After eight years it's time for a break.
Saturday, July 21, 2001
Help Make Jeffrey Archer a Prison Bitch. You know it's right.[via linkmachinego]
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Very droolworthy: the mighty, mighty Erica has pointed out an interview that I might be interested in. Scratch that, that I am interested in. It's Philip Glass being interviewed by his cousin, Ira, a broadcaster. With his new opera, White Raven currently running at the Lincoln Center - I had hoped to get to see it, but to no avail, damned finances - it's a particularly timely find. Yeah!
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Well. Back from town with a newly-snipped tonsure and a decent courier bag to replace the rapidly-disintegrating Gap bag I've been lugging around for a year or so. I look particularly military at the moment, but I'm sure that'll just fade away and I'll be back to soft-centered ol' me in no time. Heh. In other news, I checked out my passport today. As it turns out, I'll have been in the UK for two years on Monday. Monday morning, as a matter of fact, at about 6AM. And it's a distinctly strange feeling. I feel almost at home here, in some ways, but completely alien in others. I'm just getting up to speed with cultural experience and the like, but still... well, somehow, I still feel like I might as well be wearing the stereotype-of-yore hat with corks on it, y'know? I don't know - I've reached that point, I guess, where going home will be just as difficult as staying here; I'm equally a stranger in both lands, only I'm probably a bit more up to speed on things over here. It's a disconcerting experience, but it's what I've got. Monday will be weird; it's an anniversary without any special signifiers - I'll be at work as per usual, and things at home will chunk along as per usual. But it feels special, in a way. I can't put my finger on it. What should I do? Where should I stay? Why haven't I done more stuff since I've been here? All those things I'd planned when I left home? Gah. I'd imagine Monday will be spent moonily looking out the window at work, pondering The Big Things, maybe. Hell, maybe I should throw it open to everyone as a vote: Australia! UK! Bid for me! Er. Perhaps not. What works for some won't work for all. Anyway. Yes. I'll have been here two years on Monday. And I don't know exactly how I feel about that. It's probably fitting that I'm listening to Morrissey at this point, eh?
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Aha! The Mysterious Amazon Gift-Giver is the fine man-of-the-world Jeff. I do indeed thank him for his generosity, and urge y'all -again- to go check out his exhibition of pubshots. They're great - and rather universal. Th'man's a genius.
(It should also be pointed out that you can visit an alternate version of Roy Harper's site here.)
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A distinct lack of posting today, due to the high level of cannot-be-arsedness that goes with spending most of the day at home. Awaiting the Return of The Plumber™, in order to ascertain why we're dumping a veritable Niagra into the downstairs flat has led to much indolence. Said plumber visited, and the day has ambled on in a morass of tea, music and Nothing In Particular. Which doesn't make for very enlightening bloggin', but does make for a Good Day. Last night, though, was a little strange. I thought I was getting cruised, though it turned out to be naught but sartorial adulation - which is probably a better thing, said incident occurring in the middle of Borders on Charing Cross Rd. I was wearing my homemade (fanboy! fanboy!) Einstürzende Neubauten shirt when a guy approached me, asking where I bought it. Colour me a little chuffed. So, I told him I'd email him the address of a store (as I couldn't remember it off the top of my head) when I returned home. And so it is, too, that I place it on this page: the answer is, for anyone who's looking, here. It's a mail-order store based in Germany, and they're pretty reliable. If you're in London, I'm sure Selectadisc stocks the shirts, as does the goth/industrial record store in Camden - the one that's downstairs from a leather shop, up near the Lock. Follow the sound of teen discontent and you'll find it, I'm betting. Arrival at work - late - today was cheered by the arrival of some wishlist goodness. Brooke (who I'm glad to see is enjoying Flatland) heeded my call for brain-improving works and forwarded me a copy of Carl Sagan's Cosmos, an introduction to zer Universe - something I think I'll need to know before I launch into Quantum Physics - while another, nameless soul (please, please identify yourself!) has sent a copy of Roy Harper's Stormcock, as well as the Doré-illustrated version of Poe's "The Raven". Rock! Muchos ta, as they say elsewhere, to both of you - I am truly appreciative and aw-shucks-ful. I'm looking forward into the newness brought by all stuff. More posting later - I've got to off and have a haircut, to make myself non-Shaggy for tomorrow. Back anon.
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Friday, July 20, 2001
It's just occurred to me that I'll have been here for two years, sometime next week. (Or in the next ten days, perhaps.)This is rather frightening.
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It's the boy's birthday. Go give him a wave. And click on the illustrated link on the right. Oh yes.
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Thursday, July 19, 2001
Watching these two trying to form sentences in each other's company is like watching Jacqueline du Pre and Professor Stephen Hawking playing squash; it isn't pretty, and it takes a long time, but one is still seized by admiration that two human beings could devote themselves with such energy to something so far outside both their competencies.Thanks to this take on the Big Brother phenomenon, I find myself without the ability to use my legs. Damn. Then again, I can't exactly complain about shithouse TV, being, as I am, addicted to the incredibly shoddily-written The Secret Life Of Us.
I honestly don't know why I watch. Whether that's because the UK gets it before people back home or not is up for debate. But anyway - the pilot gave me high hopes, all of which were systematically dismantled in the following episodes. Slightly "yeah, that's deep, maan" scriptwriting, and some bodgy performances combine to bring this to shuddering - yet somehow compulsively watchable - life. I really feel like I shouldn't be tuning in. I could have so many more profitable hours under my belt, doing other stuff. But there's one thing keeping me there, on the couch. Deborah Mailman. I'd feel like I was walking out of a mate's gig if I turned off. A bind. She's lovely in that cute, big sister kind of way. So I can't back out of it yet. I fear to look, yet I cannot turn away. I can't say why, though. I suspect I'm hoping that when I eventually have to move back home, I'll end up in a household like the ones central to the show. Maybe.
Shallow? Me? Like a kiddies' paddling pool.
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Prompted by conversation: Wallace Stevens. I first learned of his stuff while I was at university - I have a feeling it was in an extra English unit that I first read "The Emperor of Ice-Cream", and was taken by its invocation of concupiscent curds. I don't know - the assembly of words was somehow pleasing; nothing more cerebral than that. It's a terribly non-academic way to appreciate poetry, but hell - it works for me. And is probably why I may never get around to rereading Wordsworth's "Prelude". Ahem. Anyway, Stevens. The other thing of his that I really enjoyed - and the mention of this is what prompted this rather dodgy post - is "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird". It's beautiful. There's a stillness that's intriguing. And more than a little unsettling. You can hear Stevens read some of his poetry, in 1955, here. Recommended.
Around the same time, I also found out about William Carlos Williams, whose "This Is Just To Say" and "The Yachts" have remained favourites since I first heard them. I'm not altogether unconvinced that the audio recording of Williams reading the latter - and sounding incredibly like a more yokel Elmer Fudd - might have something to do with that...
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I think today has been redeemed. How? The Barbelith Underground has shown me this year's fashion must-have. It is cute. It is evil. It's Hello Cthulhu!
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Story of my afternoon: I just got handed some stationery, and caught myself thinking "hey! These are some sexy box-files!". Kill me.
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Wednesday, July 18, 2001
Wow. He actually did it. (Check the entry for Wednesday 18th July if you can't see what I'm talking about.) Sheesh. Next, he'll have that Spinoza section working. Damn efficient webloggers...link | Mail me. |
Cleopatra 2525 has been described as "porno-looking whores on a violent rampage in futuristic nonsense plots". It's on Channel 5 on Fridays at 7pm. The one channel that our TV doesn't get. Murderous looks abound, and if the television had a "quaking in fear" option, like you get with some fancier models, it would indeed be invoking it. Please, in the name of all that's holy and sacred, will someone out there please tape it for me? I'll be very, very happy if you do...
(Special thanks to Brooke and James for making me aware of this televisual extravaganza. I am deeply indebted to you both.)
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Relax, guy! It ain't you!
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Ah, Jeb. How could I have missed this? Remiss of me, indeed. Also worthwhile (hell, the man's entire archive is better than most of the drivel you'll find here) is his tale about North Sydney jobs, or Surry Hills livin'. Ahh, Sydney: seems not much has changed since I was there...
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My contributions to Dan's effort now seem pitiable: I have seen the movie-splicing future, and it's called Cinema Sausage. Yeeks.
[via the view from here]
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Following on from Graham's list of same (and I'm with him on numbers 1 , 8 and 7, and don't understand why you bought Ummagumma, either), I give you my (momentary) list of Ten Things I Don't Understand. Drumroll, please.
This is subject to change. As of... well, as of the time I finished typing, pretty much. What about you?
- UK Garage. (and the attendant rise of Craig David.) Not even on early-morning weekend TV can I penetrate the mystery. Maybe it's 'cause I'm not Shortee Blitz. Sigh.
- Physics. Take it past the theoretical model of two elephants on a see-saw, and I'm lost. This will change, I'm sure. Just keep those equations away from me at the moment. I may go into shock if I see too many Greek glyphs in one space.
- How people can drink VB and live. I know it's part of Being A Student, or, indeed, Being An Aussie, but it smells like a crafty publican has wrung out his beer spill-mats from the bar, and funneled the resultant spume into a bottle. And it tastes even worse. Old, any day.
- Scientology. From all I've read (side note: XENU!), it's a big vat full-o-strangeness, with an extra load of bizarre weirdness tipped in for good measure. Suspicious deaths, aliens and the abortionate Battlefield Earth, all in one entity? Jesus.
- The difference between haute cuisine and arsing around in the kitchen. Seriously; some people can whip up delicacies with ease and panache. I can reheat chicken and splunk in some pesto. The culinary divide seems impossibly wide - so how to cross? I wish I knew. That way, I'd be able to remove the words "instant" from my kitchen vocabulary, and proudly.
- How to be socially graceful. Apparently, I seem to be pretty adroit at the party conversational thing - if only I could convince myself of that. Strangers? Talking? Me? Eek.
- Harry fucking Enfield. Say no more.
- Dubya. Proof that anyone can succeed in America: the only point of contention being whether he should or not.
- Processed cheese. The bane of schoolkids everywhere. I'm not going to comment on the hyper-yellow evil that is processed cheese (especially - gasp - cheese in a can!) because it'll undo all those years of gastronomic therapy...
- Buffy. I've watched. I've tried. But to no avail. Sorry, Tom.
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Tuesday, July 17, 2001
Cruising through IMDB's polls archive is a particularly numbing experience. Partially, it's because some of the questions are inherently fanboy (I would care about Madeline Kahn's most memorable role why, exactly?) but also because the range of inquiry goes from the sublime to the ridiculous in one fell scroll. Have a look around. After all, how else would I know which "hooker with a heart-of-gold" film was the best? Or which film featured the best "person hiding in bathroom stall" scene? (Pretty Woman and Austin Powers, natch.) It's all a little pointless, but remember: without such canvassing, we'd not know who'd win in a bitch-fight between the Blair Witch and Samantha from Bewitched. The outcome of which is something that makes me a little happier with this world, y'know.This post has been brought to you by the letters "d", "f", and the statement "what the fuck am I on about?". All rights reserved.
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I did this test a couple of days ago, to find that I am, reputedly, schizotypal; a fact gleaned, presumably, by the fact that I answered the in the affirmative to questions about using involved, befuddling language. Pah. If that's the case, every ex-sub in the universe is schizotypal. Which is a distinct possibility. I don't, however, think that taking such a test is indicative of a desire to be told something's up with you. I took it out of interest, more than reinforcement, as Meg suggests. But then, I'm sure my latent paranoia's taking care of that front quite nicely.
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From the overworked and under-appreciated gem that is Jen comes news of an updated Babelfish-worrying script. Click here and procede to mangle English in ways which even I can't successfully manage. NB: Any webpage with a quote from The Little Prince on it is worth a look.
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Apparently, it's been around the block a couple of times, but it's entirely new to me - this is a gorgeous version of the Periodic Table. If they'd had teaching tools like this when I was doing Chem at school, maybe I'd've paid more attention, instead of farting around with the gas taps. (Which eventually resulted in almost robbing a fellow classmate of his hair, coincidentally.)
[via found]
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Monday, July 16, 2001
The ever-erudite Jeff has unveiled a gallery, containing shots he took in bars using an X-Files-esque flash system. It's called Invisible Darkness, and can be viewed here. The slideshow will take a while to load up, but it's worth your time - it's an excellent collection of barroom faces, with a strange ghostliness to them that sets them apart from much I've see. Damn, but the man's good.link | Mail me. |
Back in the office on a Monday. The expanse of blue that I can see through my window (well - all right; white shot through with the occasional blue patch) isn't exactly filling me with a "work is good" kind of mentality. But hey. Friday night, a rationed purchase: a copy of Michel Foucault's Madness and Civilisation, the first step on the long road to Gettin' Luke Some Book Learnin'. I look forward to it, if only because it's going to be the leap in - university's half-forgotten lectures aside - to the world of Continental philosophy, about which I feel distinctly stupid. Any clues?
I spent most of Saturday in here, in an attempt to get some work done, which was largely unsuccessful. Reading followed, as did some well-liked sleep.
Sundays are starting to become fairly regimented: wake up late, read a lot, amble up to Hampstead to drool over the cornucopia of titles available in the exceedingly well-stocked Waterstones (I came back with another of my rationed purchases: a copy of The Art of Memory by Francis Yates, an account of the history of brain-maps et al. Yes, I'm aware that it was responsbile for some parts of Hannibal, but I've had my eye on it for some time.), down some evil coffee product, then back home for more reading. As it was the week before, so it was yesterday - with the notable addition of more Big Bjørn tinkering. Big Bjørn is not the product of a deranged geek-fu version of Tom of Finland (or Sweden, even) - he is a chunky-ass Powermac 8500 that has, care of the lovely Magnus and Rachel, joined our household. See his 133t OS8.6! Hear his Hard Disk Spindown of Death! Fear the incredibly large collection of abandonware that resides on his cavernous HD. Oh yes. You go, LodeRunner boy!
Er. Yes.
Anyway, after much cajoling and manipulating of extensions, Big Bjørn is up and running, a veritable '90 games machine. Rock. More computers, I say! Though, it must be said that the saving grace of the household is that none of the machines is networked. Thank God.
Late last night - early this morning, if you want to be technical about it - I finished Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. And it's breathtaking. I can't remember when I've enjoyed reading a book so much. It's not Tolstoy, sure, but it's certainly head and shoulders about most chick/poplit that gets flogged in 3-for-2 sales. It sounds twee to suggest that it's a wonderful tale shot through with sadness, but that's exactly what it is - suck on that, Frank McCourt! You should go out and read it, least of all because it's about comics, housing and the '50s and Harry Houdini. Just go. Chabon's site is worth a look too. Hell, it's gor a phrenological head on it - what more could you want?
(Coincidentally; if anyone wants to compile me a philosophical reading list, or any sort of brainlist, then please mail me with your suggestions. Philosophy, history, literary criticism, esoterica - I'm up for it all.)
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