Before I give way to the un-blogged occurrences of the past 3 weeks, let us concentrate on the 3 points of the day:
My writing (Blood Omen, to be exact) was dubbed ‘mind-blowingly fucking excellent’, and likened to that of Tennessee Williams by a non-writing fast-becoming-friend at work. I did not pay him any money for this statement. He also took the first part away, adamant that he would be really pissed off when he reached the end of it, gagging for more. I now have ANOTHER person expecting me to finish the damn thing when The Pest, Mark, Myself and potentially Mystery Being escape to Rowanlea.
The same fast-becoming-friend discovered that I am ‘ripe for poaching’(I love his phrases!) from the Tom Havocs and, having decided to form a group of ‘elite’ performers to record his own stuff, hinted that maybe I should switch allegiance. I think he’s right.
Lastly, I cycled home from work this evening, along the darkest of lamp-dwelling streets , having done no exercise whatsoever for a long, long time. I’m still alive, and I’ll do it again.
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For a small, embarrassing portion of time (an entire unforgettable evening) I was flayed alive in a Pop Idol ps2 contest. Totally slaughtered. This was only a slightly gentler fate than re-enacting, complete with words and actions, a Barney song-time video no less than 11 times in one day.
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I noticed the other day (though I’m sure not for the first time) that no matter where I have to settle for the night, as soon as I pull off my shoes, I feel that I belong, and a comfortable sensation overtakes all else. It never seems to matter whether I’m tired, or even if I’m settling straight away or doing further work, this simple act has the effect of several hours rest, completely relaxing every part of me. I wondered for quite a while what the deeper meaning to this revelation is. It also crossed my mind that, perhaps, there is a link to the no-shoes-indoors etiquette of much of S.E Asia.
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I was going to write about the ironic falling of responsibility, but I don’t think I shall as the persons involved may come across this blog. I’ve become rather fond of them. Perhaps another day, cleverly disguised as a fairy tale (please, don’t anyone ask how it would go, for I’d see it as a challenge, and there’s too much content acting out inside my head as it is).
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Thursday, August 11, 2005
They Nameth it Fool.
I’m resigned to the fact that I may never get some of my beginnings and ideas, and completed stories back – not to mention all the photos and other crap which I may or may not find stored on CD somewhere. MOST of my work is backed up – several times I might add. It’s just that, some of my scanned photos/ picture adaptations and, the less important mini-scraps of work, didn’t always seem worth the effort. And now my pc is being weird, so I can’t log on as me, and since I didn’t want to share the progeny of my mind, it seems I cannot reach them. Fuck!
Wondering: Should I continue with Blood Omen until I reach the end, and then revise, or should I revise what I've got and then write/ perfect piece by piece. Decisions, decisions...
Also, why is it that when you're ill, all you want to do is get up and go to work, go out, be on the move, and yet, the rest of the time, you'd give anything for a day in bed with movies or book, or your imagination. Just a thought.
Wondering: Should I continue with Blood Omen until I reach the end, and then revise, or should I revise what I've got and then write/ perfect piece by piece. Decisions, decisions...
Also, why is it that when you're ill, all you want to do is get up and go to work, go out, be on the move, and yet, the rest of the time, you'd give anything for a day in bed with movies or book, or your imagination. Just a thought.
Monday, August 08, 2005
The Tales that Never Reached the Page
Up bright and early, I reached the city by 9am, and settled with a hazelnut latte in the muse-house Borders, poring over ready-written text and slowly digging deeper into the tales as I awaited Mark’s arrival. We planned to write, all day, until the writing group met, two floors below, at 7. The day, so bright and warm, was full of promise as only a day of creation can be. I happily wallowed in words, alone, until 11, where I left my velvet armchair for the office of The Agency by whom I’m now employed. Things moved quickly here, finding work in 2 establishments which I already know. Soon, I was back in borders with a redeye, to shake Madame Muse to her most attentive state.
Still no Mark, though, so I teased and provoked the words alone.
At almost 3, Mark joined me, and we spent a joyous hour and a half with Blood Omen; Mark ripping conscientious wounds into its flesh, and me intermittently defending its choices as any parent should. Thanks, Mark, if you read this.
Mark went off to listen to speakers for a while, and I had a trauma with my mobile phone, and then, when he returned I returned the favour with Marco’s Spanish Diaries, talons caressing the body of it. By the time we’d finished, we had barely time to eat and read over a couple of older pieces in the group’s joint story-in-the-making. And then it was Group Time. A successful session where, with unneeded apologies, Mike also added flesh-wounds to the first 5 pages of Blood Omen (Thanks!) and Mark replayed his attack. It’s harder to defend your work in front of larger groups, as you often get top-heavy opinions.
We revisited the To Read or Not To Read dispute, and other people shared their tales; which were great, by the way. I love being around my clan.
Still no Mark, though, so I teased and provoked the words alone.
At almost 3, Mark joined me, and we spent a joyous hour and a half with Blood Omen; Mark ripping conscientious wounds into its flesh, and me intermittently defending its choices as any parent should. Thanks, Mark, if you read this.
Mark went off to listen to speakers for a while, and I had a trauma with my mobile phone, and then, when he returned I returned the favour with Marco’s Spanish Diaries, talons caressing the body of it. By the time we’d finished, we had barely time to eat and read over a couple of older pieces in the group’s joint story-in-the-making. And then it was Group Time. A successful session where, with unneeded apologies, Mike also added flesh-wounds to the first 5 pages of Blood Omen (Thanks!) and Mark replayed his attack. It’s harder to defend your work in front of larger groups, as you often get top-heavy opinions.
We revisited the To Read or Not To Read dispute, and other people shared their tales; which were great, by the way. I love being around my clan.
The Day Of Reckoning
Tuesday commenced with a pleasant shift at the Place Around The Corner, and the arrival of French Family, and an oddly optimistic request for a weekend of shifts at Place Up The Road.
Bizarrely, I cannot remember what happened that evening, although we must have done SOMETHING, and I reckon it was fun. Oh, I remember – Charlie and The Chocolate Factory – how could I forget?! The girls, had a choice between Charlie, which they’d seen in French, and Madagascar, which they hadn’t, and naturally, they disagreed. A coin toss ensured that Boo won out, and Yonkers-Bonkers had to make do. I don’t know whether I was more disturbed by the evident lack of understanding at adult humour in the audience, or at the unfazed expressions of the twins, age 5, at scenes such as burning, melting puppets accompanied by happy-elf music. I think, at 5, that I’d have run out of the theatre. It was however, a clever, kick-ass adaptation of the book.
I know that the Place Around The Corner was impressed, as I have a further week and a half of work with them, after just one shift.
Bizarrely, I cannot remember what happened that evening, although we must have done SOMETHING, and I reckon it was fun. Oh, I remember – Charlie and The Chocolate Factory – how could I forget?! The girls, had a choice between Charlie, which they’d seen in French, and Madagascar, which they hadn’t, and naturally, they disagreed. A coin toss ensured that Boo won out, and Yonkers-Bonkers had to make do. I don’t know whether I was more disturbed by the evident lack of understanding at adult humour in the audience, or at the unfazed expressions of the twins, age 5, at scenes such as burning, melting puppets accompanied by happy-elf music. I think, at 5, that I’d have run out of the theatre. It was however, a clever, kick-ass adaptation of the book.
I know that the Place Around The Corner was impressed, as I have a further week and a half of work with them, after just one shift.
Woeless Wednesday
My morning was filled with the CBeebies website, and dress up cut outs of Little One from The Fimbles; of energetic piggybacks, and tickling matches. Then, off to work whilst the rest of them had fun at a barn dance party, at which I should have been playing.
The Singer, The Clown, and Daddy Toothpaste
Thursday began with a hectic, indecisive start, but by 11:40 we were off, two almost-vans chocked full of Essential Gear, in convoy, journeying to Whitby for the day.
I went with Nick and the twins, in an attempt to make up for working through their stay. Half and hour in, we had drained a small bottle of flat coke, and the rest of the 2 hour journey was spent with the girls sharing its two components – bottle and lid – utilising them as a clown nose and singer’s mic, and enacting high-pitched dramas as such. At rough five minute intervals they’d swap. And every 15 or so, these costumes would be cast aside, in unison and the girls would turn gleefully towards me with the request “You can tickle me, please, Daddy Toothpaste?” and erupt in peals of laughter, to which Nick would retort wearily “It’s can you, not you can, little girls.” Only twice did they bother to correct themselves.
They were not interested in the gorgeous countryside through which we travelled, unlike Nick and I, who marvelled at the sight.
On a quiet, twisty road there was an offshooting track, labelled “Local traffic Only” and I could not help but chuckle, recounting this later to Biz… “This is a Local road, for Local people, there’s nothing for YOU here.”
Whitby was full of the usual sea-side childhood pleasures of wave-jumping, sand castles, fish and chips and gothic content, but the adventure here is far too long to spout forth – I have to work today, as well.
I went with Nick and the twins, in an attempt to make up for working through their stay. Half and hour in, we had drained a small bottle of flat coke, and the rest of the 2 hour journey was spent with the girls sharing its two components – bottle and lid – utilising them as a clown nose and singer’s mic, and enacting high-pitched dramas as such. At rough five minute intervals they’d swap. And every 15 or so, these costumes would be cast aside, in unison and the girls would turn gleefully towards me with the request “You can tickle me, please, Daddy Toothpaste?” and erupt in peals of laughter, to which Nick would retort wearily “It’s can you, not you can, little girls.” Only twice did they bother to correct themselves.
They were not interested in the gorgeous countryside through which we travelled, unlike Nick and I, who marvelled at the sight.
On a quiet, twisty road there was an offshooting track, labelled “Local traffic Only” and I could not help but chuckle, recounting this later to Biz… “This is a Local road, for Local people, there’s nothing for YOU here.”
Whitby was full of the usual sea-side childhood pleasures of wave-jumping, sand castles, fish and chips and gothic content, but the adventure here is far too long to spout forth – I have to work today, as well.
The Weekend of Almost Gloom.
Here, I must apologise to The Pest, as for a myriad of reasons, our weekend did not go to plan. I’m sorry, babe!
As the French Invaders departed, and I went off to work, So came Rachel from Southern Lands. By this point, I was exhausted from hauling children through the waves and other such healthily active endeavours, and mentally wiped from working in New Places. So, when she arrived all plans of midnight feast story-creating vanished from sight, though we still had hopeful plans for Saturday.
Saturday morning arrived and nothing much happened for a while, which was almost entirely my fault; I could hardly will myself to move. And though I do think it’s fantastic that despite our infrequent meetings, we can just as easily do nothing in each others company as if we were at each other’s houses every week, I feel rather guilty that we didn’t get to complete anything we’d planned. I have this bizarre image in my head, and indeed in reality with Other Friends, where, instead of enjoying being together, we rush about cramming activity and excitement in. Kind of like some parental visitation rights trauma. Odd, I know.
So, things just about got moving and I had to go to work, so Rachel went exploring in Leeds, miraculously returning in one piece, unaided by the natives. So Proud! Yet again, an evening of well, awakedness (I’m sure that’s not really a word) failed to be, as although not as tired as I should have been, a before 6 rising summoned me to bed, and I’d left before Rachel stirred the next day.
As I returned at 3pm, I struggled to stay awake, but we did manage at least to start a shared story. Then all too soon it was time for Rachel to leave.
But Rachel, in a Cambridge-moment (similar to a blonde one, but almost always relating to a real-world common sense event (her words, not mine)) got on the Wrong Train, something she will never live down. Her headstone may well read “Here lies Rachel. Genius. Got the Wrong Train.”
Anyway, despite me falling asleep, she got to watch the 1st episode of The L word, and we had more wonderful nothingness this morning.
And now, I’m off to work.
As the French Invaders departed, and I went off to work, So came Rachel from Southern Lands. By this point, I was exhausted from hauling children through the waves and other such healthily active endeavours, and mentally wiped from working in New Places. So, when she arrived all plans of midnight feast story-creating vanished from sight, though we still had hopeful plans for Saturday.
Saturday morning arrived and nothing much happened for a while, which was almost entirely my fault; I could hardly will myself to move. And though I do think it’s fantastic that despite our infrequent meetings, we can just as easily do nothing in each others company as if we were at each other’s houses every week, I feel rather guilty that we didn’t get to complete anything we’d planned. I have this bizarre image in my head, and indeed in reality with Other Friends, where, instead of enjoying being together, we rush about cramming activity and excitement in. Kind of like some parental visitation rights trauma. Odd, I know.
So, things just about got moving and I had to go to work, so Rachel went exploring in Leeds, miraculously returning in one piece, unaided by the natives. So Proud! Yet again, an evening of well, awakedness (I’m sure that’s not really a word) failed to be, as although not as tired as I should have been, a before 6 rising summoned me to bed, and I’d left before Rachel stirred the next day.
As I returned at 3pm, I struggled to stay awake, but we did manage at least to start a shared story. Then all too soon it was time for Rachel to leave.
But Rachel, in a Cambridge-moment (similar to a blonde one, but almost always relating to a real-world common sense event (her words, not mine)) got on the Wrong Train, something she will never live down. Her headstone may well read “Here lies Rachel. Genius. Got the Wrong Train.”
Anyway, despite me falling asleep, she got to watch the 1st episode of The L word, and we had more wonderful nothingness this morning.
And now, I’m off to work.
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