28.02.05..4:21 pm
OFFICIALLY BACK FROM THE LAPSE INTO UNEMPLOYED STUDENT I�m back at work and I just don't know. It IS weird, but it does feel nice to know that I�ll be getting paid for all the madness and the tears and the worry.. on the other hand, I�m starting to poo myself about impending madness and tears and worry which means that I will very shortly begin to resent the hell out of this lot of madness and tears and worry. What I really need is for a copy of the demo The Bishop�s have been recording to get leaked to Sony BMG, and get offered up a multi-million pound record deal, so then M can support me and my dream. And as soon as I�ve finished my PhD, I would promise to support him. we will take it in turns. It will be great. No, really. Still getting lots done though. (Huzzah broadband! Huzzah properly pixelated screen! Huzzah not having to think about paying for toilet paper/juice/coffee! Not that I�ve been drinking enough of it. I�m so tired I want to drop. Drop like a Newtonian apple. From the apple tree of gravity. On the planet of mathematical/physical phenomena. I also want to read. Poo. I�ve been reading If on a winter�s night a traveller which is bemusing and enchanting. Bemusing not because it�s so difficult to read (rather it�s a very fast read, and quite easy to follow), but because Italo Calvino puts forward such an interesting challenge to the conventional reader-author relationship. The �I� of the novel is exchanged for the varying �I�s of readship and authorship, the narrator imbued with the �I� of ten other �I�s, forcing reader and narrator to simultaneously distance themselves and become so entwined they are inseparable, the �You� and �I� engage in a brutal face-off in which neither is allowed to perish. It reminds me a bit of the experience of reading Our Lady of the Flowers. I�ve decided that I want to write on the Goons Show or the Pink Panther (metafiction and comedy as the sublimation of Post-/Cold War psychological trauma) for Postmodernism and if that condescending unimaginative half-baked cookie doesn�t like it, he can stuff it up his creamy filling. AND BECAUSE THIS UPDATE HAS NO SENSE OF COHERENCE WHATSOEVER I NOW PRESENT TO YOU: MY WEEKEND BY MEEP (SPONSORED BY BOOZE AND MORE BOOZE) I handed in the essay on Friday and was pissed by 4pm as I�d not had a drop to drink in about five weeks. James and I sat in the pub being very loud about metafictional intrigue, hierarchical authorship and our sex lives and then ran to the library to very loudly take out Casino Royale and Plan 9 from Outer Space. I passed out to Casino Royale (Bond first, always) by 9.45pm having scoffed a third of a four pack of Rolo�s with dangerously-out-of-date-but-steamed-so-it�s-fine-AND-organic-besides rocket/watercress/spinach salad and baked beans on toast. When I awoke at 11.30pm there was a chimp wearing a beret and an ascot blowing bubbles and a pair of sea loins nibbling each others neck on the screen. I was ragingly hungover (complete with Kingsley Amis� small creature of the night scurrying my eyes for bedding before making a mausoleum out of my mouth). The house was empty and couldn�t bring myself to go back to sleep so I watched the film twice more. FOUR HOURS LATER M crawls in. He�d been at the Ash concert at the Marquee, having taken full advantage of the open bar he fell onto Leicester Square at some time just past 12.30 with no idea where he was and promptly hopped on the first bus he came across. Which took him to Sydenham. On the outskirts of The Middle of Buttfuck Nowhere South London. He thinks he found a cab, but we�re still not sure how he ended up staggering up the stairs holding a measuring jug of water. I�m unable to make sense of anything today. I am much more manic today than even yesterday when I woke up by clambering on top of him and wriggling like hive of very friendly little bees. (It really was as sexy as all that too, he finally batted me off and I slunk off to the other side of the bed to watch cartoons and play with my toes.) Would that could do that now. I�m instead dramatic, exhausted and sore (for the past two weeks my breasts have felt like someone steamrollers them in a gravel pit and then rather hurriedly inflated them with helium) and my period started for no explicable reason this morning taking me completely by surprise. And so although I really do feel gross and belly and poo and I shouldn't, I am taking up M�s offer of midnight pizza and b-movies and ice cream like a whore takes up her first speedball. Tentatively, yet with the breathless excitement of knowing it will take away all the pain. Because it's pizza. And b-movies. And ice cream. WITH NOWHERE ELSE TO PUT THIS IT GOES AT THE ENDI think I might have lost weight. I've not worn my work trousers for over a month (because in my last couple of weeks I lived in rebellion my jeans) and look like MC Hammer ca. 1992 is my God.****meep, like lightning in july
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