2004-09-29..3:17 p.m.

I need to get some of this internet shit happening at home. Or, I need to stop caring about whether or not Work (capital W indicating �singularly important�) gets done or whether or not Work (capital W indicating personification of abstract) sees my constant cyber abuse. I also need smudge-proof lenses for my glasses. I don�t know if it�s just the fresh clean air of London, or if I really am constantly banging sticky fingers (from all the sweet sweet honey I�ve been indulging in lately? Spunk?) against my glasses all day, but man are they filthy.

I started Uni yesterday, successfully attending my first class and seminar with neither lateness nor impunity. �Intellectual Contexts� is the name; Helen and Derval are the profs; the lecture is in the Council Room in the Laurel Grove Bath House* and will be led by different speakers from the department each week giving us a firm grounding in their separate disciplines thus allowing us to ascertain who will be the most appropriate person to go to for thesis guidance; the seminars are made of two groups split evenly from the lecture, mine is led by Helen and consists of seven other students making the total the elfin lucky 9.

*at one time an actual bath house, enter through the Men�s doors, which I find secretly kind of funny with the penetration, but am a little disturbed that the Women�s �entrance� has been blocked up.
**Helen is great! Maddeningly intelligent. She�s a positive wealth of information and ideas, but has a tendency to sort of break down and cease to be able to function along the lines of intelligible conversation, or sentence construction when she gets excited. I think I like her so much because (without the wealth of knowledge and ideas bit)(or at least schmancy clever ones like hers) my own articulacy never fails to fail whenever I have a particularly exciting scheme I�m frothing about.

And Now: A List:

1. I DIDN'T take a shower this morning (and even if I had wanted to, I wouldn't have been able as The Stupid [Re: The Stupid People I Live With] were occupying the bathroom for about half an hour and I had no time to wait. I did manage to walk to work this morning though AND be early! Whoo! Go Team! Whoo!) but I did manage to buy a toothbrush at lunch. It is now reigning benevolently over the contents of the lower drawer of two to my right. It was ceremoniously introduced to my teeth half an hour ago; the reception was welcome. It�s accompanying tube of Macleans� Cool Mint Toothpaste made similar acquaintance at the same time, and was heartily greeted. In all, my teeth are extremely happy with the purchase (or should I say, my Gums, as according to my dentist, What are Teeth without Gums?)(Short answer �Nothing,� long answer takes more than just one visit.)

2. Last night I partook in some very unexpected latenight sex which resulted in post-coital melting into subconscious like none other, that was such decadent lovemaking.. I vaguely remember Matthew getting up to turn out the light, I vaguely remember being very beamy and giggly without the energy to beam and giggle aloud, I vaguely remember him wrapping around me all warm and furry, but I don't actually remember climbing off the floor and into bed!

3. In class yesterday, or rather in the seminar yesterday when Helen stepped out for a moment, I entertained myself by constructing an abstract poem stylised after TS Eliot's Rhapsody of a Windy Night. It made me a bit chortly, though I held it in. I don't want them all thinking I'm crazy just yet.

4. AHHHHH! Looking at new places tonight! AHHHHH! Ooooo. And de j'a vu too.. weird. O WEIRD! I love it, but I HATE this feeling. It's so disorienting. Especially when it's dream de j'a vu and so it's based on pre-established disorientation. Where was I? AHHHH!! That�s right. You see, I�ve been looking for a new flat and had found a new flat and everything was hunk dory until Monday night (7ish) I got a call saying �Sorry, the girl who�s room you were going to move into is no longer moving.� Which means that I now have (as of today) 8 days to find a new place to live. Eight. Numbers are funny things. They always look more impressive/intimidating when written out in full. Eight.

So yes. Tonight I�m re-engaging with the depreciating and demoralising quest to adequately prostrate myself before hoards (re: two) of unknowns.

More Mental Siphoning:

I had my interview with Ruth Minnikin on Monday. What a fab girl!! She is super easy to talk to, really friendly and open. I missed seeing her play as I had to jet off to a(nother) door related emergency (fixed before I got there) slash the Magic Numbers show (BRILLIANT! They are BRILLIANT!) down at the Marquee, but she played the Rats last night, and as it turns out I was working the door there. And I might be working the door down there on the 6th too, which would be most fortuitous (6 Oct. is due to be a giant Canadian extravaganza, which Ruth finds very amusing. �I came all the way to Britain to play with a Canadian band from Halifax�)(I think the �Canadian band from Halifax is called Muir, though it could be Muer, or Meiur, or some other variation on the phonetic theme)

I�m all excited to write this interview regardless, she gave me a copy of her full length, which is a mere six weeks old, so I�ll be able to let it swim through my fingers typy typy type when I get down to it next next weekend (because � hopefully � I�ll be moving next weekend.) It's funny. For a while I just wasn't getting the inspiration, or perhaps the drive, to sit and write. I could do the journal thing and the odd scrap of short story, but the very thought of sitting and coming up with an article that may in some way interest anyone seemed so daunting, so unimaginable. And even when I would pick up enough to get something written it was never good enough, I never seemed to get it all out. Quite crudely it was a form of mental constipation that hadn�t struck me with that level of severity since the middle of my second year at the uni. Interestingly, it was in the middle of my second year at uni that I applied for the position of Editor for one of the schools� femme-poli-arts mags, which seemed to have a rehabilitating affect the next year. Maybe it�s just timing. Maybe it�s a lack of daylight hours. Maybe I�m too happy to be of any use to the world of literary hopefuls.

Fucker. Just found out another place has been taken. This bites my arse harder than I could dream up a metaphor.

****meep