A madness metal, impervious to harmful thought or deed...
Sunday, October 20
Monday, May 10
Also recently watched http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0790799/ $9.99 -- a very nice stop-motion animation amalgam of a number of short stories into a very cohesive whole. As someone who gets annoyed with people who assume that if you are smoking you'll give them a cigarette I found the approach of "Do you have a light?" "Sure." "...and a cigarette to go with it." close to perfect. Again, recommended if you like quirk, the search for the meaning of life, and just a smattering of swearing. Another buck well spent. Two disconcertingly long thumbs up.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0484111/plotsummary The Good Night was alright, but didn't really live up to it's potential (or it's trailer for that matter).Martin Freeman and Danny DeVito give good performances, but remain very much in their rather type-caast niches. That one, of course, I'd purchased. If you can see it for a buck, see it: but it's not worth $9.99. One average thumb sideways.
Wednesday, May 5
(This one-sided conversation continues for some time, and becomes disconcerting. Finally, the girl tells the awful truth: she's dumping him as her boyfriend. In the closing, we learn that she's actually been talking to his dead body, his having shot himself in the head sometime earlier.)
Tuesday, April 20
Wednesday, April 14
Tuesday, April 13
The receiver is slammed down, pure anger.
The conversation that led up to this:
"John, It's almost one, where's the car?"
"Yeah, I'm supposed to have been picked up by now, hell I should be there."
"I didn't know nothing about a car."
"Don't bullshit me, you know and I know there's always a car."
"I'm sorry but we don't have a car. We don't have anyone..."
"Jesus-fucking-christ, I don 't believe this."
"You're at the Crossways right?"
"Yeah, you managed to book this flea-pit at least."
"Well, that's only about five blocks away, you could walk."
"Have you seen those blocks John? I'm not walking through the fucking tenderloin."
"Call a taxi."
"Why the hell should I? The car is YOUR job asshole."
"Alright, alright -- I'll call a taxi for you - OK?"
"A fucking taxi?"
"It's about all I can do.... and you're late."
Which takes us back to where we came in.
* * *
I'm not walking through that shit. Those people. God. They should just be dead. Fuck. Alright, call a taxi. More money just pissed away. There was a local rag here somewhere... there, beside the bed. Fuck that bed, I got no fucking sleep. I must look like shit. I do. I've seen me. Shit. God I hate San Francisco. Shithole. Where the fuck do they list taxis in this fucking thing? The back probably, with the whores. Flipping. There. A-A-A-Taxis. They'll do.
20 fucking minutes? To get a cab to downtown SF? Jesus. These people suck. Call me when it gets here. No, be ready on the street. No, call me. No, be on the street. No, I'm trying to avoid the street. We can't do that. Liar. You won't do it is what you mean. Maybe I should just walk. No.
* * *
Looking down and across she sees her ad. Her publicity picture from what, 20 years ago? "Come and meet..."-- such a joke. There's no meeting here. If anything, it's a funeral. Putting an end to so many fantasies. So many jerk-offs. Damn, she looked fine back then. Made so much money. So much money. Never thought one day she'd be here, Greyhounding around the country, cheap club to cheap shitty club. Cheap hotel room to cheap hotel room. Almost every day showing her disaster to a crowd of people who expected something different, something more, a fantasy life.
Come and meet...
She closes the SF Weekly, tosses it back onto the bed. Damn, her tits need a bra these day. They hang low, almost painful. But you can't show up with lingerie lines for the show: It would kill the dream. If these are dreams, how must their nightmares be? She guesses there is always someone worse off. tries hard to believe it. Looks in the mirror. Her. On the floor beside her sits the little trolley case. Good god, how long can this go on?
Three showings: 1:00pm, 6:00pm, 10pm. Like clockwork.
At least this self absorption/pity has filled fifteen minutes. Time to go to the door. Stand and wait. See how many people think you're a whore. Ha ha ha ha ha.
The afternoon girls are the worst. The nasty, the easy, the desperate. You can trace their lives with the needle marks on their arms. Isn't this all just a lie anyway? Is this the beauty men pay $20 a time to see? Another $20 to have her twist and twirl on their laps for 3 minutes? Some kind of hell all round.
* * *
"Where the fuck were you, show was o.."
"I was waiting on the fucking car you never got for me, shit-for-brains. If you don't like it, I can turn around now."
"No, just get out there as soon as you can."
"Soon as I see my money."
"Yeah? Fuck later. No car, next no cash. You pay or I don't do anything but leave."
"Fuck, you know we don't get cash till the afternoon crowd..."
"Yeah, and I know you got enough float. If you want me up, you best lay down the bucks."
* * *
Every club has it's own layout, probably as most of them are older buildings redone to accommodate strippers, johns, lap-dances, toilets. Crazy Horse is a one room deal (ex-cinema house). One big stage. The old seats still in place. New lighting for the slim stage. It's OK, there's no need to rehearse. No floor marks to hit. These guys just want to see tits and cunt. They probably won't even notice that you're so much older now, except maybe in the tits. They could see it in your face, but they don't look there. The cheap PA yells: "Ladies" (hah!) "and Gentlemen, for your pleasure, the star of tonight's show, main vixen in" (they say some names of some videos I don't remember) "Pretty Thang!"
And the shoes hurt. The breasts hurt. The thought hurts.
But it's ok. Big lights. big thrills. Look out beyond to the faces in the front rows: the fans. Some seem keen. Keen to have their hopes, ideals smashed. A 40-year-old body fucked and re-fucked is not an 18 year old body "new". A moment of guilt. A false bill of goods. But fuck it. They could work it out. They know where we are. They still seem eager. Maybe the six inch heels and little black dress are covering more than body, maybe age, everything the shadows can't hide?
Further back though, the daytime girls are working for their money. Out there. those guys are not here for you, just for anything female. For a touch. For a cunt. For someone to tell them how big their dicks are, how good they smell, how handsome they are. They almost don't look at you. And that's fine as well. The less eyes...
They play the wrong music. Those fucks. But does it matter?
* * *
I'd made plans to see her. She was my favourite. My #1 star. I'd time off work. I had to drive from Sunnyvale to SF. I was going to be there for the 1 and the 6, maybe the 10 (that would be hard, needed a good reason for the wife) -- I had $1,000 extra above entry, to get a dance and maybe a hand job, maybe a blow job? I didn't know how these things worked. Traffic was bad. I parked in the expensive lot behind the Fillmore to get to the 1:00 show, but it was 1:15 and I assumed I'd missed it—fuck.
Walk in, pay money, walk in further, everyone looks lost.
I walk to the front. Not the real front. But like three, four rows back. So I won't be recognized. Looking out, the front row is full. Mainly Asian guys, I have no idea why. Behind me, the lap girls are grinding and pleasing. Two of them walk up to me, ask if I want a dance. No. I'm here for the show. I'm here for my dream girl. Sit back in the busted up cheap seat and wait.
* * *
I feel myself taking deep breaths as I walk out. Shake to the music I had not picked. It really doesn't matter. I want to get this over, but I know I have to play it out. Fifteen minutes, minimum. I hit the centre of the stage and start to "dance". Spin spin spin. Let the dress ride up. Spin spin spin. Fuck this is hard to do in six inch heels. Fuck let's just take the dress off.
The bra and the panties stay in place for now.In another five minutes, they'll start to leave lines, so they have to come off before then. But let's try to play this up. Jiggle the old wobble tits before the audience. God, if they only knew. Alright. Back to them. Classic. Take off the bra. The tits surge downwards. Fuck. I'm too old for this. I pull them up with my hands and I turn around.
* * *
She comes out stage left. Little black dress, big high heels. Something is wrong. The smile is fake. It's not the same big smile she gave when Lance did AtM with her in "Fresh Carpet". She's almost breaking out. Bring it in girl, bring it in. She tosses off the dress. Black bra, black panties. For a moment she regains a little glory, but her eyes, her eyes... I should not have sat so close. I look around for a lap girl to distract me, but they won't come this far into the light.
For a moment, I want to leave, but I paid a lot to get here. For a moment, I want her to exit stage left or right. I don't want to be one of those front row panting guys. Should I go now?
* * *
So we've got two sets of chairs: left and right. I take off the bra, the panties. I go stage left. I sit. I suck my own nipple (sadly easy), and spread my cunt open for them. Spread and close, spread and close. Some asshole takes pictures, the bouncers smack him against the wall, smash his camera and eject him. I go to the other side, kneel, and give them a spread from behind view. I almost finger my asshole, they like that. God they like this. A near corpse sticking it's boney finger in it's own ass. This is what they've come to see.
* * *
I leave and the sunlight is so strong, so powerful, such a different word. "Why did I ever even..." I think to myself for a moment. But it passes as I walk back towards the parking structure.
* * *
The next day, a new Greyhound schedule. Outathere.
Friday, March 19
1. Scene Setting
Dreams ... of a place far away, a new life ... she walks away ... towards a dawn of bright flower painted colours. I watch her step away, watch as she goes ... wanting to call her back, words get lost in my throat, choke me inside ... I watch her. She goes.
Maybe because I've lived that too. Wanted out. Sought escape and thought it found... only to see it (me) dashed against rocks, pulled from my grasp, below my feet ... yes, I've been there, that same town city? even. Years ago. Walked the road, Dreamed the dream.
Maybe because now I see a new dream ... maybe because I'm selfish.
She wakes early, little sleep excited, big steps worried. Out of bed and into a shower, warm and holding, running around her, caress, a fog of steam around her... out into a cold damp towel... brush away hair, falls long and straight down ... check reflection in a mirror, there ok ... practice a smile ... good.
On the chair beside the bed the clothes are ready ... clean and well pressed ... casual and comfortable ... money and ticket on the dressing table ... photograph of a grandmother looks out witheyes that look caring but were really just a little afraid of the camera and the man behind it... apply a little light make-up, dress, check the reflection again -- everything is still alright.
Eat ... cereal and eggs, toast and jam, coffee, ... enough. Up to the room, look at the bags, look at the walls, the space to inhabit, the place to go from. The point of departure.
No matter what, you always feel the emptiness as you go, the thoughts that have arrived and gone ... the hopes held, the nighttimes of dreams ... the chances that go and the past. You try to bury this in a joy of the present, of new life, new places ... but still you feel just a little invaded, a little stolen away.
The case feels light in your hands as you pick it up, you have condensed your life into a space of three feet by two by six inches and you think about the six or sixteen or twenty or however-many years it has taken to get this far...
She closes the door of the room for one last time ... does not look back, knows how dangerous this can be.
Carries the weight of the case out into the light ... checks watch ... early. Time to waste. (What else has been done these last years?) Makes her way to the underground station, conspicuous of the journey for the first time, feeling her weight run through her legs into her feet and onto the grey pavement ... above the sun shines.
Descent. Travel. Station.
Check for ticket ... still there ... good. Check money (in three separate pockets as a precaution against theft) ... still there ... good. Case just begins to feel a little heavy. Look at the noticeboard for the departure time, platform, etc. Bites a lower lip without even knowing it. A sudden vision passes and is forgottenas quickly...
Think of things that you don't want to... the parties, the friends... the little love you have ever known, the few happy moments... has it been worth it so far? Consider this and what lies ahead. Consider what your doing. What you want to do. The dreams. The career officer at school asking "and what do you wantto do?" and answering "I don't know" and they smiles and says "Well have you thought about..." whatever, and you think "No,this not what i want, what i want..." but you listen and you end up sitting inappropriate exams for the sake of this job, for the sake of a place at college, at university... whatever... think of all the times you never thought you'd end up with one / two / three / uncountable years on the dole trying to live on twenty pounds a week, not just exist - live... still knowing that your totally unqualified for the jobs you never wanted to do in any case... a little bitter.
How many years did this plan take to make up? How many nights of plotting, how many weeks of trying to save a few pounds... how many times looking at the dumb rich walking into and out of Prince's Square with their stupid expensive worthless junk with which to fill their lives... what makes them worth so much more than you? You overhear one of them in a pub somewhere, as you nurse the bottom inch of a pint because you know it's your last and your first, and they talk about the "scroungers on the dole, ... of course they should have to work ... I have to work (a pretty but useless upper management position in a family company / a totally worthless wanker in the city) for my money... they're scroungers, all of them - round them up and beat them" you think how can they be so fucking greedy, they live their lives in glory and they don't even want the unlucky ones to even have the price of a single drink once a fortnight, they want back that little bit of their NI contributions ... want people out on the streets, begging, homeless ... so they can despise them "you have no get up and go, you've got to make your own breaks in the world" says the boy whose father is the chairman, who was paid through Eton, who has never known a night without a bed let alone a roof... and the subjected thinks, "my breaks? i'd break your fucking neck if i had the strength ..."
What's worse? Worse that these people aren't just the rich dumb, the stupid and the dead, they're just the ordinary ones, even the working class that have jobs, the sun and daily record reading public ... why do three or five or seven million people read the sun every day - because they are too stupid to read anything else? That's the truth. Marx was wrong if only in this respect.
And luck, that's all it is, what makes one man great and another an alcoholic, one woman a queen, another a whore ... what puts men behind bars, what makes artists starve, what put Van Gough in the madhouse, what puts presidents into office... no-one is anything more or better than anyone else, its just a big game of luck, the pretty and the ugly are all equal in this.
So she stands and takes out her copy of Finnegan's Wake to read - as in the first class the bored waitresses run up and down the aisles offering coffee and brandy and vodka to the fat and sweating masses of shit in suits with their business papers and Jeffery Archers and Jilly Coopers and other shit, too stupid to walk. And in the kitchen the urns of coffee are ritually urinated in and emptied but not rinsed by each arriving or departing member of staff ... how else can these poor people smile as they hand out the cheap polystyrene cups (CFC Full! Make yourinvestment in Chemotherapy grow!) of coffee to ungrateful, unthanking, unthinking leaders of industry and figures of state...
and she sits in her cheap seat and in her book she reads -
"As for she could shake him. An oaf, no more. Still he'dbe good tuto two in his big armschair lerningstoel andshe be waxen in his hands. Turning up and fingering overthe most dantellising peaches in the lingerous longerousbook of the dark. Look at this passage about Galilleotto!I know it is difficult but when your goche I go dead.Turn now to this patch upon Smacchiavelluti! Sootallours, he's sure to spot it! 'Twas ever so inmonitorology since Headmaster Adam became Eve Harte'stoucher, in omnibus moribus et temporibus, with man'smischief in his mind whilst her pupils swimmed tooheavenlies, let his be exaspirated, letters be blowed! Ias a femaline person. O, of provocative gender. Usingular case.
Which is why trumpers are mixed up in duels and here's B.Rohan meets N. Ohlan for the prize of a thou. ..."as a femaline person. O, of provocative gender. Usingular case.
Which is why trumpers are mixed up in duels and here's B."
You might just recognize her from what she looked like then. Her hair that was brownblackred her facesmilered her eyesgreen... herworried, smilesmile... might just notice in her the familiar, the recognisable, but mostly not, just pass on, outwards like nothingever happeneding, not ever... or maybe.
A cold and wet and dark and biting night and you pass by the cardboard boxes of the disposed and dispossessed, you disinterested as you go to the theatre, the club, the gallery, whatever you choose. Look maybe at real art about real issues, but ... just look. Maybe to get a torn face from your mind you throw a coin (this makes you feel good too) but you never think, your "provocative artists" waste precious time, precious talent on your unthinking stupiding. Moo on through your "culture" like a cow in pasture, maybe even eat your own shit without noticing or calling it "distinctly refreshingly honestly etcly")...
You might just notice her then, just might say from that unnaturally straight hair (ialwayslovedyourhair) that a memory bubbles to the surface, from those lips that plead that once smiled that are cut and sore and open from winds from kisses of bottles of money of gods, maybe you notice this, maybe you don't.
Walks with a slow limping walk away and over the city, past brightlight and smallclub, past peopletalk and peopledrunk and peoplefight, past everything to a bridge side standing upon this to look down, her hair blows free around her, stands now you see her face, a little of the smight light that once prevaded her eyes, in hand a bunch bouquet of small flowers that grow wild, her hair still straight face with dirt and no smile, a little light in the eyes as she looks, a little hope in the heart as she remembers a journey, a time gone by, a place and all that ... awash of memory that tugs at her, pulls her down to sit, legsdangle loose over the side like strings.
You wake up, not from sleep, from something though - mourning maybe. You see the things around you, the things missing, find a cheap and stained mirror and try to look at yourself and find a different person, try to wipe the grime from the mirror and realise it is on you ... close your eyes and try to weep, to sleep, to dream.
It gets lost within you - what brought you here? The reason, the meaning, what you wanted, hoped for. You feel someone touch you not out of love or compassion but simply because they are stuck in this too. You feel the hand but nothing more, eventually it leaves and you are totally, completely alone and you make yourway towards an unknown location like an elephant to it's graveyard...
Rescue? At this point? Would take the work of gods - not just one, several - and that seems unlikely. You walk on. You find your position as the sun decides to rise again, just start, make things look nice, like a pretty wrapper on a razor blade...
Sits and watches the sky turn round from black to red to orange to pink ... slowly ... her hands hide inside her clothes to keep warm, hold her own body, hold herself tight and loving and all that.
A sense of wonder, of bitterness, of the injustice of luck overcomes you. A hatred, a fire that burns deepdark, an anger that clenches your jaw and your tiny, weak fists and pulls a single tear from one eye as you close them both. You feel every bone in your ribcage and the space within it is empty, completely and utterly, you have become a vacuum and you sense this hollowness breaking out from you, outwards to invade the whole place, everything.
The sun is up high enough to see her now, the derelict bridge, the way she sits, her eyes that look out for something that never arrives. Warmer but still cold, she brings her hands out from within her clothes. In the first, a fragment of a mirror. She looks into it and smiles. The smile is just the movement of muscles in her face, checking she can still perform this little miracle this is no ale talking, I have seen this and it is as said - miracle, no other words... but there is no reason for the smile, no hope, no joy. The dream? The bunch of small withering flowers beside her. Dreams are what you wake up from.
Her other hand appears, holding the tattered and rough body of a book, pages gone ... fallen or torn. It falls open and she reads:
"Hillsengals, the daughters of the cliffs, responsen. Longsome the samphire coast. From thee to thee, thoo artit thoo, that thouest there. The like the near, the likernearer. O sosay! A family, a band, a school, aclanagirls. Fiftines and but fortines by novanas and orvantads by octettes ayand decadentecads by a lunary withlast a lone. Whose every has herdifferent from thesimilies with her site. Sicut campanulae petalliferentes they coroll in caroll round Botany Bay. A dweam of doseinnocent dirly dirls. Keavn! Keavn! And they all sett on voicies about singsing music was Keavn! He. Only he. Ittle he. Ah! The whole clangalied. Oh!
This read, she closes her eyes, closes the book, remembers an evening one time, a day as a child, a journey that takes her away. Remembers everything and it is nothing. The scrap of mirror, the small, dried flowers, the girl and the book fall ing ently speeding arcs from the bridge and she and her book and mirror and her flowers and her dreams are gone.
Ah, but wait, now wait. Saviors you see. I mean, I control all of this, these are my words, my actions. I can take these characters and do as I wish, my control. No need for this. Take the last paragraph away, and let me try again.
She closes the book, her eyes, stands - feels the definite weight of her own body again, feels a wind caress her, push her out a little ... she feels her swayswingstay ... maybe just a word to stop this now, maybe a hope so simple as a voice to hold back these tides ...
"STOP! I yell.
As I run to her, she opens her eyes, stays standing on the bridge. Reaching her, I say it again, softly this time. "stop - I did not mean to shout."
I look at her, yes I recognize her, the eyes that burn out a soul once and are not forgotten ... I say words to her ... simple or short or long or whatever - words that I know make some form of sense.
Ramble on and on, the meeting, my indecision, her eyes, the talk of Joyce, of Celine, Kafka, of the intense softness of her skin, the depth in her eyes, the smile - my standing at train stations, haunting pubs and hoping against hope, but against winning in the end ... and all of this she listens to. And I reach down into my soul and I bring forth my love and let her know it and she smiles and makes as if to step down from the bridge and I offer my hand and she smiles and for a second everything is as it was... as it should be could be and
Nothing is as wayslipsaway - the mirror, the book, the flowers - I reach across the to look down, to see her splash in the water- still hoping maybe I can rescue her my own dreams) yet, maybe...
But not broken waves greet my eyes.
What does? Well, wait a second. First, let me read to you. A pagefrom her book. The only thing left on that bridge. Let me tell you a few words...
"One seeking Was that in the air about when something is to be said for it or is it someone imparticular who will somewherise for the whole anyhow?"
I look over and see no sea. No waves. A net of black and brown and silver, streaks of light and lines cut before my eyes. Tracks run and fade round corners into distance ... on top of this she lies a few flowers, a few pages around her, splinters of a splintered mirror reflect early light to my eyes) I look for movement, any movement ...
Any movement that is not the flow of blood, not the guts spilling where ribs have outpunctured the skin, not vomit from nose mouth not blood not tears
Sunday, March 22
Tuesday, September 4
Took all pills on time. Felt kinda odd around 6:00pm.
A drop of the creatur' to end the day. Back and sides finger knee all still hurt. Movement pretty messed up. Dirthead called: he was concerned that the last time we got together I looked at my most depressed. I don't remember the meeting, but it was just after the cop beating etc. so I probably was a little shitty looking. He hurt himself over the weekend doing something for his in-laws.
The pig* was pretty pleasant--I guess the painters are done for the month... I miss my music. I have 6,000 songs on iTunes but that's maybe a tenth of my CD collection.
We need a new edit for FJ, need to talk to Kisses about that. We need to put the "Fuck" to bed once and for all.
Saturday, December 30
Thursday, December 14
Tuesday, December 12
For me? Today I got the blues. Still on pills. tempted to unilatarily double my doses of lexapro and wellbutin, but I don't know if that would help. The seroquel seems to be working pretty well.
S is thinking of leaving: actually, SS homes have pretty much said they've done all they can for him, go back to LA, go into outpatient treatment. I'm no doctor, but I can just tell that's not going to work. But I don't know what would either. And he's right: this is all too expensive (he's dropped $80k so far) I wish I could help him, but... Fuck.
Sunday, December 10
Saturday, December 9
Scheduling drugs remains an issue: three times a day just doesn't work for me. And some things should be three times a day during waking hours, others not so. Then there's the two in the morning, one in the afternoon: why don't I just take that one at a time with my three times daily other pill? How much does it matter, really? My one a days, should I take them all at once in the morning, or take one in AM, another with the second round, and the Seroquel at bedtime? I need to figure this all out.
Wednesday, December 6
Tuesday, December 5
Started to change my routine and not load up with seven pills all at once in the AM, four at middayish and another six at bedtime and taking two, wait an hour, take another couple, mix the neurontin intake with the anti-deps.
Feeling wise: still cotton headed, still dizzy, sleep comes and goes. headaches are a complete bastard and sunlight is unbearable even with the 16 Ibuprofen. Can't afford a real pain-killer though, which isn't fun. Whatever damage my liver was getting from booze I can't help but think this must be almost as bad. No real desire to drink (the occasional "a beer would be nice", but no "god I must have a drink"). Shakes are getting better I think, but as soon as I notice them, I go to jelly. The xanax apparently will also make me dizzy, stagger, clumsy: so I'll still look like a drunk. Wonderful.
Keep telling myself that this is all for the good and all this crap should go away in time, and the positive effects should kick in in a few weeks. It's just been a hellish time with a new drug per week and dosage changes etc.
On the bright side, Mike's doctor is keeping him on his anti-deps for at least another month. That's good. Ah well.
Wednesday, November 29
Tuesday, November 28
Monday, November 27
Se ond psych visit today. Another ten minute deal. The Wellb. went up to 300mgs a day, increased the Lexapro to 30mgs. Want to get the Seroqul increased, been double dosing with it.
Still listless, no focus, very little energy. Aches and pains are being held at bay by lots (and I do mean lots) of Ibuprofen.
Want to write up "Shooting 'Dust'" for FJ. Nervous about meeting B tomorrow.
Tuesday, January 31
It's odd though, to know that what you feel and what you "go through" are not normal. It's akin, I guess, to finding out that everyone else only lives during daylight and has never seen (no pun intended) night. And to me, this is -normal-. This is just shit as it happens. Contemplating the alternative is almost alien, illogical, impossible. I can't imagine what it would be like to not have a serious funk every few months where you just sit in a chair (or couch or on the floor) and think/do nothing 24x7. Or minor versions of the same that incapacitiate you for minutes or maybe hours. This is normality as I know it. And I can't let anyone else know anything of this: it's a landscape too alien and yet too similar to comprehend. "Cathederal" comes to mind. It's as close as I can think of a metaphor.
Anyway, yes, whiney old me, rattling on about myself, whining, boo-hoo poor me. Break out the Mozza Long Players Mavis, I've got some serious moping to do... Ohhh, reel around the fountain, if I had fifteen minutes with you/I'd make a stew, it might be good, but probably not, especially if I used the beef stock, on accident much less pupose. And Porpoises have miserable fucking lives as well, think about that next time you are / queueing up for tickets to a Beck concert. You never get the good seats anyway, so what's the point? Choose drugs.
Sunday, November 27
Wednesday, September 7
Anyway, the book is now somewhere in a million boxes of stuff, probably snuggling up to my "Will and Grace" DVD's. I'm having some mental/moral issues with writing more of it out: something the writers behind Will and Grace shpuld have had a long time ago. Ah, when I find it, I probably will. Either that or propose it to NBC as a sitcom "So there's this girl, with no arms, and...!" - you can just see the funny a-coming.
Thursday, August 4
There's no indication of where this T-House was. It appears it was originally a home for retired miners that ran out of funds and was sold to the trust very cheaply. Anyway, on with the show:
"There's two houses in the big hoose - one fur the boys and one fur us. But it's just the one hoose. They try to keep us apart, but canny. Wee Jennty is alwies wi the boys. The teachers'll gee her a doin' (beat her up - ed.) when they find oot, but she doesn'y seem to care."
"We went tae the village today, three of us and Miss H. - she's a soor faced bitch if evar. People stared at us, as all. I stared back. Freaks."
Wednesday, August 3
But more interestingly, I was sent a gift by my mothers cousin, who is a junk whore and attends house sales almost every day. She remembered a conversation we had about thalidomide (for those who don't know: A sedative and hypnotic drug, C13H10N2O4, withdrawn from general use after it was found to cause severe birth defects when taken during pregnancy. It is sometimes prescribed to treat leprosy. - thank you dictionary.com). Thalidomide was very commonly prescribed in the UK, and while most victims were aborted, still born, or given a merciful death post birth by their doctors others were "viable" and remained alive.
The most common issue with male victims was extreme shortening of the arm, and the lack of an albow joint. Commonly, and crassly, these were referred to as "flipper babies". For females, the most common (in surviving cases) anomaly was absence of arms entirely.
Often, at birth, the parents (strung out on Thal, obviously) agreed to accept the child, only to realise later that they would never be able to deal with the challenges of such a sadly disabled child. Public support founded charity efforts to set up orphanages for the returned kids.
Anyway, the item sent to me is a diary, apparently kept for three to four years by a thalidomide girl in one such "orphanage". It's very, very poorly written (makes my spelling look good, if you can imagine!), and totally fascinating. It's titled (as you might have guessed) "me diary".
I'll share bits and pieces as I read them, right now this is my favourite:
"the scool has loads of teachers - some come for weeks, some stay for months - but the heed has been here forever. Lily peed herself in class today and Nan (the teacher - ed) sent er to the heed. Lily says the heed says Nan should fuk off and clean it up."
Lizzy (the author) is armless, and writes using a pencil held in her mouth. Apparently this is the most common method of writing, with only a few girls using foot writing (and most abstaining altogether, which I can totally understand).
Sunday, July 10
Tuesday, March 1
- on the plane out, I watched "Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow" - it was the most awful, useless, pointless movie I've seen in a long time. Sure, the design was good and the kinda black and white but not film processing was clever, but nothing else worked. I wanted each and every one of the main characters to die. Whoever greenlighted this crap should be forced to watch four episodes of "Everybody Loves Raymond" back to back.
- so move to the "comedy" channel on the plane - guess what? Four episodes of "Everybody Loves Raymond", back to back. I've only ever flipped past this show in the, err, past and it looked like typical entry level sitcom stuff. It's not. It's awful. Every episode has one "joke" in it (much like a Shakespearean comedy) and a retinue of the same gags told time after time after time --- let me be clear here, everyone does -not- love Raymond.
- you don't get free booze on transatlantic flights anymore? Who fucked that gig up?
- on landing, I start down the A77 from Glasgow to Ayr. This used to be a simple dual carriageway affair that did have issues at rush hour and so on, but overall coped OK. It's about a 40 mile drive. Now, however, it's a 40 mile drive consisting of 60% "road renewal" works, with 40 MPH speed limits. Why? Well, road maintenance was outsourced, so now private companies are handling that task - at a "cost plus" ratio. So now most of the trip is single lane, 40 MPH, with police speed checks at each half mile because the way these "improvements" are being paid for is by over zealous speed ticketing. Oh, and why is it all 40 MPH? Because the labourors who knew what the fuck they were doing were let go, and the new Job Centre/Minimum Wage retards don't know that stepping in front of a moving vehicle is "not a good idea".
They estimate they'll be done with this in 2007. I'm done with them already. Did I point out that the local government bodies who used to carry out this work were barred from bidding on it as they had "too much inside knowledge" (aka, they knew what the fuck to do)?
Anyway, time passes, flight comes back, sitting on the plane. Tannoy announcement: "Please note that the entertainment offered today will be the Chicago to Heathrow selection, not the Heathrow to Chicago listing in the on flight magazine." - so it's fucking "Sky Captain" and the same Raymond episodes all over again (Don't you just love that one where his mother makes the sculptor of a cunt?) - it's a good thing us non-citizens don't get to have firearms, let me tell you.
Tuesday, February 1
Sunday, January 16
- ► 2005 (10)