:: Saturday, February 28, 2004 ::
I got PXed today, which hasn't happened in a long time, a very pretty postcard of Death with a "Brief Lives" quote from someone called Navarre Ankh, who's, as she signed it, "more of a delirium kind of girl." I... well, I'm ashamed to admit I'd totally forgotten about postcardx, but now I want to buy a book of stamps and get into it again. 'Cause, you know, with the costumes and the sketches and the snatches of writing, I'm just not being creative enough. No wonder lookatmenow asked me to spell "facetious" the other day.
:: Wednesday, February 25, 2004 ::
Today is beautiful. I don't know what the temperature is, exactly, but in my kind of terms, it's a teeshirt + hoodie, window down, radio up, sing loud kind of day. Days like this I want to hang it all, buy a guitar, and run away. All that really matters is that it's finally almost Spring. And the progression goes like this; after Spring, it'll be Summer, barring some bizarre and unseen turn of events, of course, and after Summer, or at the end of it at least, I'm getting the hell out of here. I hope. Gotta find something interesting to do with the interim days, of course, but I'm getting pretty good at that.
I'm house-sitting for this weekend for mum and dad and all the cats; Devil Kitty's been spending all his time over there since Wednesday torturing mum's three cats, which is very, very nice for my sleep, but I've been spending the night at the old house since Thursday, and... it's spooky. I forgot how much, but last night I'd finished a couple more chapters of Low Red Moon, and was watching TV with the sound nearly off (c'mon, Bedazzled was on), when I swear I heard someone distinctly, and actually kind of politely, cough. Eep. I spent the next half hour or so wide-eyed and very much awake in the room that doesn't have a second story but sounds in quiet moments like someone's walking above.
I should throw away the Chinese food delivery menu that got dropped in my mailbox this afternoon. But we know I won't. I should be out enjoying what's left of the day, too....
:: murmur 2/28/2004 05:35:00 PM [+] ::
You represent... angst.
You have an extremely cynical outlook on just about
everything. It's okay to sulk and be
depressed, but life is short, and you only get
one. It's only what you make it, and only you
can make it improve.
What feeling do you represent?
brought to you by Quizilla
:: murmur 2/25/2004 11:31:00 PM [+] ::
:: Wednesday, February 18, 2004 ::
I had thought, until about fifteen minutes ago, that my upstairs neighbor had taken up tap dancing. And it wasn't a problem; I was used to that sort of thing from living in the dorms, it's not very late at night yet, and at the rate the tap-taps were landing on my ceiling, she was pretty good. But then the tap-taps turned into sort of...drip-drips, and I got a little worried. I got up from the computer chair, a monumental task this time of night, and went over to the door, to discover a few little lines of water trickling down the top of the doorframe, down the age-crack in the heavy wooden door, and a few little dribbles on the sill. And it's gotten faster. And I can still hear the pipe-echo of a shower running upstairs. I'd like to keep my ceiling all night, thankyouverymuch. And, of course, the message that gets saved on my cell phone isn't the landlord giving me his new telephone number, it's an "It's Nepthys, call me," and one from mum rambling on for ten minutes about where she parked my car at the airport last weekend. (Instead of saying, "It's the first car in the last row on the right," which would have been easier, the message was more along the lines of "weeeeell, I kind of parked it in a row on the top level, beside some other cars, and I should have parked in the economy lot now that I think about it and saved you some money, but it's there now, and....I hope you can find it, have a good flight.", and I had to wait for the entire message to play before I could get to the next one, while looking very nervously upwards.)
It's an old house, keep your fingers crossed for me.
Last night was Mardi Gras...and I didn't do a damn thing. I went to sleep even before 'Fecia got home from work; probably because my day off was spent like most Tuesdays meeting mum for breakfast. Poor mum, who thinks that 8am is sleeping in. But, we went to Hannah's for lunch and had strawberry pretzel salad, so that kind of made up for the loss of sleep. I'm not getting sick, I will not catch this flu that everyone and their mother and her dog has right now, I can't. If I want to get a week off at the end of next month (which I'd better start sucking up for anyway) I can't miss a single day.
Since I didn't get to indulge in any fun vices last night for Fat Tuesday, I decided to squeeze in as many of them as I could today. It wasn't really a conscious decision, since I'm not at all Catholic and don't do the Lent thing, but I smoked a couple of cigarettes in the car and listened to some really loud punk music and bought myself a bag of caramel chocolates because I believe they really do make cramps feel better, even if they don't help the way my pleather pants fit. We're not going to talk about the way my pleather pants fit right now. If I were up to it, I'd have a glass of chartreuse before bed and complete the list of vices, but...ehh. I'll just take the sugar cube.
I'm afraid of something else, too. Something's been looking over my shoulder lately, and I'm not sure what it is, but every once in a while it'll poke me in the back or grab on to my heart, a tiny attack of...existential panic. And I don't know what it is. It might be the tiny numbers that make up my bank statement, or the bigger ones that make up the Visa bill, or the one-year mark approaching since the fortune-teller talked to me, or having to finally figure out what I'm doing with my damn life within the next few months, but maybe next time it makes a grab for me, I'll grab back and drag it into the light. Stupid cowardly Fear, the least he could do is show me who he is.
The trickling's almost stopped now; the tapping of the keyboard is louder than the dripping now, so I'm not worried about the whole ceiling caving in in a soggy mess on me...not tonight, anyway. Let's just hope the upstairs neighbor doesn't take morning showers, too.
:: murmur 2/25/2004 11:00:00 PM [+] ::
Mmmm....weekend away, escape.
:: Monday, February 09, 2004 ::
Friday kicked ass. I left Devil Kitty at mum and dad's for the weekend and got up arse-early to take a plane... then there was Fecia at the gate and Nepthys at claims and there was a car ride and, after a couple hours...there was Staten Island. Again. And the Wag. Again. Not willing to stay too long and upset memories better left buried, we picked up Nick and got out of there as soon as possible. It was too bad we didn't get to see Mags while we were there, but she must come to I-Con or we must see her this spring or something. Anyway, there was an...unplanned....layover at Dunkin Donuts, but then there was the hotel and chinese food and vodka in our embarassingly huge room and then the kids went back downstairs, and so for us there were, uh.. valentine's day presents to open.
The wedding was, well...pretty damn early, and I didn't say anything but I was quite proud of all four of us for being awake and dressed and pretty by ten o'clock. There was a cute little house on the bay, and mimosas in the lobby and lots of "I haven't seen you in a long time," and lots of old men with beards and young men with ponytails staring at nick, but that's to be expected... and then there was being herded into the main room with tulle and balls of flowers overhead and a purple bridesmaid and then Gloria in her big white dress... Nep and I cried, up until the part where the minister said "Welcome to the Magic Kingdom of love" and just about everybody giggled at that. And there was talking and gossip and drinks and food, god so much food, and about halfway into dinner I looked around the six-foot round table with all of us sitting in front of plates and glasses all in a circle and had another moment like none of us had ever left. There was more talking and hugging and promises to come back as soon as I can make it northwards again, and then back to the Hotel with some fruit juice and the rest of the liquor and Ahnold and four adults jumping on the beds downstairs. Oh, and I looked pretty good, too. I like this being-skinnier-than-the-last-time-most-of-my-school-friends-saw-me business. I'll have to do it again. And oh, yeah, more Valentine's Day...stuff.
Oh, but Sunday. But Sunday. I got to the airport fine....stayed in the airport about two hours longer than I'd have liked to, though. Apparently one of the de-icers on the little shoebox plane that was supposed to take us to Cleveland was broken, and although the plane can fly perfectly fine without it, there's all those nasty regulations, so instead of taking off at 6:07, it was more like 8:15....and I'd missed my connection back to Lexington by about half an hour. So the lovely people of Northwest Airlines shuffled the lot of us off to the Cleveland Airport Holiday Inn for the night with a meal voucher for McDonald's, 'cos it was the only place open at 7 at night on a Sunday in a tiny airport like Albany, and I spent a few hours there, falling asleep to Adult Swim and generally wishing I didn't have to get up at 5 the following morning to go all the way to farking Detroit so I could go home again.
But I looked good...
:: murmur 2/18/2004 11:39:00 PM [+] ::
"Hello. The item that is up for sale is something I don’t think that any person who is deeply religious would want. It is a toaster. Now before you close the browser or hit the “return to list of items” page, I need to tell you something about this toaster. Granted yes, it does toast bread like any other toaster would, but it also has something that no other toaster has- a soul."
:: Friday, February 06, 2004 ::
:: murmur 2/09/2004 02:49:00 PM [+] ::
:: murmur 2/06/2004 11:33:00 PM [+] ::
:: Thursday, February 05, 2004 ::
Tonight, I downloaded and read Cory Doctorow's book "Eastern Standard Tribe." I'd gotten to boingboing.net somehow, 'cause I was bored after my nap, and I'd remembered the recommendation from glitch from a few days ago.
I read the whole thing in front of the computer tonight, and it... well, it's really cool. I get it, where I couldn't get into William Gibson straightaway, and the creative commons publishing thing is really neat. I'm not going to get into any more analysis, 'cause it's time for bed, but hey... go read the book and then we can talk about it.
:: murmur 2/06/2004 12:21:00 AM [+] ::
:: Tuesday, February 03, 2004 ::
The idea was to dress about 20 men in distinctive black attire, white shirts and black rubber ties, and train them to shout some of the most beloved songs in Finland.
"It's like a normal choir."
:: murmur 2/05/2004 09:01:00 PM [+] ::
Super rad razor cage!
I will vacuum the floor, and often. As I'd suspected, the manual carpet sweeper is good for a wig stand and not much else, and it really is so nice to be able to tell the carpet's black again.
I will clean the bathroom more than every once in a while. After what I saw on Sunday....yeeeuch.
Only bakery bread for me from now on. During Sunday's cleaning spree, I picked up a loaf of wheat bread from the top of the cabinets that had been there for, what, six weeks? Curious, I opened the package, and... it was fine. It was like nothing had happened to it, not weeks' worth of shower steam from the nearby bathroom, not the abundance of intervening time... it looked exactly the same and was just as soft as the day I'd brought it home from the store. No more preservatives. Come to think of it, it couldn't hurt to eat a vegetable once in a while.
Similary, I am no longer allowed to make pancakes without supervision.
I was in Wal-Mart tonight buying digital camera batteries, hairspray, and a Dairy Milk bar, which is exactly the sort of thing a hip young girl-on-her-own does in this city, when a voice came over the intercom announcing that a customer needed assistance in the razor cage. Razor cage? Wow. It conjured up images of a no-holds-barred deathmatch in a steel cage somewhere in the automotive department where shirtless hillbillies in trucker hats fought it out. Huh. They really do have everything at Wal-Mart.
I also actually heard (well, read) someone using the phrase "super rad" today, which makes me think that I'm just going to give up on language--any language-- altogether. That is, before someone tries to sell me a "super rad razor cage" teeshirt or anything. I'll just be communicating in grunts and gestures from now on.
I've been on another freaky foreign movie kick lately... the first was Jean Cocteau's very, very pretty "Beauty and the Beast," in French with subtitles, and the same age as my mom. The thing that sticks out the most in my mind is the long hallway in the Beast's palace with real painted-white arms holding up iron candelabras and unfolding as Belle or her father walked along the passage. The ending disturbed me, though. Instead of the Beast/prince turning out to be a handsome, wonderful gentleman who is nothing at all like the man back at home who's trying to get Belle to marry him, he is in fact played by the same actor who was the gambling drunken country idiot that Belle had apparently been pining for the whole time she was at the castle, just in a better outfit, while country boy falls into a pit and dies. Belle flies off with the prince, and both of them seem very pleased that he looks just like the man she "loves." That's not romantic. It's weird.
And, on the subject of weird, last night's movie selection was "The Pillow Book," a movie about a japanese woman whose father calligraphs a birthday greeting on her cheeks, forehead, lips, and the nape of her neck every year when she's a little girl, and who in her adult life demands that all her lovers write with paintbrushes and ink on her body. It was very nice, visually-- they'd had in a special lighting designer to throw characters in japanese, english, ancient egyptian, and a few other languages in light on the walls in certain scenes, very arty and pretty. A large portion of the movie featured Ewan McGregor nude and painted with the text of a book the girl was writing on him, and one of my favorite scenes was one in which Ewan McGregor's character, a translator, paints the Lord's Prayer in three languages across the girl's body. Very nice.
I had a dream about the restaurant last night, as I often do, but this time there was a rude man at a table, making fun of my stutter. In the dream I remember walking away from the table and refusing to return, but if I could go back and pick up the dream-thread where I woke up, very upset, I'd kick his ass. There's only a certain amount of server abuse I'll put up with, even in dream lands.
Anyway, happy Imbolc everyone, even if I am a day late, and since I didn't watch the news yesterday, who can tell me whether or not the overfed February rodent saw his shadow or not?
Oh, and it's about time. About fucking time.
:: murmur 2/03/2004 10:05:00 PM [+] ::