War Crimes

You can read a transcription of Seymour Hersh's ACLU Keynote Speech here. 
 

The only way to look at this is as war crimes. What happened are war crimes. I’m not saying it’s there yet. It’s not there yet. But that’s where it has to go. We have to stop looking at it as some sort of academic debate about Geneva Conventions and really begin to look at it in terms of: Who did what? Who died? Why did he die? Are there people missing? Are we doing what the Brazilians and Argentineans did back two or three decades ago and actually into this decade? Are we disappearing people? Are there people being tortured knowingly in advance that the torture was going to put their lives in peril and is nothing being done to relieve their suffering to the point that they die?...
...What they did at Abu Ghraib and other places was, the people they would get, they would torture... And the purpose of it, of course, is to generate information. So what do you get? You get people that know nothing... So you take these people, you expose them to the ridicule and physical torture that you can, and they end up telling you. Yes, they'll give you the names of people in their neighborhood that are al Qaeda, or terrorists, insurgency, and they give you names. And of course they're just names, they're just doing it, and then you arrest those people, and bring them in, and you start the process. And the circle gets bigger, and bigger, and bigger....
...Some of the worst things that happened that you don’t know about. OK? Videos. There are women there. Some of you may have read that they were passing letters out, communications out to their men... saying please come and kill me because of what’s happened. And basically what happened is that those women who were arrested with young boys, children, in cases that have been [video] recorded, the boys were sodomized, with the cameras rolling, and the worst above all of them is the soundtrack of the boys shrieking. That your government has, and they’re in total terror it’s going to come out.

I find myself with nothing to say.

Well, that passed.

Sort of pulling out of it yesterday, I did some packing/cleaning, then went to see Spiderman 2. Lots of fun. "Oh, look, I'll just start up this massive fusion reaction in the middle of a big empty place with no secruity or containment around me whilst this minute and seriously fragile-looking chip prevents my huge independantly intelligent robot arms from taking over my brain. What could possibly go wrong?"

Today I am going to bother my agencies, then de-gut an old radio alarm for parts. I've been looking at theremin sites and pictures of undead dollies, and I'm feeling inspired.

Chew on this.

Uuuuuurrrrrrggggghhhhh.

You would never belive how fucking ill I am right now.

Stressedoutandpissedoffand...

...woundupandfedup and sort of bored, and a bit tired.

Don't know if I should do this course or not. I have to make a decision pretty much NOW.

Pros: Would mean better jobs in the future, paying for itself in the medium-to-long term (6 months to a year); doing it now would help me to evade the higher costs and more stringent entry requirements of a course in the UK.

Cons: Factoring in books, travel, ect, and I'm looking at about €1500, which is a lot to spend, especially if the job sitch is up in the air. Also, I should really spend the time packing, cleaning, sorting out transport/storage/sale/destruction of stuff.

Fuck it, I don't know. I'll give it another day or two and then decide.

And there's all this other stuff, offline stuff, lots of it, which I can't write about because it involves other people who aren't me and who don't deserve to have their lives cannibalised for blog-fodder, but which is eating up a large chunk of my attention and energy.

But 'twas ever thus. Just when you think you've got all the plates spinning and all the balls in the air, Fate throws you a chainsaw.

I am morose.

It's bastarding raining. I wanted to go to Sitges. Why does it always rain when I want to go to Sitges? Not only that, but the pool is shut. Look, it's still hot. So what if it's raining? It's a pool. People are already wet.

Grrrr.

More theremin links I want to keep handy...

RS Theremin
EPA article

Ought to sidebar this stuff really.

The Fear.

I slept poorly last night. I had the Fear over for a slumber party. Stupid Fear. All friendly and nice when you're sitting up eating pizza in your jammies and laughing at Real True Ouija Stories on the web, and then as soon as the lights go out, HORRIBLOSITY.

"You are not properly Of Magicks," says the Fear.

"Yes I am," I respond. "Shut up, the Fear, or I shall not let you have any of the leftover pizza."

"You do not do Proper Magicks," insists the Fear. "You do not have a big hat or a cloak; also, you do not have £1050-worth of Grimoires you bought on eBay. How can you be Of Magicks when you possess naught but a bunch of PDFs? Also, you have no wand anymore. You need a big wand, but it must be made of gold and some jewels and you must bleed on the gold and jewels."

"I said shut up, the Fear, or I shall put anchovies in your shoes! I have a wand."

"Nuh-uh. It smashed the last time you tried to use it."

"Oh yeah." That's the last time I make a wand out of melty plastic picnic forks. "But I am still Of Magicks."

There is silence for a while. I start to think that the Fear has gone to sleep.

"Hey, Mordant."

"What now?"

"You are not Of Magicks--you are too LINEAR. If you were properly Of Magicks you would own a plushy Cthluhu and you would make plushy Cthluhu his own Livejournal. And you would have lots of entries here that said lAAAAYEEEiamFLYYYYYIIINGGGGG!!!1! and would talk about smoking dope a very lot."

I get up and put jalapenos in the Fear's pants.

Bleagh.

The heck with today. Screw today right in the spleen. Dunno if I caught too much sun yesterday or what, but I could hardly get out of bed today. Felt slightly better after a nap and half a mug of espresso, but got nothing much done except a little writing and a tarot spread. I'd better be okay by tomorrow. I want to go to the Al Campo for ant traps and red ginseng absinthe.

One of the cool things about being Of Magicks is that when your body decides to go on the blink, it's easier for you to go somewhere else than it is for you poor pitiful Mundanes. I spent some of the time in a light trance, jogging through pleasant scenery or mayhap practicing my front crawl. It's important to at least do pretend imaginary excercise when you're out of action--keeps your muscles in the mood for the real thing. I'm going to go and lift some pretend weights for a bit.

Anyhow. I have a question: I found this fake food. What is it for? Why would one want to spend fifty-five bucks on a pretend vodka tonic? Please explain.

Late again.

Had the interview. Did my usual thing of leaving the house just a shade too late and missing the train, but I managed to make it a whisker ahead of my appointed time. (Note to self: STOP DOING THAT! No, another cup of tea is not of such paramount importance that time stands still. No, the train is not going to magically get in 15 minutes ahead of schedual. If you leave late you will be late. Foolish human female.)

Interview went well. Did not drool, mumble, or scream "STOP TOUCHING MEEE!" when required to shake hands. Maintained Normal Person facade for full 15 mins, a personal best. Of course this is all irrelevent because I can't take up the place. Bah, sulkies. Still, at least I know I could get on a CELTA if I wanted to, which is a boost.

Also in the Land of w00t!, I find there is a theremin dealer right here in Barcelona. Will swing by and see if they have any books or anything. Maybe they will even have kits! Am a happy Mordant.

Edit: No, they didn't have kits or how-to books or anything. However, the guy I spoke to was really cool and gave me his card, told me he knows this other guy who's a top theremin player ect. And I might still be on for the TEFL but I have to wait till next week, when I may know more about the future. So my net amount of happiness remains unchanged.

The electronics shop was shut, so I didn't get my breadboard or my inductors. Meh.

Suckitude.

Well, today was sort of crap. I mean, not completely, because in the morning I went and picked up our Amazon delivery from the post office, Thomas Covenant (Lurid's) and the first of David Gemmell's John Shannow books. But after that it was all downhill. My euphemism was giving me cramps, and nothing I took seemed to do more than take the edge off. This new herb tea I got the other day is supposed to have cohosh in it, but I dunno. Anyhow, I was pretty much immobilised for most of the afternoon. At least I had something to read.

I still don't have all my theremin parts. Started building the bits of the circuit that I do have the parts for, but rapidly got pissed off with old and knackered breadboards. I really ought to get a new one but I'm far too tight. I'm going into town tomorrow for my interview to get on a TEFL course, so I can buy the parts then.

I probably won't be able to take up the place on the course even if I get through the interview without calling the interviewer Belinda. Things are looking a bit shaky at the moment; not mega-shaky, but this isn't a good time to be spending a lot of money. No biggie. I'll still do the course eventually, I just don't know when.

On the plus side, it was very nice out and the hibiscuses are looking particularly smashing. I like hibiscuses.

Humping unicorns tee

*immature titter*

(Via BoingBoing)

Note to self...

Stop being such a sullen uncommunicative bastard before you alienate your half-dozen remaining friends. Snap out of it, woman.

Okay...

Well, it's been pissing down on and off all day, so I blew off the trip to the shops till tomorrow. Made a start on the packing instead. Once I'd started, it was easy, almost comforting; I felt sad to be preparing to leave a place where I've been very happy and had hoped to stay, but at the same time very positive and optimistic. Here is what needs to be done at this time. Here I am, doing it. I'll do a couple more boxes and then start sticking epoxy tentacles on Fake Barbie's face.

I'll write about Marseilles in a couple of days. Not quite in the right headspace at the mo. However, a couple of notes: Whilst there I came upon a few playing cards in the streets, first the Ace of Spades, then the Queen of Diamonds. These I kept for future use. I also found the Seven of Spades, but it was too soggy to do anything with so I left it. Also I picked up a shard of blue glass. I was sitting outside a bar with Lurid, when a gust of wind blew a menu off a table, taking a blue glass ashtray with it. The ashtray shattered and I was very tempted to pick up one of the pieces, because I love blue glass. I decided not to because they were very sharp and taking one of them might look odd. A little later, there was an almighty CRASH! from behind me. I jumped out of my skin, but it was only one of the big sunshades. It had blown over, taking down another ashtray of the same colour. I took the hint, and saved a triangle of the glass. Lord knows what would have gone over next if I hadn't. I mean to incorporate it in some jewellery once I sort out the sharp edges.

The hostage-to-fortunizing To Do list

(For Monday, July the 5th.)

1) Do some more packing/cleaning/sorting out. Mop revolting floor.
2) Go into town and get componants for theremin prototype, LEDs for torch hack, ect.
3) Make squid-head for Barbie knock-off.
4) Not less than one hour grammar revision; two would be better.

There's other stuff, but those are the biggies.

Hi honey, I'm home

Well, looky here--trawling through some old bookmarks, I've just found this. And my new Lj icons for the next ever.

(Page pretty much worksafe, but may cause wigginsization in suceptible individuals.)

Email and sundry communications probs.

This is just to let everyone know that I am having the devil's own job logging into EVERYTHING right now. I can read my evil email address, but for some reason it times out when I try to send anything. Also, I can't log into a couple of the messageboards where I post. Mine seems to be okay though.

Those of you waiting on tenterhooks for replies: better upholster those tenterhooks, guys.

Marseille

Okay, so Im in Marseille, which is pretty cool. I'm in a caff with a keyboard that's Tunisian or summink: the layout is odd as anything and all the keys have to do for about 4 characters each. Iùs very frusrqting1;

Anyhoo.

Yesterday was great. we drove out to have lunch in Auberge, which was pricey but fantastic. There was a Smart Car convention going on so the place looked like a playpen for a giant toddler. It was seriously gorgeous out there. Took a few pix but I don't know if I'll be able to upload them before I get home.

Lurid is off doing some sort of math thing so I've been left to my own devices. Might take a boat out to the Chateau d'If or climb up the hill or something.

Carrots.

Things are looking increasingly shaky. The TEFL is the most recent "looking increasingly shaky" thing. Examining the timetables of all the TEFL places in Barcelona, I find that if I don't get on a course, like, NOW, I shall have to wait till August. If we are leaving sunny Spain, I shall need August to pack and generally sort stuff out, and therefore I may not fill August up with TEFLing. So I have to do the TEFL now, immediately, or not at all. Arrrgh. All is not yet lost, but all is looking a bit "had it here a minute ago, now where did I put it"-ish.

There is also the little matter of the interview process. I have a head start there because I am so articulate, so suave, so magnetically attractive that--oh hang on, that was in that dream I had on Wednesday, the one with the tiny pink bicycles and the singing carrots. But I remain upbeat and optimistic. Or at least, some of me does. The rest of me is looking on glumly, with jaundiced eye, folded arms and doing-that-thing-like-backwards-whistling-lips.

Upbeat, optimistic me: I can do it. It's just one little interview.
Rest of me: Suuuuuurrrre you can.
UOM: No, look, if I talk up the writing as evidence of my Love of Language--
ROM: Your writing is evidence of very little beyond a worrying fixation with headless sex robots and your deep desire to have a job with no co-workers.
UOM: Sure, but I won't tell them that. The interview is only 20 mins. I can fake being a people person for 20 mins.
ROM: You sure?
UOM: Yeppers.
ROM: Sure you're sure?
UOM: Sure I'm sure!
ROM: Twenty whole big fat 60-seconds-each minutes? Are you sure you can do it? Are you sure that, 17 mins. into the interview, you won't suddenly stand on the chair, only not really standing, more like crouching, poking the interviewer with a stick and going "VROOOOOOOOON!"?
UOM: Hey! That only happened once.
ROM: *Looks at UOM with tilty head and squinchy eyes*
UOM: *Stares at shoes, mumbles* Maybe twice. Anyway, I think it's a telephone interview.
ROM: It's your only hope.
UOM: Maybe I could teach some carrots to sing.

Fun fun fun in the sun sun sun.

Okay, so it looks like I've blagged a free holiday to the South of France. Nyyyah! Theremin circuit is going well except for bloody buggering bastarding filter grrr. Not going to buy parts till I get back from Fr. now anyways, tho' I may pop into town for a couple of 2300 millicandela LEDs.

Staying in Spain is now in doubt. I really thought we would be staying on, but things haven't quite gone according to plan, so we'll probably be back in the UK come autumn. Ho, hum. Think I may bite the bullet and squeeze in a quick TEFL before then; courses are a mite cheaper here, and entry requirments less harsh.

Just a few links I want to keep handy.

Theremin World
Maxie's pages: theremin tech articles
Thereminvox.com Technical Reference Links

The more I look at this the more do-able it seems. Most of the circuit design is stuff I've covered already; I need to brush up on filters, but I was going to do that anyway. This is cool. I get to combine two projects, the "sell stuff on eBay" project and the "revise electronics" project, into one. Idly toying with the idea of a small, battery powered toy-type model...

More pondering...

Selling stuff on eBay, part II.

Right. Stuff I could sell on eBay:

Theremins. Sure, some theremins go for plentymuch money, but there's theremins and there's theremins. There's ickle kiddy science-project type theremins, and then there's amazingly complicated theremins that have loads of whistles and bells. Now, one could buy in a few kits and build from those, but that requires a little outlay: most of the kits I've seen go for between 40 and 50 quid. Now, I've looked at the parts lists and frankly they're ripping the mick; most of them shouldn't cost more than 15. Which leaves building from scratch. However, before I rush out to the local electronic hobby shops, I need a circuit. All the circuit diagrams I have seen online seem to be copyrighted, so it's reasonably illegal (and dashed unsporting) to make and sell theremins constructed soley from those diagrams. I posess enough knowhow to do some reverse-engineering and thus create my own original circuit, but this will be time-consuming.

(A pared-down baby theremin with only pitch control and no volume is another possibility. I can design a Wein bridge oscillator without moving my brain; all I'd need to do is replace one of the variable capacitors with a suitable antenna. Then there's just the filter to get shot of any r.f. muck, bung on a speaker and away we go. Woudn't really be a musical instrument as such, but I bet half the people who buy these things don't want to play them. They just want to put them on the sideboard next to their Hulk lunchboxes and lava-lamps and go "look everyone, a theremin! WooIIIEEEooOOOoooIIIeeee!" The other advantage to this is that I already have most of the componants floating around somewhere, including a shedload of op-amps which I really ought to use up.)

Hacked torches that shine brighter than everyone else's torches so you get the best seat on the alien spacecraft and they let you sit up front instead of having to ride in the back and get probed and stuff: Still costing the parts. But if I decide to go for it, there's my sales pitch.

Other stuff with LEDs: Like, I dunno, wands and stuff. A wand with an LED on the end would rock.

Beadwork: Hmm. Not sure I'll get much interest. My stuff is nice, but is it supernice enough to attract a price which will compensate me for work, parts and postage? Maybe sell ensembles, that way I could charge more but incur lower overall shipping costs.

Dolls: Again, hmmm. Now, I like my dolls, I think they're cool, but when you get right down to it they're still just 20c Barbie knockoffs that I took a craft-knife to. Not sure how happy the Lucky Bidder is going to be with that. I certainly didn't sell any fly-pitching.

Other toys: Slightly higher-pitched hmmm. I'm quite good at making ugly little felt critters with pipe-cleaners inside. Now, you wouldn't think people would buy many ugly little felt critters with pipecleaners inside but it turns out that if you stick a lot of googly-eyes on them, and feathers, and maybe some porcupine quills or something, and give them a name and make up some stupid story about them, where they came from and everything, people will pay actual money for that. But only on the internet.

So, in conclusion: I need pipecleaners and super-bright LEDs.

Anyhow.

I didn't make it to Sitges this weekend coz it pissed down, but I did see the new H*rry P*tt*r flick. Nice hippogriff.

I give up.

I'm going to make theremins and sell them on eBay. grant b. said I could.

Been thinking of seriously getting into selling stuff on eBay, really stupid stuff, shit nobody would ever want but giving it a backstory that will make people buy it. This is completely amoral, of course, but wotthehell. My only concern is that some lucky bidder might sober up to find ze's the proud posessor of an anomolous haunted fossil made from Pla-Doh and decide to come round and do me an injury. I should just do it. I have a huge wobbly bunch of ideas, and I should just do it.

Hey, look at this torch I saw in Nerdular Nerdance. (Actually I saw it on BoingBoing first but whatever.) They suggest three 2300-millicandela LEDs which might be all right if you had just a little penlight... or one of those keychain torches... and you were a complete and total WIMP. I mean, come on! You could get one of those heeeeeUUUUGE torches, the boxy kind with a handle on the top, and go to town. I bet you could get 150 2300-millicandela LEDs in the reflector of one of those! Aliens would be QUEUEING UP to abduct me if I had a torch with 150+ 2300-millicandela LEDs in the reflector. If I wasn't going to Sitges tomorrow I'd totally be shopping for 2300-millicandela LEDs. However, I feel I have been sadly neglecting my "slouching around on the beach doing fuckall" duties. My people need me.

Places which are not here.

Mmmmmm, Fafblog. It cheers me as the shadows close in, the Lack of Toast and Kettles* grips my heart in an icy claw of misery and the whiff of 23p a packet biscuits grows ever stronger in my general vicinity.

Yes, I realise there are other things to blog about besides my lack of work--wars, torture memos, conveniently dead former Presidents, ect--but I am Special and Important, and I have people to do these things.


*That might make a good picture, you know. Something like Ernst's Europe after the Rain**.

**One Rain. Just one. I am right about this. You are wrong.

Gahhh.

Rejected! Rejected AGAIN! Well, not exactly rejected, but timed out on a couple of submissions ("after six weeks assume we've binned yr drivel and submit it elsewhere, loser.") And actually properly rejected by a youth hostel, via email.

This is just so unfair. You know what'll happen if I don't get a job soon? I'll start to smell of cheap biscuits, that's what! The unmistakable aroma of 23p a packet Nice will be foisted upon me by a cruel, uncaring fate.

On the upside, all this has done wonders for my Spanish comprehension. Think I might hit the Goth bars (goth bars goth bars goth bars) next, where my baldy head will attract less opprobrium. Doubt much will come of it; they either want huge scary muscly blokes who can deter trouble, or itty-bitty lil gothettes who can fit into a size ZERO of PVC dresses. I hate getting turned down for jobs on the grounds of insufficient Gothness. It hurts my feelings.

Edit: I worked out the other day that since coming here I must have handed out approximately 400 CVs, not counting other kinds of application like phone calls, emails ect. I have made roughly 50-60 story subs., of which 2 were purchased, netting me a grand total of £30.

Someone just shoot me, okay?

Pondering...

Did some more work on the red book. Odd, very odd... I was getting different layers of communication; first, the words and phrases the popped into my head, then what the pen wrote on the page. This beastie seems to have superglued the Caps Lock in place and has a blind spot for vowels.

It was nasty stuff, very ugly and threatening; precisely what I expected. But behind it, I got the sense of something small, weak, needy, like a kid. A mean, hungry, angry, messed-up vicious little kid, a kid who's ready to shiv you for glue money--but still and all, a kid. You know, it may be that my perception of this excercise has been all bassackwards. Maybe this isn't a binding at all. Maybe it's a rescue mission.

The guides warn caution, however, and I shall heed them. Could be that this persona is just another scam.

Felt good afterwards, tho'. Like when you've been feverish and the fever breaks, or when you pull out of a really nasty migrane, or when you've suffered through a particularly harsh period cramp and you get a breather. Wobbly but cleansed. This is something I need to do.

Weekend

Had an excellent, and very cheap, weekend. Lurid's work organised a jaunt to Núria; it was heaven. Spent the day rampaging around in the mountains with my digicam (pix here). Came back with strained muscles and a sunburnt head but it was sooo worth it.

Saw loads of Nice Flowers, including gentians. Went ape over gentians because they were so ridiculously, unfiesibly blue. I mean, really blue. Think of a really blue thing, like the bluest blue thing you've ever seen in your life--that's just peanuts compared to gentians. Practically mauve, your blue thing is. Your blue thing is PWNED by GENTIANS. Also saw some marsh-marigolds which cheered me up no end, coz they're going a bit rare back home. And goats. I like goats. And I had a ride on the cable-cars.

More work.

Yes, I am obsessed with jobhunting right now. I am an obsessive person. ("No, rrrreally?" I hear you cry.)

I've put requests for magickal aid in this regard elsewhere, so I may as well throw off all pretence of shame and post one here. This has gone beyond a joke.

I know I should try to free my mind from this one tiny track, because I´m getting into serious Lust For Result(TM) territory. Trouble is, the longer this goes on the harder it is to put it from my thoughts and focus on other projects.

I feel like I'm being poked away from conventional employment, and have been thus poked for some time. Which is all well and good, but whatever is doing the poking (spooky perverts, fate, grotty little corners of my own mind, etc) has neglected to supply any hints as to what I should be doing instead. I feel like I´ve stepped off the cliff and now I'm haning in midair, waiting for my Acme Rocket Pack to kick in... or for the rabbit to hand me an anvil. Not falling; not flying. Just hanging around.

"Nada para chicas."

That's what I got told yesterday, during my afternoon's temp agency bothering. What the...? What the hell do you mean, "Nothing for girls?" For one thing, I'm not a 'girl' anymore--I'm a grey-haired 30-year-old. For another... Goddammit, I have experience of "male" jobs, like street-sweeping, portering and light repairs. It's on my CV! It's on the form you made me fill in when I signed up! Unless a person's going to be carting iron girders around or something, it doesn't bloody matter. Stupid people. I hate temp agencies.

They stand between me and TOAST. They shall fall. I'm just going to turn up every other day until they give me a job out of sheer desperation.

Frikkin' frakkin' "Nothing for girls" grummble grumbler grrrr.

Blackmail.

Nope, sorry, still haven't posted that entry. Why? I'll tell you why. I'm holding it HOSTAGE, that's why! Spooky green book people don't get blogged anymore until they either help me find a goddamn job or sell some of my stories or otherwise provide me with money! HAH!

(PS: no sneaky bumping off relatives so I get the insurance, oh the guilt, oh the irony. That gag's got whiskers on it.)



I'm kidding. I'll post the entry soon.

However, this is getting a bit ridiculous. I have now been sans gainful employment for over a year, and it's depressing me. There are things I would buy, like Photoshop and webspace and socks and a kettle and a toaster.

It's true. Not only do I have No Job, but I have no kettle. They don't like kettles in Spain, they all drink shedloads of coffee made in espresso pots. I have to use the metal jug thing for boiling up milk if I want a cup of tea; worse still, should I wish to make more than one mug of tea--say for myself and Mr Adjective Noun and any friends who may happen to drop by-- I needs must use the saucepan, which for some reason creates a nasty scummy foam on top of the tea. And not only do I have No Job and no kettle, I have no toaster. And since there's not a proper cooker in my flat, just a hot-plate, this means that I have no toast.

Ever.

No. Toast.

Yes, that's right. Laugh. Go ahead! Mock my miserable toastless state. Make merry over the SHATTERED RUIN that is my non-heated-bread-product-having life. One day, I will show you all. I will get a job! And I will get a kettle and a toaster! And as God is my witness, I will never go toastless again!

Books.

Got a small download for the green book last night; will post it tonight, hopefully.

Haven't had an opportunity to do anymore voice work, but have stocked up on tapes. Privacy is a bit of an issue so I'm looking for cheap recording space. I may attempt to use my bass guitar as an aid in shifting my consciousness, which would also help cover up the mad chanting.

Haven't done anything else with the red book. I'm afraid of it.

Random story generators.

The Flat Earth Games site no longer seems to have a random story generator, so I'm looking for new ones. They make for stupid stories, but they're great for sparking ideas.

A genre-less idea generator.

Two random generators. One does a short plot summary, the other a full and ludicrous yarn.

Donde es la pasta?

I still don't have a job.

This irks me.

I've really ramped up my efforts, too: cold-calling bars, shops and caffs, punting out CVs to hostels and factories, signing up with agencies, leaning on said agencies, checking job boards and newspapers obsessively, putting up ads... nothing.

This is weird. I'm inclined to put it down to some sort of magickal interference from forces. I just wish I knew what I was supposed to be doing instead. I tried alternatives to conventional employment. I tried all sorts of stuff all last year. I'm still trying.

It isn't working. I can't sell stuff I make because I have no (legal) outlet. I can't set up a reiki practice because I have nowhere to work from, no money to rent a venue or buy the equipment I need (like a massage table and stuff). I'm submitting enough short stories to sink a battleship, but I'm just not getting any sales (at least, not at pro rates). It isn't working, and neither am I.

Help me out here, spooky perverts. Throw me a bone, eh? A person can't keep on just floundering around in the fog like this. You're supposed to be all guideful and arcane-knowledge-having; how about chucking a clue my way?

Bloody disembodied weirdos. No commonsense, that's your problem.

On the selling stuff topic: I've decided to have a serious stab at making stuff to sell on eBay. Talismanic bits and bobs, spooky pictures, that sort of thing. I need to look into shipping and stuff, see how expensive it'll be, whether to sell overseas or stick to Spain. The practicalites. You know.

Red Book.

Okay, so having got the red book all fixed up I couldn't really make any more excuses, so I did my first entry last night. It wasn't up to much because I was so rattled by the whole thing, I couldn't tune out my thoughs and let the other voice take over.

I began by writing the phrase that cropped up last year, when the entity in question tried to hijack a communication I was having with my guides: "Blood of the lost, blood of the lost land." After a couple of repetitions, my pen wandered off and the communication kicked in. I got a few paragraphs of "I am POWER, I am HUNGER," ect ect chiz moan drone.

I asked the entity in question why, if it was so arse-kickingly hard, it was reduced to hanging around inside my noggin and generating thought intrusions, whereupon it ceased communication and sulked. Recieved a communication from the guides shortly afterwards, to the effect that a human mind is actually a pretty big place, very inviting territory for a wandering evil entity of no fixed abode. The impression I got was that these critters, whatever they are, don't actually realise that what they percieve within the mind isn't really real, but memory, imagination, dreams. They poke you in the right place (shame, guilt, misery), generate a pain response, and to them it's as if they've unleashed hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunami! Their whole world (your mind) shakes! What a blast! What power!

Meanwhile, back at the reality ranch, they may have persuaded you to mutter "bollocks" under your breath, if they're lucky.

I'm pleased to have discovered that this little beast is responsible for most, if not all, of my thought intrusions. I mean, this has been going on as long as I can recall.

A tentative analysis...

If we may temporarily adopt, for the sake of argument, a model which includes the existance of spirits having objective reality, and psychic attack as also having objective reality, we can look at the phenomenon thus:

Assume thought intrusions = a form of psychic attack. The very fact that the intrusions commenced at such a young age (around 2 1/2 years, IIRC) would seem to argue against an attack by a living individual. (No motivation for putting so much effort into a working.) Alternative: "Obsession", the action of a spirit attempting to access or influence the world, to express itself, through a living person via that person's thought processes. Since the entity would be searching for an easy mind to break into and poke around in, a small child becomes a desirable target. According to many versions of this model, such an entity may have very skewed perceptions, possibly unaware of what it is doing and of the consequences of its actions.

Usefulness of Red Book project:

Accepting the above model to be true implies that a problem exists requiring a solution. Project offers a solution.

Assuming the above model to be false (subjective), the project offers possible theraputic value. Therefore it is reasonable to proceed with the project, whilst monitoring its impact, positive and negative. If it becomes too time-consuming or otherwise intrusive, it must be abandoned.


I could be completely off about all this, of course, but my instinct is that I'm onto something. Really must maintain good contact with my guides while all this is going on. I may well need their help.

Under construction.

This new identity I will be inhabiting for the purposes of progressing in my magickal and creative work (see here) is taking longer to construct than I anticipated. I think you'll like her when she's done, though.

More magick: Have created the Red Book wherein I am to take dictation from an entity rather less kindly than M-L and R-M-L. Like them, its nature is unknown to me (Spirit? Ghost? Figment of my imagination?); unlike them, it is not a well-intentioned friend, or ally. It is the voice that chokes my voice, the thing that freezes me in my tracks and will not let me be, the thing that chases me through my dreams. I mean to fight it and bind it.

Couldn't find a red book with red pages, so had to purchace a book with red covers and dye the paper with ink. The result is appealing: blotchy, organic. It should be in interesting artifact if nothing else. The thought of actually starting it gives me the wiggins, but start it I must. I want my head back. The guides offer me a lot of protection; or rather, they offer me aid in protecting myself.

The guides refer to the entity's words as "the voice of your proof." In other words, by communicating with it I will see some concrete evidence that this aspect of my life isn't just a fantasy or a delusion. This could be big.

Toothless slurs.

Forget when or where I read it, but during some net-squabble or other about some damn thing (I was not involved personally, you understand) this phrase appeared: "the brits are all limeys anyway." I sat there and blinked a few times, trying to work out what they were on about. Yeah, the brits are limeys, the sofa's a couch, the telly's a TV, football is soccer, what's your point? Then I realised: Being called a limey is supposed to hurt my feelings.

Sorry, but, uhhh... before you decided to wield that mighty implement of emotional pain, did you pause to consider the fires in which it was forged? "Limey" was the nickname given to British sailors in Captain Cook's time because they, erm, ate citrus fruit. You know, for the vitamin C. To prevent scurvy, yes? I think you'll agree that as cultural/ethinc slurs go, "You don't have a life threatening vitamin deficiency! You've got most of your teeth! And no weeping sores to speak of!" lacks something.

Just sayin'.

Rectangular circle.

Meme doo jaw: school experiences. I have few, having been removed from school before the age of six. Nyahh, nyahh, nyahh, nyahh nyahh.

My most abiding memory is of the teacher bringing in a bunch of stuff and asking us what shape each bit of stuff was: coin = circle, plastic triangle = erm, triangle, etc chiz moan drone. Then she holds up the inside of a bog-roll and, amidst the tittering, asks what shape it is. I put up my five-and-a-bit year-old-hand.

"Yes, dear?"

"It's a rectangular circle," I announced.

They all laughed.*

That's about it, apart from the time someone mixed the white plasticine with the blue plasticine and we weren't allowed to play with the plasticine anymore for a whole week, and the time Rachel's mum sent her to school with Sellotape in her hair because she couldn't find any hairslides. And the other time that Rachel's mum sent her to school with Sellotape in her hair because she couldn't find any hairslides. Rachel's mum was all messed up.



*Except the teacher, who was a decent sort really. And Lurid says that was actually quite clever, and Lurid's good at sums so who won, eh? WHO WON?

Random brainstorm.

My next few big magickal projects are, in not particular order:

a) A spell to increase my writing output. Requirements: Paper, home-made ink and stylus, some sort of "Ocean" or "Marine" scented candle or incense, a blue rock.

b) A spell to increase my linguistic ability. Requirements: Red flat liquorice or similar, non-toxic ink, incense.

c) Speaking in Tongues. Requirements: A robe of white fabric, cassette recorder, extra tapes.

d) Renwewal/glamour spell. Requirements: Rose candles, matching notebook and pen.

e) The crimson book. Requirements: Notebook, red ink, black pen, ash, blood, something to wrap the sucker in cuz I don NOT want anything icky getting on my stuff, Nerves of Steel.

There's other stuff but I'm not telling you.

Comments and profiles and icons, oh, my.

Oh, how sweet. Blogger wants to be Livejournal when it grows up.

I've enabled the newly-built-in commenting system on here, but I'm not sure whether to lose the enations system coz Blogger doesn't seem to allow anonymous commenting: you need to sign up for a Blogger account before you can post. Anyway, if you want to use the Blogger comments, you have to click on the permalink (you know, the date/time thingy at the bottom of the post).

Nope.

Lesseenow... Sobriety--check, cold light o'day--check... hmm. Still no noticable degree of regret. My only regret is actually trying to engage with these pillocks as if they were regular folk. I'm pretty ashamed of myself there, as it goes. Must show more backbone in future.

Didn't realise how much I've let the frea-speach crowd mess with my head. Tiptoeing round ignorant, prejudiced wankers, oh dear me, mustn't upset the poor dear RACIST BASTARDS, constantly questioning my actions when the only question I should've been asking was "Hmmm. Just how big a new arsehole should I tear this guy?"

I feel sooo much better now.

Vent.

The 15th has came and went without incident. Random paranoia, I spose.

Talking of random paranoia: Oh look. An unusual number of proxy browser hits in my referral log. %Oooo, I wonder why? Let me think about why this might be...%

God, you people are sad. What are you looking for? A post where I accidently let slip that I'm in the pay of the Elders of Z.? Jeeze, if you can't get a clue, will you bigots please get lives?

You know what bugs me? The fact that I let certain events and people Over There affect me so much. The fact that I let myself get so cowed that I wouldn't even stand up and say what needed to be said, in case the heroic guardians of Frea Speach decided to whack me with a sock (puppet) full of sand. Well, I've no responsibilililities over here, except to myself. So...

FUCK YOU, YOU PATHETIC BIGOTS! I SPIT DOWN YOUR THROATS! I wouldn't widdle on you if you were on fire. And no, this isn't passive aggression. This is good old fashioned aggressive aggression.

Does it ever occur to you wankers that the reason you can't find any smart people to have a nice, quiet, dispassionate discussion of fucking Holocaust denial and the International Jewish Conspiracy is because the most cursory glance over the evidence should lay any doubt to rest, unless, that is, you happen be a right-wing nutbar. Does it ever occur to you that people may have come across these ideas, looked into them, and decided they were bullshit?

Give me strength.

No, the PofZ is NOT a fucking historical document! HOW STUPID ARE YOU? What, there's this ultra-powerful bunch of people who've been running the world since the year dot, and for some reason they find it necesary to write a 101 explanation of how well it's all going, and THEN accidently leave a copy lying around for a passing Czarist police officer to pick up? With a Post-It note on the front, no doubt: "Note to self--ultrasecret plans for total world domination--do not accidently leave lying around!"

For the love of Mike, why--why can't you read a damn book? Check facts? You're online, a click or two away from any information source your little hearts desire! How about, instead of sitting back and demanding that the rest of the world run around trying to find the material that might let them SQUEEZE SOME SENSE INTO YOUR HEADS, you do a bit of reading for yourselves? I mean, would that kill you? Are your critical faculties so atrophied through disuse that attempting to engage them would cause organ faliure? No, it's more fun to sit around fiddling with your pocket calculator, "proving" all sorts of shite with arithmetic. Because of course, secret conspiritors like to leave neat little numerological clues as to what they're up to for people like you to read. Because they're so secret, you see.

And then you have the nerve--the brass neck--the immortal crust--to invoke free speech when you aren't allowed to spout your filthy lies whenever and wherever you want. Newsflash, fuckoids. Some people aren't going to sit by and passively suck up your toxic waste. Boo fucking hoo. Look, this is teh intarnet. It's full of morons who'll entertain any damn fool theory if it makes them feel better about their tiny fetid lives.

These are REAL PEOPLE you are attacking. Not some amorphous many-headed hydra--real living people. Does that even occur to you?

Oh, and the phrase "anti-semite" distresses you? Good! Anti-semite! Anti-semite! Anti-semite! ANTI-SEMMMIIIITTTEEE! Look for it next to the image of your DROOLING FACE in your large print picture dictionary, you mephitic SKIDMARK.

Bugger off and, preferably, die.

Ahhh, I'm going to regret posting this. But that's what drunk is for.

(Note to readers who have no earthly clue what this is about: Barbelith. Morons. Bigots. Vent or asplode.)

Been getting a bad feeling about May 15th/16th, and don't know why. Guess we'll find out soon.

On the plus side, the free swimming pool opens again tommorrow. So, well, yay.

Premium content.

Writing's been going a bit better lately, but I haven't had anything accepted for a while. Leafing through the stuff on my hard-drive, I see that I've accumulated quite a chunk of Ericverse stuff. Much of what I've produced is sketchy, flaky, but could with an effort be pressed into service as part of a narrative; spoof ad copy, Ericverse news items, ect.

Trouble is, Ericverse-type stuff seems to leave editors cold (which is why I tend to post it straight to my Lj). So I've been thinking--how hard is it to make an e-book? Something people could download for a small fee (say about a pound a throw, with an option for the more generous to chip in extra). I was thinking of maybe creating some illustrations with GIMP and knocking the whole thing up as a PDF. The stuff on my Lj would stay where it was, but paying punters would get piccys, spellchecking, etc. Don't know anything about putting stuff on the web so people have to pay to look at it. Can't be too hard, though.

This is all just pie in the sky at the moment, but it couldn't hurt to find out more.

Quick heads up.

There's a new wave of the old PayPal scam doing the rounds. For those of you who haven't heard of this, it's called phishing: basically the scammer creates a fake PayPal lookalike site and sends out emails asking people to confirm their details. When you go to the link in the email, you are taken to not to the real PayPal site, but to the fake. If you enter your details they are then recored and stolen by the phisher, who can then rob you blind at his leisure.

The email I got came from "John Crossman" services@ssl2-paypal.com. Note the domain name; real PayPal emails will originate from Paypal.com, not somethingfake-paypal.com.

If you're suspicious, check the real paypal site. If think you've already given your details to a fake site, log on and change your password to be on the safe side. Don't forget to let PayPal know about the dodgy email.

Binkety.

Sweet cuppin' cakes, did I really just lower myself to getting in a squabble over whether the Protocols of the L. E. of Z. are fake or not? I have got to elevate my sights. Arguing over the Protocons is such a big fat waste of time. They're one of those things where you either look at it and think: "Holy cats, what a pile of dingleberries!" or you scratch the rash around your tinfoil beanie, sip your distilled water and pure grain alcohol, and nod thoughtfully. No middle ground. No point arguing, because Tinfoil Beanie will immediately file you under "Muggle" or, worse yet, decide that you're in league with the Elders and try to beat you to death with his sock puppets.

I would never have got involved but there was this one guy in the discussion who hadn't heard of the Protocons and seemed in danger of taking it all seriously; I sudenly wanted to cone the mess off in case any n00bs got wank on their tiny red wellies. I got all protective. It happens.

These anti-semite conspiracy theorists may be royally irritating, but if I take time out to tear every single one of them a new arsehole I'll be here all life. And probably several future lives.

Man, that would suck. I'm really looking forward to my cockroach incarnation. Ever since I can remember, people have been threatening me with the cockroach incarnation. What's so bad about being a cockroach? You can eat anything, you have so much ferrous material in your shell and so little fluid in your body that you can take a stroll round a microwave oven while it's on, you can survive nuclear wars... damn, the more I think about it, the more being cockroach sounds like the Karmic equivalent of a fortnight in Tenerife. Don't want to waste it bouncing around on the keyboard like Archy.

Anyway. My obsessive word of the moment is "binkety" and it is driving me nuts. I mean. "Binkety." I preferred the "fish people" episode, or even "sockiput in the ockiput" month. But it's been "binkety" for the last week.

I need to be de-binketied.


Update: Turns out this fool has form--he's all over the GNN boards with this drivel, and worse. Ho, hum. Sometimes it'd be nice to be wrong about people.

How are things in Gilead?

Hope you laydeez enjoy your new role as Handmaidens when Bush gets re-elected.

Paper.

Okay, so today I got my certificate--finally. I was elated for a couple of hours; kept on taking it out of the envelope and admiring it in all its naff yellowish glory. Then reality started to set in and I realised that the thin sliver of dead tree I had clutched in my hand was pretty much the only concrete thing I have to show for four years of my life.

Ah, the great taste of self-loathing.

Anyway, I shall doubtless reach some form of equilibrium eventually. I've already updated my CVs to include the information that I am the proud posessor of a Certificate of Higher Education.

Just one question: What the hell is a Certificate of Higher Education? Is it good? Does it actually mean anything? Can I have a job now?


In other news: Wouldn't you just love to send someone an "EVOLVE or DIE" greetings card?

Sold out.

Wow. Logged onto Zazzle just now and someone's actually bought one of the products in my Emporium of Negativity. I have $1.66 in my account. A whole shiny dollar and some pennies! What can I buy for $1.66, Mummy?

But there's a sting in the tail. For though I know that someone has bought something it is unclear what they purchaced. A handsome t-shirt? A poster? A greetings card? Was it one of my witty slogans, or a picture of a purple pepper? Oh, the uncertainty! I want to know what got bought so I can make more of it!

(Update: I located the product. I'm utterly perplexed. I mean, it's a t-shirt with two words on it. I don't expect people to buy this stuff, it's just fun to make.)

Lurid has a new anti-war piece up, with some very disturbing links.

Looking at those pictures of the humiliated and tortured Iraqi prisoners and their grinning American captors, two things came to mind. One was images of hunters and their kills: celebratory smiles, triumphant poses, anonymous, nonhuman flesh.

The other was the Stanford prison experiment.

These are not isolated incidents, the regrettable work of a few bad apples. These are snapshots of ongoing, insitutional brutality. They are happening in the context of a structure and heirachy that is giving its permission, even encouragement, to torture, sexual assault, and murder. And these are just the incidents that we get to hear about, remember. Imagine how many more stories go untold, how many more pictures don't get taken.

"Hey, crackhead!"

Via Cruel Site of the Day.

Book.

Regular stalkers will be aware that a few weeks back, I decided to write a fantasy novel for the online outfit. I came up with an idea, and a 30-point outline which I fleshed out. The outline now runs to about six A4 pages (it's handwritten with lots of crossing out, so I'm estimating here). I also have about 10,000 words written (most of which I will re-read in a month and then delete with a cry of horror, but still).

So. Uhhhh.... this novel-writing thing... how exactly do you go about it?


I mean, I have my outline, I'm 10,000+ words into my pile-o-shite first draft... and I'm sort of flapping about in the breeze. I feel like a five-year-old trying to steer a Harley. You sort of get writing, and it's chugging along fine, and then you read back everything you've done today in the context of everything you wrote on Tuesday, and the bits just don't match somehow. And you've spent 1000 words describing a tree or a table or a fish or summink, and then somewhere else you've had someone have their village destroyed by Dire Tapirs, find out they're the sole survivour of the F'Koop Clan and heir to their magic Stick O Doom ect, climb a big mountain, meet the party of rag-tag rebels who are going to Save The World At The Last Minute, and all that's happened in half a fucking page.

How do you write about climbing a mountain anyway? "There were rocks and they got cold and nearly fell off a couple of times. The end."

I suck.

Progress.

Good day yesterday. Went out to a nearby town and actually managed to get signed up with a temp agency. Untill quite recently, I'd been getting very short shrift from agencies, so I'm quite pleased. My Spanish remians pretty retarded but I suppose I'm making some progress.

So a big thanks to my floaty disembodied friends for helping me out. Yes, I'll do my LBRP more regularly in future. Yeeess, I promise to update your blog soon. Honest.

AUUGH! No, seriously, AUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHH

I am a huge moron and my brain is a big bowl of pudding. Like strawberry Instant Whip, something pink and wobbly like that.

Was just re-reading a story of mine, and discovered that this scene in it was basically identical to something I read online. I man, Iread the online story about two years or so back, and I've just re-read it recently. Then I read my story just now, and I realised that this scene was basically the same as the one in this online story. It's only a little thing, about two lines long, and it's not word for word or anything but still... AUGGGH. Mortified!

See, I fucking hate plagarists. They get on my tits. Fucking no-imagination-having, selfish, egotistical, Tarantino-invoking wankers who think that reading somethingis the same as writing it... killkillkill. And then I find I'm one of them. One of the pudding-brain leechzombies. Even though it was completely by accident, I'm now a gibbering paranoid wreck in case I've doen the same thing in any of my other pieces. And I can't check, because all my books are in London.

At least it's not a story I've submitted anywhere; no-one but me has even read it. Even so, I want the Earth to open up and swallow me.

Bruce Castor.

Because fridgemagent said so.

Work (again).

Okay. I really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really REALLY want a job now.

I'm used to sucky jobs so I guess I don't mind if I got something sucky, but I'd prefer something that tied in with my life in some way: writing, healing, electronics, arts, crafts, magick, books... that kind of thing. I need discarnate floaty help.

Spooky pervert Mah El: I promise to do like you suggested and vibrate your moniker as part of my tweaked LRPB. Will you fix me up with some non-insane-making work? Spooky pervert Rah May El... not quite sure how you'd like to be included in my rituals, but could you help me with my art and craftiness? I know that's your bag. Both of you guys: I need confidence to proceed. Lots of confidence. Please confidencify me forthwith.

Oh, and thanks for helping me contact my Uni today. I swear, those guys must be allergic to the telephone...

Shallow.

Okay, now this is odd.

Since the download which prompted that last entry, I've been visualizing my skull as a jewelled cup full of some viscous golden fluid, like nectar in a flower. During trancework using this visualization, I have percived entities sipping from the cup with long, curled butterfly tongues. They were unaffected by my shield, and I sensed no malignancy from them. "Benign" seems too small a word, as does "indifferent." They seemed vast, containing both creation and destruction as potentials. I get the feeling that they were well pleased with the offering.

The level of fluid in the skull-cup never falls, no matter what. In my trance-state I was surprised; they seemed amused that I would imagine that the level would fall, letting me know that the resource was infinite so long as I continued to offer it to the world. I do not yet know what the fluid represents, exactly.

In myself, I feel good. I had a low-energy thing at the beginning of the week, before I started the visualisations, but now I feel very peppy and invigorated.

That's not the odd part. The odd part is that I'm suddenly being poked to do a youth-spell. I've never had any real desire to do this in the past; whenever I've experienced anxiety about the effect of time on the ol' mortal coil, I've done workings for the acceptance of age. Apart from the occasional glamour to boost my confidence and workings to improve my health, I've never tried very hard to fight time or aging--it always seemed a little shallow to me. But now I find myself being given very clear signals that a youth working is my next step, along with detailed instructions as to how I should go about the working, what items I'll need and what I should do to prepare. There's no sense of pressure, more a sort of "come and play!" vibe.

I'll ask my guides and see what the pre-spell scry says. If it's favourable then I'm gonna go for it.

Resonances.

Hmm. Haven't done a proper magickal braindump for a while. Here's a message that's been slowly taking shape this week this week, as recorded in one of my magickal journals.



Clear and present:

I was complaining, as I do, about the lack of life in my mind; my state of drouth; my sense of senslessness; emotional unconsciousness.

Not quite ready to dare the cards, I retreated to the safety of the internet. I shifted up one level, wandered. Sure enough, the answer appears: Kapala, a skull-cup.

"To recieve one must have one's hands open." I seek always to drink, yet remain parched. The answer: I am not dessicated, merely stagnant. I attempt to be a sealed vessel, and no living thing is a sealed vessel. We are rivers. We must permit the flow of ourselves. I must offer up something; I must make of my skull a cup for Gods to sup from.

One must not fear hollowness. One shall be made new. One shall be filled anew, and be adorned with gold and brass and bronze. One shall be filled anew and made bright with precious stones. One shall be made very fine and a little terrible, like a gilded skull-cup.

Uppers.

Ramping up my excerciseousness and writey goodness, I find my energy levels could do with a boost. The obvious thing to do in a city just swimming with dance drugs would be to purchace some of said recreational pharmeceuticals and ingest, with hilarious consequences, yet I am loth to do this. I'm not getting any younger and I'd like to preserve a little of my fragile bone density (not to mention my fragile grip on reality).

No, I'm looking for something a bit less toxic, like ephedra or whatever. So far I've drawn a blank, though I've yet to hit the Chinese herbalists. There's always pseudoephedrine, but the most popular brand of pseudoephedrine-containting pills also has paracetamol, which I don't take unless I really need to.

Spain seems on the whole to take a much more relaxed attitude than the UK: shrooms seem to be legal here which is nice. I'm wondering if I couldn't get something a bit more efficacious that Sudafed over the counter here, but the internet is proving unhelpful. I can't very well stride into the pharmacy, collar the dude behind the counter and yell: "Déme las drogas del estimulante! Ahora! Déme LAS DROGAS!"

Or can I?

Volcano.

Had an excellent day Sunday. LA's work laid on an excursion for employees and parteners, so I went along. First we saw Besalú, a beautiful small town with some interestin historical features. Then we headed out to climb extinct volcanoes, which rocked. Jet-black and rust-red soil, pale trees and grasses clinging to dark cliffs. After that, we went to visit the Santuari del Far, which is right at the top of a mountain and commands some stunning views. It was awesome. This is an incredibly beautiful part of the world and I feel so, so lucky to be here.

The rest of this week has been a touch sucky, which is my own fault. I got a couple of rejections, and for some reason I allowed them to floor me. Ended up all mopey and lethargic and why-botherish. Things looked up when the University of Canned Fish sent me a note saying they'd got my money, but they haven't sent the bloody certificate so now I have to phone them up a-sodding-GAIN to find out what the hell they're playing at.

I realise this is my fault, I realise I should've sorted all this mess out back in the UK, but I just didn't have the stomach to write a cheque out to an organization that had shafted me so vigourously and so recently. I literally felt sick at the thought of giving them money. Funds were pretty damn tight back then, too.

Getting the cert. will be good for my head, I think. I mean, don't get me wrong, I appreciate what I have. I'm living in this wonderful place with a great bloke, and I know how lucky I am. But... the thing is, it's just that: Luck. Sheer dumb luck. Nothing I have right now was actually earned. I'm here because of Lurid's career, his hard work; I didn't do anything to earn it, it was just handed to me on a plate. I want to achieve something. I want to do something myself, ya know? I want one thing in my life that I can look at and say: "I made that."

And it's close, that success, that thing I'm reaching for. I can feel it. It gets closer every day.

Worlds.

Spent a sizeable chunk of this afternoon doing a heavy character exercise. I decided to write in the voice of a psychotic male supremacist, just as an excercise, just to see if I could "be" someone with a mindset so far from my own. I started out okay with some routine Sim-ian dissing of 'Feminazis' etc, but then the next thing I knew I'd written 600 words of this pretend psycho guy's manifesto, including paragraphs on the decriminalisation of rape and the re-introduction of Magdelen laundries. At that point I had to stop and go away and be me again. I'll finish it though: it'll do for my Lj.

One day I'm going to get so far into a character I won't come back. Hope it's someone awesome.

Been thinking a lot about something that happened on Thurs. Myself and LA were seeing LA's brother off at the bus station around midnight. About half an hour before his bus was due, we were approached by a sketchy bus station person. At first I thought the guy was begging for change, but it turned out he wanted coffee and didn't know how to work the machine. Not sure if he was illiterate or just had poor eyesight. Lurid helped him get a coffee, then he tried to give it to Lurid, and then he started talking to me in really mumbly Spanish. Only he kept calling me Theresa. I kept telling him my name, and telling him I couldn't understand Spanish very well, but he kept calling me Theresa and going on about other people, people this Theresa person knew. It was so sad, so eerie. In his world, I was Theresa; some freind or a family member playing this cruel mind game where she pretended not to understand him, not even to be Theresa.

We left him there, lost in that other world, alone.

WOW! moment.

And so we are indeed guided, are we? Sent wandering through the electric texts, reading on until the all the tumblers drop into place and the door swings open at a touch.

Obvious, really; but when on is distracted by something yet more obvious, even the obvious becomes occult.

However, I digress. This is the solution: If I can't do it, I have to find someone who can; if I can't find anyone, I must create them; and this achieved I must be them for a while.

Bingo. Thanks, guys.

Hmmm...

Bit of a hiatus these last couple of days. I'm working, of course, but I've been doing outlines and research and stuff rather than completing anything. Must get something finished over the weekend. I've been really productive lately, but don't want to fall back into bad habits. Submitting something soon would be good for my head, too: had a rather mopey day yesterday, thinking about the no-job thing, all the stuff I want to do and can't because I have no money. Blargh. Feels like I'm in the same place I was last year; I mean, I know, rationally, that this is incorrect, that I have made progress. In fact I have made, on the whole, excellent use of my time, ramping up the writing output and improving other areas.

The magick, though, I've been letting that slide lately and that's not good. I'm on a very basic level of functionality there: meditate, ground, cleanse, shield, journal, moisturize. Been letting the meatier bits slide. Bad, very bad; from past experience, if I slack off then the Universe Space dumps some big magickal challenge into my ample lap, then stands there grinning and going "Bet you wish you'd worked a bit harder now, don't you?" I need to recover the kind of enthusiasm for magick that I had when I was a kid, the WOW! factor. I need a boost.

Yo! Spooky people! BOOST me!

More ranting.

I've had people visiting/stopping over and stuff. Was fun, and a much-needed distraction from the continuing bloodbath in Iraq.

Here's a piece on Falluja from today's Grauniad.

It's unbelivable. I keep expecting to wake up, like this is all a nightmare. What the hell is going on? Who the FUCK is running this show, Judge Death? "The crimmee isss lifffeee... the sssenntencce issss DEAAAATHHHH!"

There's ten thousand civilians dead now. Ten thousand. We're blowing up SCOOLS AND HOSPITALS. Why? We're told that this has to be done n the hopes of picking off a few terrorists. Yeah, right. These are punitive attacks, group punishment inflicted by an increasingly dehumanised occupying force.

Maybe I'm not a military tactician but it seems to me that this is not how you get rid of a terrorist militia. Look, when you turn someone's fucking family into a bloody pile of dismembered limbs, you CREATE MORE TERRORISTS. Get that?

When you destroy all the things that keep people alive inside, that keep them hopeful, all the things that make a future: home, family, freinds, community--what the hell do you think that does? How the hell do you expect them to react? You think they're going to roll over and play dead? No! They're going to pick up a gun, strap on a dynamite vest, and take as many of you with them as they can.

And no, before you start, this is not a defence of terrorism. There is no defence for terrorism, whether perpetrated by small groups or by superpowers.

Aaa-HA!

Thought you could hide from me, did you? Thought to conceal your true identity behind a mask of dissemblance! But no-one hides from Sherlock Carnival--no one! Especially not Ophrys Fusca!

Mystery.

Can't find my orchids' name anywhere! I found some in my Spanish flora book that looked a lot like them, but not quite the same ones. I'm well chuffed tho', I love having little projects like this. It's going to be fun Sherlocking around flower sites.

On the writing front, I have little news. Another of my stories got rejected, but I just punted it out again somewhere else. My approach at the moment is to always be looking for the next market I'm going to submit a story to. Send a piece off to zine A, then go and look for zine B, so that when zine A gives you the cold shoulder you just shunt the work off to zine B--and immediately start shopping for zine C. That way I can keep my turn-around as short as possible (and stay positive).

I also had an idea for a killer short today and did quite a bit of work on it. So I'm in a pretty good mood, all in all. (I'd be in an even better mood if a certain pair of disembodied types would fix it for me to actually sell summink. Like, soon, please?)

PS: Ever wanted to install Linux on a dead badger? Here's how! Installing Linux on a Dead Badger: User's Notes

I wish I could write stuff like that.

Flowers.

Dammit, frikken frakken Holy Week has caught me on the hop again. Everything shuts down for Holy Week here. I have no beer, nor any way of getting beer that doesn't involve taking a train. Really. Everything is shut round here: the bar, the shops, the caff, everything.

However, I am not as whiny and bad-moody as I might be, coz yesterday I discovered--ORCHIDS! Yes! Real live wild orchids, growing along the road down to the station. I'm so happy! Not quite sure what species they are yet. They were sooo pretty and exotic, with dark purple and green petals.

Gonna go and look at pix of orchids now, see if I can find out what they're called so I can brag properly.

!!!!1!!

Went out last night w/Lurid A. Stopped off in Gracia for falafels etc. and then on to a bar. Our intention was to go to the Intercambio they hold there, but by the time we got to the pub everyone had gone. There'd been a crowd of British soccer fans in, apparently, and everyone had been scared off.

I hate the British. Loud, obnoxious, rude, aggressive boozehounds, the lot of them. And we have the nerve to have a go at American tourists! When's the last time you saw an American barfing Special Brew into a wheely-bin at two o'clock on a Sunday lunchtime?

Feeling a little bleak today. The writing was going badly, and then the laptop started playing up so badly that myself and Lurid decided to do a clean install. I wanted Linux, but for some reason the laptop wouldn't boot from the Red Hat CDs so I'm stuck with bloody Windoze 98.

I want a proper operating system! Raggghhh!

And I was in one of those foul moods where every little hitch is a Sign from Above that you are rubbish and should just pack it in. And I'm still writing tosh. And my legs hurt because I strained them defrosting the fridge (don't ask). And there's no mixer left. And... Well, I've run out of stuff to complain about for now.

As a bit of contrast to my whining, I'd like to call your attention to Cancergiggles, which turned up in my comments the other day along with some much-appreciated encouragement. It's a blog about living with cancer, really well-written and genuinely funny.

Scribble scribble scribble, tappety tappety tap.

Just over 5000 words into the Other Novel. One small problem: they are 5000 words of SUCK. Suckitude doesn't cover it. It's a suckgasm. A tornado of suction. Waahh. Re-reading it today, I got so depressed. It was so bad I took most of the day off and defrosted the fridge.

All I want is to make the same amount of money out of writing that I could make mopping floors. That's all I'm trying for at the moment. I don't have fantasies about walking into FNAC and seeing shelvesful of the latest Mordant Carnival; I don't dream of signing autographs or Being Famous. I don't even give a shit if I have to work 16 hour days to make the same money I was getting for 8 hours as a cleaning lady. I just want to do what I do, this one thing that I reckon I'm good at. That's all.

It's not a big ask.

The ringleader of the Madrid attacks is dead.

He and three other suicide bombers died yesterday morning, when they blew themselves up as police closed in on their lair.

They had other explosives all set up for future attacks.

You'd think I'd be glad that at least now those people won't be planting any more bombs, but all I can think is: Why? How does someone do that? What processes does someone have to go through in hir mind to make it okay to inflict the horrible carnage we saw in March? What the hell did they hope to achieve?

I will never understand terrorism any more than I understand war. Any more than I properly understand how other people made it okay in their minds to invade Iraq, when they knew, or might reasonably be expected to know, what the consequences of that would be.

I have increasingly little hope for this species.

Breath.

I am an asthmatic. Have been, since I was five. A quarter of a century later, I am still fighting for breath.

It's funny: whenever you read a book or watch a film with an asthmatic character, the asthmo always has some kind of emotional problem. They're never really sick; they just have parents who're over-protective, or abusive, or whatever. They take pills or inhalers to feel better, and it's this whole big thing until someone comes along and shows them that all their problems are In Their Mind (TM), and then they get better.

I beg to differ. I do so in a very sarcastic tone of voice, just so's you know.

One of these days, I'll explain what "asthmatic" actually means in very little words so's you made-for-TV-film making chowderbrains can get it right.

Right now: I can still breath. It's not easy. I have to fight. I can't forget about it and just let it happen. I have to do breathing. Like writing; like painting in oils; like having a baby; like baking a cake. Like making love. Some are easier than others, but all of them have this in common: They don't just happen. You have to do them. Right here, right now, I have to do breathing.

Breathing in is easy. The problem with ashtma is breathing out. That's an effort. Your lungs suck in air easily; it's pushing it out that takes effort. Masseurs note that asthmatics have a signiature: a roll of muscle across their back.

I'm fighting. Demons. PHLEGM DEMONS!

Linky.

eBooks'n'Bytes list of featured ePublishers currently accepting submissions.

I've been reading some sample chapters (where available) to get a feel of what 's likely to go down well, and I'm pretty optimistic. I have one outline and a first chapter that would fit the bill of a couple of e-publishers perfectly. Mind you, I can't use this as an excuse to slack off on my short stories.

Potboiler.

Have begun conducting a feasibility study into writing novel-lenth pieces for the online market. Got a couple of promising fantasy outlines worked out already, and I think I could easily stay the course if I decided to sit down and write a novel. Not The Dreaded Novel, of course (I doubt I'll finish that this side of 2012) but something more unassuming, a straightforward sword'n'sworcery bosh.

Could I work on a novel and keep my short fiction output up to a reasonable level (bearing in mind that until I find work, my short fics are my sole source of income)? Yes, I think I could. I've been slowly ramping my output up over the months, and tho' I have dry spots they are of short duration and frequency. If I worked on the novel in the mornings, say, and focused on the short fic in the afternoons and evenings, I could have a first draft done by autumn/winter.

Could I produce a work of acceptable quality? Again, yes, I belive I could. My writing has improved dramatically in the last year, largely because I've had bugger all else to do all day.

So I'm casing the e-book joint: looking to see where they keep the silverware and if key gets left the back door while they're out shopping. What's the market like, who's paying well, etc. I'll bung up some links when I have more info.

MaxSpeak, You Listen!

This is good. This is going in my sidebar, next time I get round to futzing with it.

Resubmitted that rejected story to another mag. I'm trying to keep my resubmission times as low as I can right now; a day or two, long enough to reassess the story and make any necessary alterations before finding it another market. In the past there's been a tendency for me to bury anything that got rejected and never even look at it again for months. That's bad. It's negative, self-defeating and... well, fucking wet, frankly. So I'm getting back on the proverbial equine quadroped as rapidly as I can.

Anyhow, I need to finish some more stuff to send out before the weekend. My brain is not in fiction mode right now so I'm going to dig around my poetry files and see if I don't have anything worth punting out.

My immediate goal is keep it so that I have a minimum of five pieces under consideration at all times. I want to raise that to ten pieces before July; a modest goal.

Beef stew.

My imagination is broken.

Look, this is ridiculous. My stupid infection won't go away and it's stopping me from doing anything to write about on my blog.

Why am I sick anyway? I haven't done anything sickmaking. No going out clubbing with an insufficiently insulated chest, no persian rugs; I haven't cursed anyone for years, so it's not that.

My sleep is shot and it's taken my frikking writing with it. I mean, my output hasn't gone down (much), but it's just not as good. Maybe I shouldn't have kept plugging away at that stupid story the way I did. I got it finished but now I'm all fed up of writing because I got so bored. Blargh. Anyway it's finished now. Trouble is, none of my other writing projects is any healthier: gawdawful sword'n'sorcery short, couple of Forteany things, some lukewarm SMUT and this thing about people from another world living in London, which is never going to work in a million years but which I can't get out of my stupid head.

Stupid writing. Words are evil.

Oh, and I got a rejection today for a story I was really hopeful about, and which is utterly unsuitable for anywhere exept the ezine that rejected it. Blargh.

Yuuuck.

Man, this is no fun at all, but I'm on the mend. Well enough to go into a nearby town to do a bit of shopping, anyhoo, which was a relief. I get stir-crazy if I have to stay indoors. Gonna go out running tommorow, if the weather's okay.

Asked the guides what the heck was going on with this whole grotty infection business; apparently it's some sort of house-cleaning, and I'll be fitter afterwards, and blah blah blah. They also gave me a pi-jaw about my diet.

I have another big rant brewing about the increasingly hysterical and braindead comment in the blogosphere regarding the Spanish election result and the new regime's decision to pull out their troops from Iraq, but I just don't have the energy today.

Instead I've got this stupid short story to finish. It sucks--the ideas weak and the pace is off, but I have to get it finished. If I get it finished I'll be able to go back in a week and panel-beat the damn thing into some kind of shape, whereas if I can it now and work on something else, I'll probably never get around to sorting it out. God, I'm sick of it though.

I'm still sick.

And I blame you. Seriously, this is no fun at all. I'm missing my healer's meet today because of my cruddy chest (Oh, the irony). I was sick as a dog yesterday and got no bloody sleep.

Fix me. Fix me or I will harm you.

Coat.

Man, you people. It's just not working out, you know? As you Supreme Dark Ruler I need my acolytes to be actively involved in promoting my reign of terror, and you petty mortals just aren't pulling your weight. You aren't traking down gems of power, magicial rings, wands, or even volumes of forbidden lore for me; you aren't even making sacrifices to the Forces of Darkness for my greater power. Oh, don't try to deny it. If you were making even tiny sacrifices to the Forces of Darkness have been coughing up this yechhy stuff for the last two days.

Now shape up, or I'll feed you to the mutant cyborg piranahs.

I need to fix my coat again. It's still cool enough in the evenings that I can sweep about in a trenchie--or rather I could, were my trenchie not so fucked. The last lot of repairs caved in and have left me bereft of my big ol' PVC coat. *sob!*
I've given up trying to restore it to something like its former condition. I can't duplicate the original surface, no matter how I try, and am instead planning to settle for a more varied texture.

I was in La Bosc de Fades the other night with Lurid, and they had these wicked floor to ceiling curtains mae of--check this out--CHAIN MAIL! How cool is that? It wasn't ring-mail, then links were more like Z-shaped. It was gorgeous. I kept playing with it all the time I was sat there, and now I am consumed with an unrequietable desire to have a coat made out of the same stuff. Course, I'm never going to be able to afford something like that... but I'm wondering if I couldn't at least suggest a similar effect in places on my trenchie, for example on the front corners and places where the plastic has worn off. I'm thinking a kind of applìque, but with chains, fine ones but not too fine. Dunno where I'm going to find the right kind of chain. Will check out some hardware places later.

Chomsk's new blog

Fantastic! Noam Chomsky has joined the blogosphere.

Damn.

It's half-eleven, I'm already shagged out, and I've really got to finish this damn story by the morning. Got got got. Or I will cordially hate myself all day tomorrow.

Why do I respect self-imposed deadlines more than the externally imposed variety? I mean, I can certainly work to externally imposed deadlines, even blatanly ludicrous, pulled-out-of-a-manager's-earhole deadlines. I just don't get all emotional about it.

Random linkies...

TRAPPED BY UNDEAD, NEED HELP
(Via Flowers)

The Killer Gerbil
(Via blogger's "recently updated" list)

Poetryfox.com
(Via Ralan.com)

Run.

Started running again today, for the 3rd time this year. The last couple of times I got thwarted by a bashed toe and then a yuckky chest. I felt okay while I was doing it, but now I'm coughing up... you don't want to know. I reckon I have a week or so of coughing up this goo and then I'll be clear, and things will get easier. Doing the Breath of Fire excercise to help things along a bit.

I have to keep moving. When I stop moving, I get aches and pains and sundry annoyances: my right side cramps, my lungs fill up with crap. When I stop moving, things break down.

I'm having some trouble placing one of my fics. It's a light fantasy piece about a dad dragon giving a pi-jaw to his dragon son, and I just can't seem to settle it anywhere. I'm only submitting to pro markets at the moment, on principle.

Finished a poem last night; God knows who'll buy it, it's pretty bleak. No new stories tho'. I hate it when I don't finish a story for a couple of days coz I feel like I'm losing momentum, winding down. Falling behind. Rolling back to where I was a couple of years ago, when I was finishing one piece every few months, if that. I must finish something tomorrow. I have to keep on finishing, submitting, revising, rewriting, resubmitting.

I have to keep moving, or things break down.

Gnarrgh.

Bunnies. Fluffy bunnies.

Goddammit--why isn't there a 12-step programme for giving up passive-aggression? Specifically, that form of passive aggression which involves going off into one on your weblog about something someone said on a message board.

Miniature goats. Teeny little miniature goats, the ones that only come up to your knees.

I used to do that all the time, but I've been sober from it for about a year (I think), because I realised just how hurtful (not to mention bloody irritating) it can be.

Tapirs! Yay for tapirs! Exotic wuffles.

But I am sooo tempted to fall off the wagon right now, because an unwitting finger has poinked one of my buttons. And the worst of it is, I genuinely like the person doing the poinking and would bitterly regret tearing hir a new one.

Kittens. Of course.

I don't know why that makes it harder.

Tiny Shetland pony foals with weebly-woobly legs. Ring-tailed lemurs. Pipistrelles. Hedgehogs. Leeetle baby fox-cubs.

God, I'm so fucking petty.

Oi! Spooky perverts!

I've been cracking the keyboard all day, but I seem to have run out of ideas. Zap me, please.

Also: When the current stack of cats-in-a-box collapse their precious little waveforms, could there be just one or two kitties still feet-down instead of feet up? Ta.

No a la guerra

Piled out to the manifestación yesterday with Lurid A. It was pretty big; the Beeb say 200,000 but I'm betting it was more. Great atmosphere, as usual: floats, lavish home-made banners, samba music, kiddies in face-paint. It's really cute to see a whole family marching together, parents, grandparents, kids, all chanting in unison.
My fave costume? The seven-foot tall blue alien with the "PAZ UNIVERSALE" placard.

It was a festive atmosphere, but there was an edge of sorrow there too. Many people had added black ribbons to their anti-war banners; one man carried a placard that simply showed the black memorial ribbon with MADRID written below it and BAGDAD above. There was a great deal of anger, too, much of it directed to the recently-ousted Aznar.

I'm impressed by the peaceful nature of Spanish protests, as well as the high turn-outs. The police prescence was microscopic, not like back home. (Honestly, I've been on marches where the protesters were outnumbered two to one by the old Bill.)

Later we met a couple of friends for a meal in Barceloneta and then walked along the beach. There were a few protesters camped out in sleeping bags and tents, votive candles burning next to a placard remembering the dead of Madrid.

I found the culprit.

It was Wordpad. Eeeeeevil Wordpad.

Amongst other annoying glitches, wordpad is possessed by the Demons of 10ptyness. When you open your file in Wordpad it is automatically downsized from 10 to 12, which you don't notice because you're on the laptop and so inadvertantly piss off good and deserving editors with your teenytiny letters.

I say FIE unto Wordpad. How much FIE? Enough FIE that I have banished it from my toolbar in favour of a freeware wordprocessor called AbiWord. It's as shaky as Heck, tries to load a nonexistant dictionary every time you open a file, and crashes altogether if you try to use the Help... and yet strangely it still sux0rz less than bloody Wordpad. I'm running Star Office over on the big 'puter, of course, but Lurid needs that to shoot Klingons.

Edit: I've just resubmitted the story that got rejected yesterday to a different market. The ed. of the rejecting zine was right: the ending was too weak. I've altered it, and I think the story as a whole works way better now.

Dealing with rejection.

Okay, make that four bits in the post. Just got a rejection from one of the places I sent stuff off to yesterday.

I am sooooo pissed off. Not with the rejection, I mean, that's fair enough. But somewhere along the line, my attachment got reformatted down from 12 to 10 pt. font. 10 pt? What the fuck? I KNOW I formatted that bastard properly! I've been doing this since I was a kid! Double line space, single side, TWELVE POINT COURIER! How could this happen to me? Oh, the shame! The indignity! The helpful little note from the asst. ed. with a link to a writer's help site! AUUUUUUUUUUGHHHH!

How will I ever live this down?

Okay. Calm now.

Well, no, I'm not even a tiny bit calm, I'm still pissed off, but I'm all ranted out for now so I'll just whine about how hard it is to be a writahhhh for a bit.

Except that I can't, coz right now things are coming pretty well. I've been working pretty hard this past week, finished three new stories, and tarted up four old storys that I wrote some years back but never submitted anywhere. I submitted three pieces of short fiction to 3 zines, two pro and one semi-pro, which makes 4 bits in the post if you count my entry for the McSweeny prize. I also have a piece ready to send out to TSR (finally!) which I should do tomorrow. That'll clear the decks, leaving me to finish some more works which I've outlined but haven't filled in yet. Two high fantasy, one sorta Fortean-y thing. They shouldn't really take me longer than a week to finish, barring the tedious proofreading etc.

Realistically I need to keep that kind of pace up every week if I want to get anywhere with this. I want to be selling a piece to a pro market, a market that pays 3 cents a word minimum, every week. That's not so crazy. There are a lot of markets out there nowadays and I am writing faster and better than I ever have in my life.

Rummaging around the wonderful Ralan.com I've turned up some promising pro markets. Check it out.

Edit: Make that five bits in the post. It's all quality stuff too. You can hate me now, that's what I'm here for.

Roll over.

It looks a lot like Aznar and friends played up ETA's involvement for political gain, but then "Aznar is a complete git who'd sell his own granny to keep the PP in power" is hardly news round here.

I think we've all worked out by now that ETA was not soley responsible for last Thursday's atrocity (tho' not for want of trying). Most of the evidence now points to Al Qaeda, with maybe a side order of ETA. TBH, I didn't want to belive it myself, because I know damn well that out head honchos will most likely use this as an excuse to clamp down even more harshly on our civil rights.

But that's not what I want to talk about right now. Right now I have a very special message for the (largely) right-wing pro-war lobby, in respect of their comments on the Spanish election result. Obviously this is a complex issue, one which needs a sensitive and even handed approach, showing due regard to both sides, but then there's this whole part where the r-w, p-w all suck and need to be sworn at a very lot.

FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU YOU POINTLESS, POINTLESS, POINTLESS FUCKING BASTARDS! YOU KNOW NOTHING! YOU ARE NOTHING! YOU INSULT THE LIVING AND THE DEAD WITH YOUR WORTHLESS BITCHING! SO YOU DIDN'T GET THE ELECTION RESULT YOU WANTED -- BOO FUCKING HOO! CHOKE ON PROPER DEMOCRACY! HARRRGH!

That doesn't mean you get to attack the people of Spain, you ignorant, souless gits. Oh, I'm so terribly sorry that having FUCKING BOMBS GO OFF IN THEIR CAPITAL made more people turn out to vote than might otherwise have done so. I'm so fucking sorry you saw a guy in a 'Palestine scarf' in one of the photos. Jeeze, that must have been hard on you. I'm so fucking sorry that Spain as a whole decided it was sick of the taste of DUBYA'S RIM, and decided that Hey, maybe we should vote in someone with less of an appetite for bushmeat.

Oh, yeah. The Spanish voted in someone you didn't like, so they must have been "scared." I suppose they were also scared when they took to the streets to tell the terrorists to fuck off. I suppose they were scared when they piled, man and boy, woman and girl, into easily bombable public spaces. I suppose they were scared when they chanted anti-terrorist slogans.

I suppose, right, they were fucking scared when they buried their kids and then stumbled weeping from the graveside to vote in the election. I guess they were scared then, yeah?

God, you unfeeling, spiteful, ignorant, self-satisfied, pompous, narcisstic WANKERS. I hope you never lose anyone to a terroist attack. You lack anything like the emotional maturity to deal with it. These people have more fucking guts in there little fingers that you Tory hack SCUM WILL EVER HAVE in your ENTIRE BODIES.

I love Spain. I really love Catalunya. I'd raise a kid here, and that's saying something.

ps: "Appeasement" is not a magic word. Saying "appeasement" a lot does not make you be suddenly be right.

PPS: Democracy's a bitch when it ain't your democracy, innit?

Bleh.

Had a fit last night. First one for ages, so it came as a bit of a surprize. Hell if I know what brought it on; I was working pretty hard yesterday so maybe it was that.

Bleh.