The Deluge Device has slowed down a little, but he's still at it.
Go Ja-son! Go Ja-son! Go Ja-son!
Saturday, August 31, 2002
Blecch.
No proper updates over the last few days. The bug I came down with on Tuesday turned out to be a bit more serious than I thought. I went into work on Wednesday, which was really clever, because the next day I was even worse. I'm starting to pull out of it now. (I hope.)
What all this means, of course, is that I'm only going to get a single day's pay for the whole of last week: about thirty-five quid. Yippee skip.
I'm sick of this. I'm really sick of this. I'm sick of the fact that after I've worked and fought to make something of myself I'm still here, in this lousy job, in this lousy life. I'm sick of being stuck here and watching the bastards that sail past me with all the rewards, everything I've never had, everything I'll never get.
I mean, there has to be a reason I'm still in this mess, right? You have a little talent, you work hard, you make it. Or you get something, anything. So it must be me. It must be. I'm not good enough, or persistant enough, or whatever.
I finished another story a couple of nights back. I've been trying to get enough enthusiasm together to send it off and I can't. I just don't care anymore. I mean, what was I thinking? People like me, we don't make it. Nobody's interested in what a half-bright chick with a demi-education and a comedy medical condition has to say.
No proper updates over the last few days. The bug I came down with on Tuesday turned out to be a bit more serious than I thought. I went into work on Wednesday, which was really clever, because the next day I was even worse. I'm starting to pull out of it now. (I hope.)
What all this means, of course, is that I'm only going to get a single day's pay for the whole of last week: about thirty-five quid. Yippee skip.
I'm sick of this. I'm really sick of this. I'm sick of the fact that after I've worked and fought to make something of myself I'm still here, in this lousy job, in this lousy life. I'm sick of being stuck here and watching the bastards that sail past me with all the rewards, everything I've never had, everything I'll never get.
I mean, there has to be a reason I'm still in this mess, right? You have a little talent, you work hard, you make it. Or you get something, anything. So it must be me. It must be. I'm not good enough, or persistant enough, or whatever.
I finished another story a couple of nights back. I've been trying to get enough enthusiasm together to send it off and I can't. I just don't care anymore. I mean, what was I thinking? People like me, we don't make it. Nobody's interested in what a half-bright chick with a demi-education and a comedy medical condition has to say.
Friday, August 30, 2002
Thursday, August 29, 2002
Go here! The Deluge Device is a blog owned by Jason Louv. Saith he, on the Barbelith Underground:
Stream-of-conciousness rocks.
I've been going into hyper blog-mode, posting every couple of hours with masses of spontaneously generated theory and commentary, trying to arrive at some kind of Statement of My Generation.
Go check it out, and check it out, and check it out again! My aim is to do the digital version of Harlan Ellison writing a story in a shop window and continually sticking typewritten pages up on the glass.
Stream-of-conciousness rocks.
Tuesday, August 27, 2002
Potential babies.
My friend R. had a miscarriage awhile back. She told me something about it. I asked if I could tell you guys. She said yes.
R. was in the third month of her pregnancy when an ultrasound scan revealed that the fetus was dead. It was about two months old, meaning that she had been carrying a dead baby inside her for a month.
Like a lot of pregnancies it was unplanned, but not unwanted. R is in a relationship and her circumstances are such that a baby would cause radical upheaval, but not disaster. She adjusted to the idea and announced her pregnancy, the news being greeted with approval and enthusiasm by her family and peers. She described to me a sense of having attained something important in the eyes of society, of having passed through a vital rite of passage. She was to become A Mother.
When she miscarried, the support somehow dried up.
Miscarriage is so common that the medical profession generally doesn't investigate the cause until the woman has lost her third baby. The most conservative estimates have about one in every five Western women miscarrying at some point in their reproductive lives, whilst others suggest that one in four might be nearer the mark. Superficially the figures suggest a rise in recent years, but any number of factors might affect the number of reported miscarriages, most notably the increased availability and accuracy of pregnancy testing.
Some miscarriages are heralded by bleeding or other symptoms, while some occur so early in the pregnacy that they might be mistaken for a heavy period. The fetus may have been dead for a considerable amount of time. Sometimes there's a discernable cause, but mostly there isn't; the embryo may not be viable, or it might not have implanted properly in the womb lining. It's complicated, and there is more myth floating around than there is truth. Society at present tends to blame the woman: there's an assumption that she must have dome something wrong. There seems to be an ever-expanding list of things that an expectant mother can do wrong.
The experience can be devastating, whatever the mother's age, however many children she already has. For R., the whole thing was compounded by the lack of empathy shown by many of the people who she turned to for emotional support. The way she tells it, she saw the miscarriage as a lost child but her friends saw it as a non-event. What was she grieving for, exactly?
I think this is partly down to the fact that a lot of women from R.'s generation (which is also mine) take a strangely black-and-white view of pregnancy. If we're okay with the concept of a woman aborting a three-month fetus, why should we respond to a miscarriage occuring at a similar stage in pregnancy as the loss of a baby?
Intent, my friends. It's all about intent. R. intended that her pregnancy should go to term. She intended to have a baby, to become a mother, that her potential baby should become actual.
We live in an age where a lot of absolutes, a lot of distinctions, are disappearing. Uncertainty and moral confusion are the order of the day, and nowhere do we see this more clearly than in the matter of pregnancy. Technology has advanced to the point where one can abort a fetus almost as old as the youngest viable premature baby. We have to stop looking to the external for all our definitions, and start to create our own. We have to realise that we can support a woman who ends her pregnancy by choice, and yet still have a place for the grief felt by R.
My friend R. had a miscarriage awhile back. She told me something about it. I asked if I could tell you guys. She said yes.
R. was in the third month of her pregnancy when an ultrasound scan revealed that the fetus was dead. It was about two months old, meaning that she had been carrying a dead baby inside her for a month.
Like a lot of pregnancies it was unplanned, but not unwanted. R is in a relationship and her circumstances are such that a baby would cause radical upheaval, but not disaster. She adjusted to the idea and announced her pregnancy, the news being greeted with approval and enthusiasm by her family and peers. She described to me a sense of having attained something important in the eyes of society, of having passed through a vital rite of passage. She was to become A Mother.
When she miscarried, the support somehow dried up.
Miscarriage is so common that the medical profession generally doesn't investigate the cause until the woman has lost her third baby. The most conservative estimates have about one in every five Western women miscarrying at some point in their reproductive lives, whilst others suggest that one in four might be nearer the mark. Superficially the figures suggest a rise in recent years, but any number of factors might affect the number of reported miscarriages, most notably the increased availability and accuracy of pregnancy testing.
Some miscarriages are heralded by bleeding or other symptoms, while some occur so early in the pregnacy that they might be mistaken for a heavy period. The fetus may have been dead for a considerable amount of time. Sometimes there's a discernable cause, but mostly there isn't; the embryo may not be viable, or it might not have implanted properly in the womb lining. It's complicated, and there is more myth floating around than there is truth. Society at present tends to blame the woman: there's an assumption that she must have dome something wrong. There seems to be an ever-expanding list of things that an expectant mother can do wrong.
The experience can be devastating, whatever the mother's age, however many children she already has. For R., the whole thing was compounded by the lack of empathy shown by many of the people who she turned to for emotional support. The way she tells it, she saw the miscarriage as a lost child but her friends saw it as a non-event. What was she grieving for, exactly?
I think this is partly down to the fact that a lot of women from R.'s generation (which is also mine) take a strangely black-and-white view of pregnancy. If we're okay with the concept of a woman aborting a three-month fetus, why should we respond to a miscarriage occuring at a similar stage in pregnancy as the loss of a baby?
Intent, my friends. It's all about intent. R. intended that her pregnancy should go to term. She intended to have a baby, to become a mother, that her potential baby should become actual.
We live in an age where a lot of absolutes, a lot of distinctions, are disappearing. Uncertainty and moral confusion are the order of the day, and nowhere do we see this more clearly than in the matter of pregnancy. Technology has advanced to the point where one can abort a fetus almost as old as the youngest viable premature baby. We have to stop looking to the external for all our definitions, and start to create our own. We have to realise that we can support a woman who ends her pregnancy by choice, and yet still have a place for the grief felt by R.
Saturday, August 24, 2002
Back on form.
Been a bit shaky recently, but I had a great time last night writing a little yarn on the laptop; one of those times when you're in the zone and everything just falls into place. I hope to finish it today or tomorrow, and then punt it out this coming week. So, yeah. Good. And my breathing/throat problems seem to be lifting, so I will be able to start singing again. w00t! Time to dig out the 4-track!
Also I've decided to become a superhero. I'm going to develop psionic powers and do cool stuff with 'em.
Been a bit shaky recently, but I had a great time last night writing a little yarn on the laptop; one of those times when you're in the zone and everything just falls into place. I hope to finish it today or tomorrow, and then punt it out this coming week. So, yeah. Good. And my breathing/throat problems seem to be lifting, so I will be able to start singing again. w00t! Time to dig out the 4-track!
Also I've decided to become a superhero. I'm going to develop psionic powers and do cool stuff with 'em.
From Betty Woo (currently woozilla!)'s LiveJournal
"I think the Gothic Short Bus stopped here tonight."
I have got to remember that one.
"I think the Gothic Short Bus stopped here tonight."
I have got to remember that one.
Friday, August 23, 2002
Can you see my sidebar?
Apparently some folk with Netscape 6 are having probs viewing this page. If it looks odd to you, would you be a love and email me? Ta.
Apparently some folk with Netscape 6 are having probs viewing this page. If it looks odd to you, would you be a love and email me? Ta.
Wednesday, August 21, 2002
Oh, yeah...
For those of you messed up in the head enough to care: my putative novel is a fantasy yarn, but with this, like, rilly rilly feminist angle, yeah? It's got this rilly rilly strong female lead. She won't let you touch her tits with your claw unless you give her a magic sword first. So there.
For those of you messed up in the head enough to care: my putative novel is a fantasy yarn, but with this, like, rilly rilly feminist angle, yeah? It's got this rilly rilly strong female lead. She won't let you touch her tits with your claw unless you give her a magic sword first. So there.
The oncoming train
I have got to stop messing about and get some serious writing done. Partly this is due to the fact that if I don't I'm going to rupture something, but I have to confess that a lot of my current drive is down to the fact that I cannot carry on in my current existance much longer before I start wearing my knickers on my head and talking to a luminous orange pixie called Mildred.
I know, I know-- I shouldn't complain so much. It could be (and has been) a hell of a lot worse. But, dear morons, I spent seven-and-three-quarter hours today in an underventilated work space with not enough chairs, putting bloody silver pendants onto bloody plastic cards. I must have done about five thousand of those suckers. And then there's the flat; I like it here, but the place is falling down around my ears. The latest disaster is the bathroom ceiling: it's riddled with dry rot and will need to be ripped out and replaced. I mean, there is scaffolding in my bathroom that is holding up the ceiling.
This unnerves me somewhat.
Typical of these Victorian terraces-- oh, sure, they look picturesque, but the renovation is a nightmare. My landlord is a great bloke but he gets all the repairs done on the cheap, which means that nothing ever stays repaired for long. I don't know what the hell's going to happen if me and Mandy have to vacate while the work's being done. I'm just sick to death of the cheap rented places that I've lived in ever since I left home. I'm sick of the insecurity, I'm sick of the half-baked repair work, I'm sick of it all.
It's time I got myself dug in behind the keyboard to get some serious work done. I'm still tweaking a couple of articles that have, to all intents and purposes, been finished for weeks-- I just can't bear to stop fiddling with them and punt them out. That kind of thing has to stop. On the plus side, I finally bit the bullet and started work on a novel that I've been laying groundwork for over the last few months. It's going to be hard work, but potentially it is a very strong story.
Since all my other avenues have been cut off, I must get my writing career underway. I must get out of this life, or at least have some hope that I might get out of it one day. I need a to see a light at the end of this tunnel. Even an orange one called Mildred.
I have got to stop messing about and get some serious writing done. Partly this is due to the fact that if I don't I'm going to rupture something, but I have to confess that a lot of my current drive is down to the fact that I cannot carry on in my current existance much longer before I start wearing my knickers on my head and talking to a luminous orange pixie called Mildred.
I know, I know-- I shouldn't complain so much. It could be (and has been) a hell of a lot worse. But, dear morons, I spent seven-and-three-quarter hours today in an underventilated work space with not enough chairs, putting bloody silver pendants onto bloody plastic cards. I must have done about five thousand of those suckers. And then there's the flat; I like it here, but the place is falling down around my ears. The latest disaster is the bathroom ceiling: it's riddled with dry rot and will need to be ripped out and replaced. I mean, there is scaffolding in my bathroom that is holding up the ceiling.
This unnerves me somewhat.
Typical of these Victorian terraces-- oh, sure, they look picturesque, but the renovation is a nightmare. My landlord is a great bloke but he gets all the repairs done on the cheap, which means that nothing ever stays repaired for long. I don't know what the hell's going to happen if me and Mandy have to vacate while the work's being done. I'm just sick to death of the cheap rented places that I've lived in ever since I left home. I'm sick of the insecurity, I'm sick of the half-baked repair work, I'm sick of it all.
It's time I got myself dug in behind the keyboard to get some serious work done. I'm still tweaking a couple of articles that have, to all intents and purposes, been finished for weeks-- I just can't bear to stop fiddling with them and punt them out. That kind of thing has to stop. On the plus side, I finally bit the bullet and started work on a novel that I've been laying groundwork for over the last few months. It's going to be hard work, but potentially it is a very strong story.
Since all my other avenues have been cut off, I must get my writing career underway. I must get out of this life, or at least have some hope that I might get out of it one day. I need a to see a light at the end of this tunnel. Even an orange one called Mildred.
Tuesday, August 20, 2002
Sunday, August 18, 2002
Figgy Rolls.
21st Century Fig Fest
So you like figgy rolls, yes? But deep within your being you sense that there may be unexplored regions of figgyness, hitherto undreampt of combinations of pastry and fig? Wonder no more, for the good folk of nicecupofteaandasitdown.com have sought out new figilizations, and boldly gone where no interweb site has gone before (well, France anyway ). Figtastic!
Asda! Sainsbury's! Jacobs! Figolu! Newton! Crawfords! Figgy rolls, head to head. Who shall triumph as the most figolicious?
21st Century Fig Fest
So you like figgy rolls, yes? But deep within your being you sense that there may be unexplored regions of figgyness, hitherto undreampt of combinations of pastry and fig? Wonder no more, for the good folk of nicecupofteaandasitdown.com have sought out new figilizations, and boldly gone where no interweb site has gone before (well, France anyway ). Figtastic!
Asda! Sainsbury's! Jacobs! Figolu! Newton! Crawfords! Figgy rolls, head to head. Who shall triumph as the most figolicious?
Saturday, August 17, 2002
No!
FFS, Mordant, don't click on that link. You've just seen a lengthy quote from the site, and it's obviously going to more of the same homophobic, misogynistic, all-around-bigoted drooling from beginning to end.
Don't click on the link. You know the site is just going to piss you off, make your blood boil for hours afterwards. Go and look at B3TA, or something. They will have some funny kittens.
Don't click on the link.
Profitable Doctrines in God's Word.
GODDAMMIT! You clicked the link! Now you're going to be in a perfectly foul mood all day.
FFS, Mordant, don't click on that link. You've just seen a lengthy quote from the site, and it's obviously going to more of the same homophobic, misogynistic, all-around-bigoted drooling from beginning to end.
Don't click on the link. You know the site is just going to piss you off, make your blood boil for hours afterwards. Go and look at B3TA, or something. They will have some funny kittens.
Don't click on the link.
Profitable Doctrines in God's Word.
GODDAMMIT! You clicked the link! Now you're going to be in a perfectly foul mood all day.
Oh, for God's sake.
Are you guys back again? How many times do I have to tell you: Stop reading this site. Stop it. Now. Point the mousey pointer at one of the links on the sidebar; a news resource, perhaps, or the New Scientist. For crying out loud, go anywhere-- just elevate your sights! Inform yourselves! I know, it's hard work at first: reading stuff that actually forces you to engage your brain, rather than allowing you to soak up the words without ever actually having to think too hard about what they mean, but it'll be worth it in the long run. Maybe you might actually learn something. Maybe you might just find yourself questioning some of those cherished prejudices that you clasp to your bosom like wrinkly grey goblin fetuses. Maybe you'll be inspired by new and mindbending concepts, your jaded soul refreshed by the glory and granduer of the Universe.
I notice you're still here.
Are you guys back again? How many times do I have to tell you: Stop reading this site. Stop it. Now. Point the mousey pointer at one of the links on the sidebar; a news resource, perhaps, or the New Scientist. For crying out loud, go anywhere-- just elevate your sights! Inform yourselves! I know, it's hard work at first: reading stuff that actually forces you to engage your brain, rather than allowing you to soak up the words without ever actually having to think too hard about what they mean, but it'll be worth it in the long run. Maybe you might actually learn something. Maybe you might just find yourself questioning some of those cherished prejudices that you clasp to your bosom like wrinkly grey goblin fetuses. Maybe you'll be inspired by new and mindbending concepts, your jaded soul refreshed by the glory and granduer of the Universe.
I notice you're still here.
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