent. Somewhere with lots of rich beadwork fetishists. I haven't found it yet, but I will search on, bold, resolute and unfaltering, until the Eldorado of flypitchers appears before my weary gaze. Or until I get all hot and fed up and decide to go and sit in the internet cafe for a bit.
Anyway, I'm off to Google for pictures of harpies and stuff.
(PS: Thankyou for the help, spooky invisible people. Much appreciated.)
Really, I have got to get out of the habit of getting all excited every time my magick works. The Powers the Be have just delivered, big time, and my adrenal glands are being all weird about it. They're bouncing up and down like a couple of puppies.
Y'know the other day, when I mentioned to the Entities that I was thinking of selling my evil dollies on line, and that it would be nice to have a way of taking pix of them? Well, guess who's getting a digital camera in a few weeks' time. Turns out that my Mum has a spare one going begging, which will be mine when next I see her.
Which brings me to my next bit of news: I will soon be back in the UK for a spell. There's this wedding in Ireland, and a birthday in London, and some other stuff. I'll be around from early- to mid-September; details of pub crawls and sundry debauchery will be announced through the usual channels as and when I can be bothered.
It's been a funny weekend. There was this huge storm on Sunday morning, which kept popping back for curtain calls all day long. I gave the park a miss. Feel a bit guilty, but I don't imagine that very many people would have turned out anyway. Still looking for safe places to fly-pitch during the rest of the week. Somewhere the police wink at such mildly illegal behaviour; somewhere untrammelled by licened traders who are likely to cut up rough if they observe a distinctly unlicenced MC setting up shop; somewhere inhabited by other fly-pitchers of a gentle and non-territorial bent. Somewhere with lots of rich beadwork fetishists. I haven't found it yet, but I will search on, bold, resolute and unfaltering, until the Eldorado of flypitchers appears before my weary gaze. Or until I get all hot and fed up and decide to go and sit in the internet cafe for a bit.
Anyway, I'm off to Google for pictures of harpies and stuff.
(PS: Thankyou for the help, spooky invisible people. Much appreciated.)
Saturday, August 16, 2003
"...this rich, stupid, superficial, selfish woman, who sneered at Jews and blacks in an upper-class accent, was fawned on by the establishment right up to her death. ". (Excellently vituperitve article on the recently dead Lady Mosely).
Jeeze, how stupid are these Grauniadistas anyway? Don't they know that it's just not cool to bash fascism anymore? All the really hip kids are into it these days, y'know.
*Incidently, have you noticed how certain phrases have the power to lift your spirits, whatever your mood? "Wow! It's a lovely day-- Let's go to the beach!", "Great to see you! Now, what'll you have to drink", and "the late Lady Mosely". I'm just going to sit around saying that to myself for awhile. "The llllate Lady Mosely." Mmmmm.
Jeeze, how stupid are these Grauniadistas anyway? Don't they know that it's just not cool to bash fascism anymore? All the really hip kids are into it these days, y'know.
*Incidently, have you noticed how certain phrases have the power to lift your spirits, whatever your mood? "Wow! It's a lovely day-- Let's go to the beach!", "Great to see you! Now, what'll you have to drink", and "the late Lady Mosely". I'm just going to sit around saying that to myself for awhile. "The llllate Lady Mosely." Mmmmm.
Idi Amin dies.
According to the article, President Yoweri Museveni's spokesman called Amin's death "good." Nuh-uh. Not good. Good would be if it had happened a bit sooner, like before he murdered about 500,000 people and totalled Uganda's economy. Dying in bed aged 80 after you've perpetrated the crimes that Amin perpetrated isn't "good".
According to the article, President Yoweri Museveni's spokesman called Amin's death "good." Nuh-uh. Not good. Good would be if it had happened a bit sooner, like before he murdered about 500,000 people and totalled Uganda's economy. Dying in bed aged 80 after you've perpetrated the crimes that Amin perpetrated isn't "good".
Friday, August 15, 2003
Here we go again...
From my site tracker it looks like people have suddenly started emailing my blog's URL to each other. Why? What've I done this time? Go away, you freaks.
If your're reading this because a friend sent you here, stop speaking to that person immediately except to prank-call them in the middle of the night. Every night. For at least the next year or two.
Apart from the prank calls (which should be vulgar and distressing), you must never, ever, ever have any contact with them again.
From my site tracker it looks like people have suddenly started emailing my blog's URL to each other. Why? What've I done this time? Go away, you freaks.
If your're reading this because a friend sent you here, stop speaking to that person immediately except to prank-call them in the middle of the night. Every night. For at least the next year or two.
Apart from the prank calls (which should be vulgar and distressing), you must never, ever, ever have any contact with them again.
Attentioooh, look at that...
I have the attention span of a brain-damaged gnat. I go online to check my email, and half-an-hour later I'm doing a quiz to see what colour my pants would be if I was an anime character, or something.
Anyway, that's not what I was going to go on about. What I was going to go on about was this: I'm trying to get abducted by aliens again and it's just not happening. (That's trying again, not being abducted again. This would be my first abduction.) I've tried re-tuning my temporal lobe as a communications device, but either a) nothing happened b) the aliens didn't want to tell me anything, or c) the aliens want me to do stuff like pop out to the shops or make a cup of tea.
I want to write a story about an alien abduction for this SF webzine, and I don't want to just cobble one together from existing sources. If I was back in the UK, I'd obviously hit some out-of-the-way place with a reputation for that kind of activity. You know, airy mountains, rushy glens, etc.* However, I'm not up to snuff on Spanish folklore... really must try and get a handle on that.
*Yeah, I knopw that's fairies, not aliens. They didn't have aliens back then. The fairies had to handle that whole side of things till the aliens got here. Ever noticed how nobody gets stolen by fairies anymore?
I have the attention span of a brain-damaged gnat. I go online to check my email, and half-an-hour later I'm doing a quiz to see what colour my pants would be if I was an anime character, or something.
Anyway, that's not what I was going to go on about. What I was going to go on about was this: I'm trying to get abducted by aliens again and it's just not happening. (That's trying again, not being abducted again. This would be my first abduction.) I've tried re-tuning my temporal lobe as a communications device, but either a) nothing happened b) the aliens didn't want to tell me anything, or c) the aliens want me to do stuff like pop out to the shops or make a cup of tea.
I want to write a story about an alien abduction for this SF webzine, and I don't want to just cobble one together from existing sources. If I was back in the UK, I'd obviously hit some out-of-the-way place with a reputation for that kind of activity. You know, airy mountains, rushy glens, etc.* However, I'm not up to snuff on Spanish folklore... really must try and get a handle on that.
*Yeah, I knopw that's fairies, not aliens. They didn't have aliens back then. The fairies had to handle that whole side of things till the aliens got here. Ever noticed how nobody gets stolen by fairies anymore?
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Stalling.
Stayed home today to work on a new line for my stall. I'm hoping the new design will appeal to that all-important 20-something male stoner demographic. Last Saturday I bought a bag of polished black pebbles, and I've been making them into pendants by putting a blob of epoxy putty on the top with a hole for the string. I've modelled shapes into the putty (faces, hands, leaves, spirals etc) and when it's dry I'll add some colour. They've mostly come out okay. I plan to make some more with runes cut into the putty. I mean, who doesn't love a good rune?
Still need to buy some thongs for them tho'. Mmmmm... thonnnngggggg.
I'm rapidly running out of doll parts. I need a steady local scource of cheap spoof Barbiealikes to dissect. I'm thinking of making doll part jewellery (for that all-important teenaged goth chick demographic); by my reckoning, doll part jewellery has been over so long that it's now retro.
I'm doing other stuff too, like buying cheap notepads and painting the covers with gouache (you say that gwash, apparently). I've got some acrylic varnish spray to give them a durable finish. I'm going for a scattergun approach, finding out what goes over and what doesn't.
This whole situation both rocks and sucks. On the downside, I'm fed up with the no-job-having, and I want the stuff on my stall to sell and SELL NOW, goddammit! On the upside: money's tight but not a huge problem yet, and I'm rediscovering a whole slew of skills, abilities and drives that I'd almost forgotten I had. I'm in a fairly high-energy mode right now, fuelled, I belive, by the fact that I'm actually making stuff again. What with one thing and another, the arty-crafty side of things had to go on the back burner over the last four or five years; in retrospect, that may not have been such a great thing. Never mind. Spilt milk, now.
I really hope this make-and-sell thing could work out eventually. It's definately me. I think that one of the best things you can hope for in this life is the chance to express yourself, your beliefs and ideas, through the way you live-- something that few people ever get the chance to do. Also, if I could make a living (or even half a living) doing something creative, it seems likely that my head would be in a better place writing-wise.
Which brings me back to the writing.
Ah, yes. The writing. Hoom.
I've been coasting a bit lately. I haven't been contributing to my writer's group, I haven't been giving The Novel any love, I haven't been sending out stories to magazines. There was that virus, then I got all caught up in the making of stuff, and what with one thing or another I've not been working as hard as I should. Need to get back on the horse. Firstly, new word-per-day target: 500 words, min. Secondly, and rather painfully: blog posts no longer count towards the daily target. Blogging sometimes gives me a false sense of security, makes it feel like I'm on top of the writing when... well, really not. I've touched upon the perils of work-flavoured nonwork elsewhere, and sometimes blogging can fall into that category. This measure should help draw a line between really writing and just braindumping.
Stayed home today to work on a new line for my stall. I'm hoping the new design will appeal to that all-important 20-something male stoner demographic. Last Saturday I bought a bag of polished black pebbles, and I've been making them into pendants by putting a blob of epoxy putty on the top with a hole for the string. I've modelled shapes into the putty (faces, hands, leaves, spirals etc) and when it's dry I'll add some colour. They've mostly come out okay. I plan to make some more with runes cut into the putty. I mean, who doesn't love a good rune?
Still need to buy some thongs for them tho'. Mmmmm... thonnnngggggg.
I'm rapidly running out of doll parts. I need a steady local scource of cheap spoof Barbiealikes to dissect. I'm thinking of making doll part jewellery (for that all-important teenaged goth chick demographic); by my reckoning, doll part jewellery has been over so long that it's now retro.
I'm doing other stuff too, like buying cheap notepads and painting the covers with gouache (you say that gwash, apparently). I've got some acrylic varnish spray to give them a durable finish. I'm going for a scattergun approach, finding out what goes over and what doesn't.
This whole situation both rocks and sucks. On the downside, I'm fed up with the no-job-having, and I want the stuff on my stall to sell and SELL NOW, goddammit! On the upside: money's tight but not a huge problem yet, and I'm rediscovering a whole slew of skills, abilities and drives that I'd almost forgotten I had. I'm in a fairly high-energy mode right now, fuelled, I belive, by the fact that I'm actually making stuff again. What with one thing and another, the arty-crafty side of things had to go on the back burner over the last four or five years; in retrospect, that may not have been such a great thing. Never mind. Spilt milk, now.
I really hope this make-and-sell thing could work out eventually. It's definately me. I think that one of the best things you can hope for in this life is the chance to express yourself, your beliefs and ideas, through the way you live-- something that few people ever get the chance to do. Also, if I could make a living (or even half a living) doing something creative, it seems likely that my head would be in a better place writing-wise.
Which brings me back to the writing.
Ah, yes. The writing. Hoom.
I've been coasting a bit lately. I haven't been contributing to my writer's group, I haven't been giving The Novel any love, I haven't been sending out stories to magazines. There was that virus, then I got all caught up in the making of stuff, and what with one thing or another I've not been working as hard as I should. Need to get back on the horse. Firstly, new word-per-day target: 500 words, min. Secondly, and rather painfully: blog posts no longer count towards the daily target. Blogging sometimes gives me a false sense of security, makes it feel like I'm on top of the writing when... well, really not. I've touched upon the perils of work-flavoured nonwork elsewhere, and sometimes blogging can fall into that category. This measure should help draw a line between really writing and just braindumping.
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
Hot enough for ya?
Today I have been mostly wandering aimlessly around Barça. I love wandering aimlessly round Barça, but damn! It's hot. Hot hot hot. Mind you, it's apparently hot back home in London. This is sick and wrong. London should not be hot.
The evil dolls are looking good. I'm making a freind for Beauty Queen: a red devil doll with horns. Next up is a murderous housewife poisoner. Then I thought about paintings-- when I was, like, 15 or so, I used to really like doing these stylized, almost kiddy pictures of mythical creatures (harpies, dragons, stuff like that) in watercolour. Very bright, clear colours, pretty much as they come out of the tube, unmixed: cerulean blue, chrome yellow, madder rose. Fine lines of black Indian ink. I plan to do a few of those, little ones, about the size of bathroom tiles. Spray 'em with acrylic varnish, see if they sell.
This is all very strange. I seem to be going back in time, skillswise. Once I started doing the beadwork all these other abilities, which had been allowed to atrophy because they weren't deemed important, gradually started to creep back. All well and good, all well and good. I'm currently thanking whatever providence it is that watches over the likes of me that I didn't put all my eggs in the electronics basket. You really do need more than one sort of skill these days, or you're screwed. (The next time someone sneers at your "lack of focus", reader dear, just ignore them. Or kill them. Actually, kill them. Slowly. Especially if they use the phrase "Jack of all trades and a master of none", the sure sign of a ridgid-brained git. Have you ever noticed that people who use that particular cliche never have an actual trade? They can't make tables or put in windows or mend boilers, or anything useful. They're always careers advisers or personnel officers: futile and toxic. Really, kill them I'll give you an alibi.)
When not wandering aimlessly around Barça, I've been ensconced in the mercifully air-conditioned bowels of the internet cafe reading eBay tutorials. I reckon I could sell some of my dollies on eBay, and maybe some other stuff too, but I have no idea as to how one goes about it. Looks fairly easy though.
Which brings me to my latest begging letter to the nameless and incomprehensible (and possibly completely nonexistant) entities:
Hello, your spooky intangiblenessess. Guys, I'm going to try really really hard with the art and crafts stuff like I think you (or your bosses, I don't know how this works) want, but you have to help me along a bit, okay? Firstly, help me find an appropriate outlet for my stuff. This could be a craft fair or something, perhaps. The eBay thing might be a good idea, but I'd need a way to take pictures of my dolls and put them online-- preferably fairly cheaply. I'm not saying that you have to give me a free digital camera (it'd be nice, but I'm not that crazy), just point me in the direction of a scanner or something.
Thanks.
P.S.: I'm trying to do the right thing here, but you know I get sullen when you don't throw me a bone once in a while. Remember that time I spent a whole year being a hardcore skeptic? Yeah.
Today I have been mostly wandering aimlessly around Barça. I love wandering aimlessly round Barça, but damn! It's hot. Hot hot hot. Mind you, it's apparently hot back home in London. This is sick and wrong. London should not be hot.
The evil dolls are looking good. I'm making a freind for Beauty Queen: a red devil doll with horns. Next up is a murderous housewife poisoner. Then I thought about paintings-- when I was, like, 15 or so, I used to really like doing these stylized, almost kiddy pictures of mythical creatures (harpies, dragons, stuff like that) in watercolour. Very bright, clear colours, pretty much as they come out of the tube, unmixed: cerulean blue, chrome yellow, madder rose. Fine lines of black Indian ink. I plan to do a few of those, little ones, about the size of bathroom tiles. Spray 'em with acrylic varnish, see if they sell.
This is all very strange. I seem to be going back in time, skillswise. Once I started doing the beadwork all these other abilities, which had been allowed to atrophy because they weren't deemed important, gradually started to creep back. All well and good, all well and good. I'm currently thanking whatever providence it is that watches over the likes of me that I didn't put all my eggs in the electronics basket. You really do need more than one sort of skill these days, or you're screwed. (The next time someone sneers at your "lack of focus", reader dear, just ignore them. Or kill them. Actually, kill them. Slowly. Especially if they use the phrase "Jack of all trades and a master of none", the sure sign of a ridgid-brained git. Have you ever noticed that people who use that particular cliche never have an actual trade? They can't make tables or put in windows or mend boilers, or anything useful. They're always careers advisers or personnel officers: futile and toxic. Really, kill them I'll give you an alibi.)
When not wandering aimlessly around Barça, I've been ensconced in the mercifully air-conditioned bowels of the internet cafe reading eBay tutorials. I reckon I could sell some of my dollies on eBay, and maybe some other stuff too, but I have no idea as to how one goes about it. Looks fairly easy though.
Which brings me to my latest begging letter to the nameless and incomprehensible (and possibly completely nonexistant) entities:
Hello, your spooky intangiblenessess. Guys, I'm going to try really really hard with the art and crafts stuff like I think you (or your bosses, I don't know how this works) want, but you have to help me along a bit, okay? Firstly, help me find an appropriate outlet for my stuff. This could be a craft fair or something, perhaps. The eBay thing might be a good idea, but I'd need a way to take pictures of my dolls and put them online-- preferably fairly cheaply. I'm not saying that you have to give me a free digital camera (it'd be nice, but I'm not that crazy), just point me in the direction of a scanner or something.
Thanks.
P.S.: I'm trying to do the right thing here, but you know I get sullen when you don't throw me a bone once in a while. Remember that time I spent a whole year being a hardcore skeptic? Yeah.
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Please read. Matter of life and death.
Plums has read my mind, or summink. Was just going to post on this very same topic:
Yes, you read that right. Amina Lawal is going to be stoned to death for having a baby. I'll repeat that for the hard of thinking: Amina Lawal, a breathing, feeling, thinking, human being, is going to be buried up to her neck in the ground and get rocks chucked at her head till she dies because she's had a baby.
Please sign the petition. It'll take about two seconds and your input may help save Amina.
Sorry; that's probably put a crimp in your lunch break, hasn't it? I get all worked up over stuff like this all the time. Sometimes it gets written up; sometimes it's so horrific, so painful to even think about, that it seems wrong to put it up here. I know that I should, but I don't want to keep ripping everyone's guts out all the time, y'know? Thinking about creating a seperate blog for things like this. Just put up the petition links here, along with a distress warning, and then a longer commentary on the subject at hand on the Scary Blog. Hmm.
Should've picked a different title for this baby, maybe. Every day in every way, I feel more and more like an lefty anarchist version of Rorschach.
Plums has read my mind, or summink. Was just going to post on this very same topic:
Amina Lawal, a 30 year-old Nigerian woman, sentenced by a Shari’ah court to death by stoning, has once again had her appeal adjourned. Amina’s appeal will now be heard on 27 August 2003. According to the registrar of the Shari’ah Court of Appeal of Katsina State, the hearing could not take place because there was an inadequate number of tribunal members to hear the appeal. Two of the judges were reportedly serving on ad-hoc elections tribunals, constituted after general elections in April and May 2003.
Amina confessed to having had a child while divorced. Pregnancy outside of marriage constitutes sufficient evidence for a woman to be convicted of adultery according to the new Shari’ah-based penal code for Muslims, introduced in Katsina state.
Yes, you read that right. Amina Lawal is going to be stoned to death for having a baby. I'll repeat that for the hard of thinking: Amina Lawal, a breathing, feeling, thinking, human being, is going to be buried up to her neck in the ground and get rocks chucked at her head till she dies because she's had a baby.
Please sign the petition. It'll take about two seconds and your input may help save Amina.
Sorry; that's probably put a crimp in your lunch break, hasn't it? I get all worked up over stuff like this all the time. Sometimes it gets written up; sometimes it's so horrific, so painful to even think about, that it seems wrong to put it up here. I know that I should, but I don't want to keep ripping everyone's guts out all the time, y'know? Thinking about creating a seperate blog for things like this. Just put up the petition links here, along with a distress warning, and then a longer commentary on the subject at hand on the Scary Blog. Hmm.
Should've picked a different title for this baby, maybe. Every day in every way, I feel more and more like an lefty anarchist version of Rorschach.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
The fine art of mutilation.
Okay. It's Sunday, and as you should all know by now Sunday is stall-in-the-park day. I've been busy over the past week, making kewl things to sell.
I've made a ton of those little daisy rings, because people seemed to like them so much. Need more of the smaller sizes, though. I also finished a few wire trees. They're well smart, if I do say so myself as shouldn't, especially the smaller ones. They looked a bit bare so I started hanging little bead thingys from the ends of the branches, and now they look proper.
I also started making some messed-up zombie-type dolls. I bought four or five of these 60c spoof Barbies, and I've been rearranging their smarmy faces with a Swiss Army knife. Eminently satisfying. My favourite is Miss Psycho Killer Beauty Queen, a pageant runner-up gone bad with bloodstains all down her dress and her rival's arm in her handbag. I'm also making a proper Zombie, but some of her green paint is still sticky so I might have to save her till next week. Going to try for €15 a pop for these babies, because they're a lot of work.
Can't belive I didn't buy the dolly with the suitcase, though. Or the miniature kitchenware. WTF is wrong with me?
Okay. It's Sunday, and as you should all know by now Sunday is stall-in-the-park day. I've been busy over the past week, making kewl things to sell.
I've made a ton of those little daisy rings, because people seemed to like them so much. Need more of the smaller sizes, though. I also finished a few wire trees. They're well smart, if I do say so myself as shouldn't, especially the smaller ones. They looked a bit bare so I started hanging little bead thingys from the ends of the branches, and now they look proper.
I also started making some messed-up zombie-type dolls. I bought four or five of these 60c spoof Barbies, and I've been rearranging their smarmy faces with a Swiss Army knife. Eminently satisfying. My favourite is Miss Psycho Killer Beauty Queen, a pageant runner-up gone bad with bloodstains all down her dress and her rival's arm in her handbag. I'm also making a proper Zombie, but some of her green paint is still sticky so I might have to save her till next week. Going to try for €15 a pop for these babies, because they're a lot of work.
Can't belive I didn't buy the dolly with the suitcase, though. Or the miniature kitchenware. WTF is wrong with me?
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Braaaaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnnnnssssss! Get'em while they're hot.
(Via diepunyhumans.com. Not so much work-warning as lunch warning.)
(Via diepunyhumans.com. Not so much work-warning as lunch warning.)
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
6/8/45 8:15am
On this date 58 years ago an atomic bomb, known as "Little Boy", was dropped on the Japanese city of Hiroshima.
Hiroshima
Survivor's stories
Hiroshima Peace Declaration
On this date 58 years ago an atomic bomb, known as "Little Boy", was dropped on the Japanese city of Hiroshima.
Hiroshima
Survivor's stories
Hiroshima Peace Declaration
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Ra.
Having spent the best part of a decade taking the most exaggerated precautions against the sun (for tedious medical reasons that I can't be bothered to explain here) I decided, on arriving in Spain, to begin desensitizing myself. I started slow and careful: limited exposure, heavy sunblock. One of the first things I did was visit a pharmacy for advice. I was going to go for a 15, but the pharmacist went off into a long and (to me) largely unintelligible lecture in which the words "mas pallido" and "blanco" cropped up with alarming regularity. I left bearing a bottle of paediatric sun-cream and feeling a bit dispirited. A certain bearded individual thought it was all verrrry funny, especially when I decided to put some of the stuff on while we were taking the metro.
I've also been charging a little sun pendant that my Mum gave me as a solar talisman, in the hopes that I might start absorbing some of the energy rather than being fried like a big streaky rasher. It's been working pretty well, too; I've been able to move onto factor 15 and I don't always have to wear my shades. I even bought a few little crop-tops. I was responding quite nicely to the sunlight. It feels like it's shifting my consciousness somewhat-- I'm definately in a different mindstate when walking around on a sunny day. (Stop muttering about sunstroke. It's not sunstroke. It's a magickal altered state of consciousness. Shut up.)
'Course, I couldn't just carry on with the softly-softly approach, could I? Oh, no. I had to get all cocky. So, last Sunday I go to the park and sit there with my display of jewellery from 2 till half-eight. I mean, I did put sunblock on, I just didn't reapply it. Because I'm all hard and sunproof now, and I can sit in the Spanish sun for six and a half of the hottest hours of the day.
Do not mess with Ra, people. Ra is not to be mocked. Ra sees you mock him with your teeny crop-top and your one application of factor 15 sunspray, and Ra smites you. He smites you between the waistband of your skirt and the hem of your top with the dread Curse of the Stripey Back, and you rue your temerity. DO NOT MESS WITH RA!
I did sell a couple of daisy rings tho'. Daisy rings seem to be a bit of a winner.
Having spent the best part of a decade taking the most exaggerated precautions against the sun (for tedious medical reasons that I can't be bothered to explain here) I decided, on arriving in Spain, to begin desensitizing myself. I started slow and careful: limited exposure, heavy sunblock. One of the first things I did was visit a pharmacy for advice. I was going to go for a 15, but the pharmacist went off into a long and (to me) largely unintelligible lecture in which the words "mas pallido" and "blanco" cropped up with alarming regularity. I left bearing a bottle of paediatric sun-cream and feeling a bit dispirited. A certain bearded individual thought it was all verrrry funny, especially when I decided to put some of the stuff on while we were taking the metro.
I've also been charging a little sun pendant that my Mum gave me as a solar talisman, in the hopes that I might start absorbing some of the energy rather than being fried like a big streaky rasher. It's been working pretty well, too; I've been able to move onto factor 15 and I don't always have to wear my shades. I even bought a few little crop-tops. I was responding quite nicely to the sunlight. It feels like it's shifting my consciousness somewhat-- I'm definately in a different mindstate when walking around on a sunny day. (Stop muttering about sunstroke. It's not sunstroke. It's a magickal altered state of consciousness. Shut up.)
'Course, I couldn't just carry on with the softly-softly approach, could I? Oh, no. I had to get all cocky. So, last Sunday I go to the park and sit there with my display of jewellery from 2 till half-eight. I mean, I did put sunblock on, I just didn't reapply it. Because I'm all hard and sunproof now, and I can sit in the Spanish sun for six and a half of the hottest hours of the day.
Do not mess with Ra, people. Ra is not to be mocked. Ra sees you mock him with your teeny crop-top and your one application of factor 15 sunspray, and Ra smites you. He smites you between the waistband of your skirt and the hem of your top with the dread Curse of the Stripey Back, and you rue your temerity. DO NOT MESS WITH RA!
I did sell a couple of daisy rings tho'. Daisy rings seem to be a bit of a winner.
Saturday, August 02, 2003
Booooored now.
Repetition, man. It rubs you raw eventually. Even the lightest caress, repeated for too long, will begin to chafe.
Got stuck in normal human consciousness all this week. Felt weird, grey, nasty. Linear, linear, linear. Hard to think outside the box; the box is everything, the box is me. Starting to pull out of it now, thanks be to [insert deity/angel/superhero/forgotten servitor grown fat on your obliviousness]. Sick of the same old minds in the same old grooves, the same old songs: We've shiny-new, you're old hat/we're wise and mature, you're young, dumb and full of spearmint gum. Shouldn't let it make even the smallest blip on the radar, but some people should know by now: when you slag off a set of people that includes me, you slag me, yeah? You get that, yeah? You get that you didn't give me or anyone like me a magickal Slagging Exemption Chitty before you went off into your latest hissyfit? And incidentally, could you please make up a new song? All I'm getting from you are remixes, and the tune wasn't that great in the first place.
So, having got over the sickies enough to take an interest in the world once more, it's off to look for inspiration. No inspiration. Not even a little bit. The Dalek squawk-- "IM-IT-ATE! IM-IT-ATE!" resounds louder and louder. People aren't even looking outside themselves for stuff to rip off anymore, they're just looking at their old shit and regurgitating it, a copy of a copy of a copy, dwindling and losing colour with every iteration, until all that's left is a blank surface onto which all those vacuous minds can broadcast the one thing they really want to see: Their own faces, staring back, love in their eyes. Narcissus, kiss your clone.
(I'm finding text a little awkward today. I need something else, something where I can branch and extend without losing cohesion. A 3-D wordprocessor.)
Repetition, man. It rubs you raw eventually. Even the lightest caress, repeated for too long, will begin to chafe.
Got stuck in normal human consciousness all this week. Felt weird, grey, nasty. Linear, linear, linear. Hard to think outside the box; the box is everything, the box is me. Starting to pull out of it now, thanks be to [insert deity/angel/superhero/forgotten servitor grown fat on your obliviousness]. Sick of the same old minds in the same old grooves, the same old songs: We've shiny-new, you're old hat/we're wise and mature, you're young, dumb and full of spearmint gum. Shouldn't let it make even the smallest blip on the radar, but some people should know by now: when you slag off a set of people that includes me, you slag me, yeah? You get that, yeah? You get that you didn't give me or anyone like me a magickal Slagging Exemption Chitty before you went off into your latest hissyfit? And incidentally, could you please make up a new song? All I'm getting from you are remixes, and the tune wasn't that great in the first place.
So, having got over the sickies enough to take an interest in the world once more, it's off to look for inspiration. No inspiration. Not even a little bit. The Dalek squawk-- "IM-IT-ATE! IM-IT-ATE!" resounds louder and louder. People aren't even looking outside themselves for stuff to rip off anymore, they're just looking at their old shit and regurgitating it, a copy of a copy of a copy, dwindling and losing colour with every iteration, until all that's left is a blank surface onto which all those vacuous minds can broadcast the one thing they really want to see: Their own faces, staring back, love in their eyes. Narcissus, kiss your clone.
(I'm finding text a little awkward today. I need something else, something where I can branch and extend without losing cohesion. A 3-D wordprocessor.)
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