for history! for science!

I feel pretty today. It's bloody fantastic. Why don't I do this every day? Have to make a record of it while it is still true.

CYOA infection spread

Arthur Miller is mad and is going ahead with his own choose your own adventure, kicking off tomorrow. Wheeeeeeeee! Cannae wait to be on the other side of the writing. Good luck with your exam, sir.

Now I'm to bed before I look at the clock and find 4 hours missing.

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• 11:12 this whole waking up tired thing is getting pretty old. #
• 11:13 muttergrumblerhubarbrhubarbrhubarb... #
• 11:13 suppose i should put some pants on and get going... #

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legume

When I started talking to people, they'd nod, look up, and their whole face would change. Whatever I was saying was overridden with "are you alright?"

Yes. Actually, I am.

I've felt pretty good the last couple of weeks. Solid. Not unraveling. Not crazy. Good enough to make a statement about being good and not fear that the World probably has my blog on an RSS feed and will take that revelation as a challenge and do its best to render that very statement invalid.

Which triggers this reaction in people, this sudden and sincere concern, followed by a second question as clearly I'm giving off some horrible vibe that cannot be reassured away with a simple "yeah".

Very few people actually asked that when I wasn't alright. I'm pretty sure I'm not horrendously ugly right now. Methinks I'm so good at camouflaging my state of mind that I broadcast that which is not; ergo, now I'm okay, people are convinced I'm SERIOUSLY NOT WELL.

Maybe I should start wearing make up or something. Maybe that'd help.

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• 11:54 @tmofee nope, just walking home at midnight. (Orion is the saucepan down here.) #
• 13:48 @serifs gogogogogo #

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I thought that one might make it to the window frame, but the sky twisted and wrenched and tore it and breathed it in. Are you seeing the violence in this sunny day? This last big one isn't going to make it either. The sky is ravenous.

I'm going outside.

There are three more, sailing by. The sky inhales them before they cross the first window pane. As I type I'm watching one, two, disappear.

There's one tiny scrap of cloud up in the big clear sky. It's small and lonely and fat, like a cloud drawn in a child's picture. The wind carries it fast, and it stretches, and it isn't fat at all, but bunched up, now reaching out like an animal in gallop, and even as I watch the sky breathes it in and it's gone.

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• 23:40 There's Orion, falling head first to the horizon. #
• 23:43 I spooked a black cat, and it ran across my path. Doomed, right? #

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• 13:20 @goblindegook you can't reveal such things without then posting said artwork and allowing the internet to for its own opinion on the matter. #
• 14:17 Wild and woolly day, 17 minutes till the train comes. #
• 23:51 This room is my room no longer. #

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BAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWW

flotsam

Dave inserted some line breaks and made exquisite poetry of my noodle cooking instructions. As far as instructions went, they didn't really work, which is clearly because they were a poem in disguise. Only a highly-tuned poet whisperer could tame the beast.

The WWF sent me a postcard that was so excited about the pledge to protect and preserve the forests in Sumatra there were more exclamation marks than full stops. It's my favourite piece of charity mail I've received. It just reeks of glee. "If you pass a tree today, give it a hug, and tell it that its cousins in Sumatra are safe, at last."

(I didn't hug a tree, but I did tell the big gum out the front of my building the good news.)



Someone at work gave me a giant jelly frog (safely contained from overtaking the world in a plastic wrapper) and an old school lollypop of strawberry and yoghurt, wrapped in wax paper. I'm quite taken with the sort of 'lolly classification' on the side there. I has a masticable!

I could hold out no more, and bought the Lonely Planet Tibet Guide. I can't not go. Managed to find a tour that does what I want and goes to (most of) the places I want to go and is listed in Australia dollars and thus won't suddenly get expensive the next time the economy has a hissy fit. Those of you with keen eyes may note a couple of sections have been taped up - they're the areas I'm not going. I don't want to know what I'm missing.

Is anyone else's heart just breaking over the Phoenix Mars Lander being swallowed by a martian winter and loosing the sun and turning its heaters off and freezing up and barely whispering to the passing trackers and dying all alone in the dark on another planet? I love those tweets, such a happy little robot, so excited to be scooping dirt around! The lander is guest-blogging on Gizmodo. Momento mori.

Also; I hate sleep.

for archiving and propaganda purposes

• 17:26 @sorola heh, that's standard dream fare for me. #
• 17:54 Don't fuck with me, washing machine. I've only had three hours sleep, and I have a hammer. #
• 18:18 Thank you, washing machine. I'm glad we see eye to eye on this matter. #
• 18:21 Ice cream, banana and strawberries for dinner second night in a row. Internet has exploded. Winding up the hermit engine shutting down comp- #

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• 12:32 @hellofeast I lol'd that tweet and stuck a star on it. #

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lustrous, bright, soft and nutrient

I was after soba noodles, but my local supermarket had none, so I picked these up instead, hoping they were a rought equvalent (they're not, they're for soup, not cold and dry). When I was prepping them I read the instructions on the back, and thought I would share them with you. 'cause they're pretty special.



I'm not sure what 'souted' is, and just cooked them the normal way I cook every and any sort of noodle. I particularly like the 'specialty' ribbon wrapped around each bunch. Could easily replace the word with 'caution', or 'toxic material'.

They're really nice noodles, by the way.

Aight, after this I promise not to blog again tonight.*

I subscribe to a daily cartoon at Harold's Planet, and I must share this one with you.


*unless something important comes up. Like a spider, or chocolate ice cream, or something.

The Atrocity Archives - Charles Stross

buy - author site

I picked this up at worldcon in LA when I was pilfering the Golden Gryphon table for Fords and Macleods and Vandermeers and this got thrown in my bootay pile as an afterthought. What with the books I'd actually sought out, I figured if it was keeping such fine company in the press, then it'd be to my taste too. Had vague memories of it being recommended.

Three years later, got around to picking it up from the shelf, discovered that, like One Hundred Years of Solitude, I had no idea what it was about or what I was getting myself into.

I actually kinda like that.

At any rate, sys admin versus elder god wasn't quite what I was anticipating. Nor was the prose style. In fact, it shat me to goddamn tears. Bob, being Mr Protagonist, has a singularly irritating voice that raised in me the urge to innocently ask him stupid tech support questions just to see if I could make a vein throb in his forehead. Then feed him decaf. It's a tone that never abated. I know a writer shouldn't assume the reader has knowledge of the subject at hand, but then going on to assume the reader is therefore a dumbass and needs to be spoken to in patronisingly small words isn't cool. I dun like being talked down to, and man, Bob talks a lot. Actually, he explains a lot. It isn't so much a story as a big series of explanations and recaps and summaries, whether it be of some techo-magic gadget's functions or what is going on, right now, on this page. OR NOT ON THIS PAGE, as kept occurring, all the stuff happened off page and the reader only learns everything after the fact in Bob's many debriefing sessions, and augh! Frustrating!

And yet utterly addictive to the point where I was making quick dips into the book at work, between reports. So, irritating in that just can't leave you alone and am kinda in love with you way.

Bob is an agent for a super duper secret government department which exists to prevent the world from being over run by Bad Horrible Things From Other Places as well as keep the public in the dark about these Bad Horrible Things and in turn clean up any instances of accidental Bad Horrible Things that spring up from this enforced ignorance. It's a familiar set up, so I won't go into details about the particulars in The Atrocity Archive or The Concrete Jungle, as that would just smudge the joy of wading through all of Bob's oh-my-god-i'm-so-hard-done-by-and-everyone-is-stupid narration, which is, yes, a joy. Really.

I don't know if I'd venture into any of Stross's other work, as this wasn't quite to my taste, but I'd be lying if I said I'd avoid any further Bobish stories.

Verdict: Light-hearted tongue-in-cheek fun, with a side order of frustrating. Entertaining stuff at the least.

The Unblemished - Conrad Williams

buy - author site

AAAAARGGGGGHHHHHH.

No, wait-

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKkkkkk-ew omg wtf AAAAAAAARRRGGGGGHHHHH sf;klajweoijas;i;asejf;lksdajkl.

THAT WAS SCARY. THAT WAS GROSS. THAT WAS VERY UNSETTLING. All served on a 'this story is exceptionally well written and you can't stop reading it' platter. Williams is a stylist, and shows this off with careful and precise control. He does Very Bad Things and isn't the slightest bit coy about it. It's very clear what is happening, here on this page, just as it's very clear what is in my fridge - these things just are. When he throws away lines full of gore and bodies, it is not left to my imagination, I know exactly what he means, and he's made sure of it.

Eeeee.

This is an end of the world due to uprising of unknown and hidden monster population. In the afterword Williams mentions that The Unblemished had to "be a London tale", and not something that starts in some small rural town somewhere, and he's right. There's no other way and no other setting this story could have unfolded in and still retained that sharp edge of authenticity. That a major city wouldn't notice the butchery going on within its confines until it was far, far too late is something I don't just believe, I know. Melbourne isn't even a smidgeon of London's size, but from my job I'm well aware how much can go on before any one notices something out of the ordinary. Monster apocalypse, if the monsters are on the sly and quick to learn how to camouflage themselves? Piece of cake. Probably already happening. DON'T AGREE WITH ME ON THAT LAST POINT. Which adds a huge chunk of latent fear to the whole book.

The book isn't without its hitches. While it is well balanced, there are moments of 'erm, I dunno what just happened' which never cleared themselves up. I'm still not sure exactly what occurred between Manser and Gyorsi and the fire, or how Gyorsi became Ray (actually, I just figured that out, but then why keep that face? Sarah recognised him later). And I might be touching on a cliché hiccough, but all the random females encountered were young and descriptions dwelled on how delectable they were more than any other type of person. The older asian woman with the headphones got two sentences of acknowledgment, the girl on the same train a couple of paragraphs. NPC guys didn't fare much better.

Towards the end the narrative seemed in danger of unraveling, just as the fabric of society had already done, but never actually fell apart. It ended the only way the world can end, and I was so relieved to have lived through it and be able to close the damn cover and get away from the fug of fear and horror and desperation. Yes, this book actually scared the shit out of me. I read it on the train, which was a mistake (I actually did that with London Revenant as well, which is an even worse book to read on the train late at night). I read it when I couldn't sleep, home alone after midnight, which was an enORmous mistake, as it scared the sleep right out of me, and couldn't keep from opening my eyes every few seconds because I had to be sure, you know, really sure that there was no one else in the room. About to eat me.

Eeeeeee.

AGAIN! AGAIN!

Verdict: I loved this book. I was addicted to this book. I was terrified of this book. Fuckin' OARSUM. Coming at the end of the world from a very unique angle. You read this. Yes.

One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel García Márquez

buy - author site

I don't remember when I first heard of this book, back in university I think. It's been recommended so many times over the years, it has always existed in my sphere of knowledge. It's lived on my bookshelves for about a year, and yet, when I selected it and opened to the first page, I discovered that I had no idea what the book was about and absolutely no expectations of my own, other than it be extraordinary.

Expectation met and exceeded.

If like me, you intend to read the book but like me have no idea what it is about and want to keep it that way, stop reading this, go out and read the book. Yes? Yes. Now be gone with you.

It documents the rise and fall of one family, and in doing so the rise and fall of the town of Macondo, and in doing so the passage of history, and in doing so the tricks of memory, and in doing so we end up where we started. It's full of strange and strong characters, and strange and ordinary miracles, little mysteries, big mysteries, and in truth, the wonders never cease. I read on, and on, wondering how the Buendía family would cope with this new hardship, this tragedy, this scandal, this surprise, as the narrative unfolds the way every day life unfolds; without reason, logic or neatness. There is no respite, because there never is, and while all things change, nothing really changes.

I did have some trouble with the names, as the family follows that fine tradition of naming their children after their forebears, and I lost track of all the José Arcadios and Aurelianos as more and more turned up with each generation, and tramped over the history of the last. Eventually, I gave up trying to keep them in order, which seemed appropriate as they barely kept themselves in order.

While the men dominate the world, it was the affairs of the women and the women themselves I loved the most. Although the family ends when the story ends, for me the true end came about with the death of Ursula. As Matriarch, she was the centre of the family for over a century, and thus the centre of the world. While her husband and sons and grandsons and great-grandsons fight wars, fall in and out of marriage, and closet themselves away in an attempt to unravel the secret of the gypsy's manuscript, she holds the universe together with all the strength and determination and thoroughness you'd expect of such a pioneer. In the last years of her life, with her sight gone and her touch with reality tenuous, she is granted perhaps the most clarity of them all. The insights she gains are those that come only from living so long, and through so much.

And, ah, Amaranta. I love you most of all.

I would comment on the theme of solitude, as it weaves in and out of the narrative, between characters, but I think the book has already said it all, and elegantly.

It is apparent, as the final sentence takes the family from existence and the town from the map that the manuscript that ensnared various men over the century is the very same book we are reading. Having read it, having taken on the knowledge it contains, we cannot unread it. The family is ended, the town gone, I cannot undo that.

Such is fiction.

Verdict: classics become classics because they earn the title, and continue to earn the title even as new stories are hatched every day. This is wonderful, and full of wonder.

Quickies

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay - Michael Chabon
It's beautifully written, with absolutely lush characters and some balance issues. It isn't really "the amazing adventures of kavalier and clay" so much as "the self-absorbed wanderings of kavalier with a guest appearances by clay", which grated my nerves. I sympathised and admired and occasionally envied Kavalier; I liked Clay. I don't believe there is much to be gained from writing up a report on a book it took me 8 months to read, regardless of exactly why it took 8 months. It isn't the book's fault I had "issues", but it remains the book I put down and didn't enjoy enough to pick up again for more than half a year.

Vampire Hunter D: Mysterious Journey to the North Sea (Part 2) - Hideyuki Kikuchi (trans. Kevin Leahy)
I don't even remember when I read part one, but it was a looong time ago. The intervening months were no obstacle to picking the story up again. I've a feel for these narratives now, it might look like a huge and complicated cast of characters, but the actual events unfolding are straight forward. This volume in the series has the distinction of containing the first real female character. While she is seventeen (THERE IS NO OTHER AGE FOR YOUNG WOMEN), she isn't staggeringly beautiful, or depressingly in-your-face tough but weak in all the wrong cliches, not constantly throwing herself at D, not ridiculously helpess, not a mere cardboard cut out to be The Girl. And not, thank all writing deities, just a sex thang being raped or under constant threat of rape. Su-In is possibly the first real character in the whole series, and I really liked her. It bodes well for future volumes.

D is, as always, D. Without personality. Kickin' butt and takin' names and making everyone hot in the pants.

Animal Farm - George Orwell
I'd never read this before. No idea why. Just because? I wanted to, but it didn't seem right, going out and buying a new one and Mum and Dad's copy was who knows where in all the books in the house. I pounced on this twenty-something year old copy that Paul was getting rid of, and the book-fetishist in me had a tizzy fit because it's the same design as my version of 1984. They match! They can hold hands and get the same hair cut and look good together!

At any rate, I almost didn't need to read it, having absorbed the story and its lessons via osmosis over the years. I don't feel I've much to add to the discussion regarding the story, so I shall refrain. It's a classic, hefty but tight little book, and utterly depressing. I took great delight in stirring Mum up by reminding her that BOXER DIIIIIIIIIIES.

But only because I want

By the way, I'm sober now. And I still love you.

<3

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• 23:09 5 sodding minutes to extract archive. #
• 23:09 50 sodding minutes to install patch. #
• 23:10 Think I'll go eat worms. #
• 23:21 @MattStaggs YES (for a given definition of 'yes'). #
• 23:34 askldjf;laskdjfa;lskdjf;alsfui;awoijva;isjfasd curses! foiled again! *escapes with a flashy whirl of cape* #

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Today is not my birthday. Again.

I don't have any cake, or any candles for that matter, with which to repeat the Flaming Lamington Fortress of last year, so I've made do with a couple of bits of bread and nutella.



Nom nom nom.

I'm split 50/50 on whether or not to acknowledge the date. Keeping mum is an admission that events some eleven years ago still affect me, and remarking on it here is the same, only public. But, well, any excuse to eat nutella, I say. Which is the whole motivation behind the exercise.

Free issue of Weird Tales

While I remember, for a limited time you can download the last issue of Weird Tales as PDF for free. It will set you back 13MB bandwidth and a couple of hours of your life to read it, which is a pretty good deal if you ask me.

Not as good as the real dead-tree object, though, I love the way the magazine is floppy, and falls open on the desk without a fight so I need not touch it to read it, and my fingers are always too dry and I have trouble gripping and turning the pages.

But you're not downloading it for floppiness. You're downloading it for stories.

Insects, Water, And

There's a honey bee in the bath tub.

Just one.

I look around, but can't find any others. I've no idea how it got in. The window is shut. The walls lack gaping holes. Mysterious.

It's trapped in a drop of water the size of my thumbnail. It's the only trace of water in the bath, and here it is, mired fast. I guess it was thirsty. Too thirsty not to fall in face first. It lies on its side, and as I watch, struggles to pull its wings free of the water tension. It spins. It fails.

First ants die in my kettle, now bees in the bathtub.

For a couple of weeks back there, I was good. And I mean good; not 'okay', not 'fine', I was seriously feeling good and great and peppy. I half thought that maybe feeling 'okay', the likes of which I haven't been for a long time, that simply not being in a clear-cut negative frame of mind was so unfamiliar that just 'okay' felt fucking awesome. But no, I was good. I felt cheerful, I felt hopeful. Who knows what brought it on, I don't know, I don't care, I only know that it was wonderful and I wish it was my default setting, I wish I had more days like that than I do.

I said to myself, walking through the carpark with a bag of bananas, that something good was going to happen.

That wasn't hope. I knew it as I know the ridges of my teeth. It was a truth. I went looking at people passing me, opening cupboards at home, because this good thing could be anywhere. I was certain of it.

Which should have triggered some alarms, because my certainty is generally fucked up.

Nothing good happened. That sunshine in my blood went away.

I'm okay.

Maybe it's this sleepfuck I'm going through, maybe it's this thing I read, that thing I discovered, these words I didn't hear, but water is rising. Maybe it has already risen, and I'm already under, and all I'm doing is watching ice form over the surface. As Kirsten said, it's coming up from below. I feel it tugging around the edges and that alone sends me into a panic, twists my gut, leadens my joins, I blaspheme, I don't want to go back.

I know these things come in cycles, nothing will last forever, everything passes, and I don't want to whinge...but after a year or so of poisonmind I was hoping for more than a couple of weeks of 'okay'.

I leave the bee where it is. It isn't strong enough. It's drowning in nothing.

don't you wish you'd never met her

It's like I'm at some party. I don't really know anyone here, and have managed to find niche and nook in the peripheral of groups, but I'm not engaging in any conversation and am drinking too fast. I'm nervous. Sleep is here. I caught a glimpse when I first arrived, and that was all it took. That one hard thump in my chest, and that shrinkage in my longer bones, and the party was doomed. At once devastated and ecstatic knowing I breathed the same air, inhabited the same space. Julius Caesar could have been present and I wouldn't have noticed. I've eyes only for Sleep.

Sleep doesn't even know I'm here. I force myself to remain, in this room, with this conversation about who knows what I'm not listening, because as much as I want to follow Sleep from room to room, I don't want to be some sad puppy dog chasing coat tails. It's enough to acknowledge the wreckage the sight of Sleep has done to me.

I watch as Sleep passes by the door, moving down the corridor, arms linked with some other man.

Another hard thump in my chest, further shrinkage in my bones. I can taste my jealousy, and wash my mouth with the last of my drink.

Someone else following Sleep pauses at the door, their gaze lingering and yearning. They turn and enter the room.

Oshitoshitoshit it's Insomnia. And there's an empty seat next to me.

Fuck.

I angle my body away, towards the group I'm not a part of, which helps not a bit. Insomnia makes a bee line for me, flops down heavily and too close and starts sounding off right away. Awkward sentences. Observations intended to be witty and clever but come off as try hard. Nervous laughter.

I feel like a toad, but I can't be seen with Insomnia, oh gods, imagine if Sleep saw me with Insomnia, it'd be a death sentence, a lifetime rejection. Not that it matters, Sleep is off somewhere sleeping with that man, but I can't, I really can't. I mutter something and get up, striding away with purpose and the illusion of direction.

I catch a glimpse of Sleep, lounging against a banister, one hand on a girl's arm. Thump. Shrink. Fuck. Keep moving.

There's a spare bench on the patio, and I slide on, giving those others at the table a nod. They read my posture, the jumpy dart of my eyes. One of them obliges and sits up, hiding me further.

Insomnia is not so green a hunter, and barrels out of the house with too much self-conscious bluster. A chair is snagged, steel legs screeching over the ground, and pulled up again much too close. Again, the prattle, the chatter, the inane comments that have no malice behind them but are so thoughtless as to be war-starting offensive. I give the others an apologetic shrug. Insomnia's embarrassing and embarrassed miasma chokes the patio. The group says something about it getting cold, and head inside. I follow.

There is Sleep, disappearing into a bathroom, pulling someone by the hand.

And this way, I destroy the entire party. With every passing encounter with Sleep, seeing that who I desire making out with every single other person present, bitterness hardens my joints and sets the line of my mouth. I sit myself at still other groups, knowing full well I bring about their doom as Insomnia, the one person I actively dislike, follows in my wake. The atmosphere is destroyed. People are leaving. I'm running out of cover. I run out of cover.

I sit on the couch where I started, staring at the carpet, and Insomnia talks to me. That voice is wearing away at my core, chiseling away the veneer of civilisation and polished manners, and fury raises its head to make a fitting companion of bitterness.

I tell myself this is fine. This entire situation is just fine. Sleep can go sleep with all the strays in the world. I don't care. Really. This is my choice.

I don't go as far as to make eye contact with Insomnia.

I'm fine. Really. I like it this way. I mean, I'm used to it. This is the way parties like this usually pan out, you know, I have a pathetic awkward loser magnet. People seem to think I want to listen. They just want to hear themselves talk, and need a cover. And Sleep, I mean, pfft. Who'd want that? Town bicycle, you know.

Insomnia never shuts up.

Five hours later, I'm in tears, but I can't leave, and Insomnia never shuts up. I'm on the verge, no, I am going to scream, the intent is there, the air is there, and Sleep walks into the room, nods at Insomnia, and holds out a hand.

I hate Sleep. I need Sleep. I'm starved and desperate and I take that hand without even the pretense of reluctance and let Sleep do away with me.

A couple of hours later, my alarm goes off. The bed is empty. Sleep is gone.

LOLarts

This is what happens when you only get three hours of sleep every night for a week; events pass you by. I mean to blog this earlier.

LOLarts just took place in San Francisco, an art exhibition celebrating LOLcats, something that started as an internet macro and has become something of an arts movement, generating it's own language, cultural gravitas, internal logic and a whole lot of laughter.

Andrew Macrae was one of the artists exhibited, putting his typewriter to work once again. He has uploaded the pieces on his art blog acid head war. His typewriter art has been featured twice by BoingBoing. Also, he rocketh muchly.

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• 17:56 Internal logic engine is churning nothing but contradictions. The mindscape is at war. #

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• 12:50 @ronji i see that every other night; i'm guessing there's scheduled downtime which lands in the australian evening. #
• 22:05 I have escaped work with one (1) sausage in my bag. Although only a one off occurrence, this is a fine development. #
• 22:44 Honeysuckle is a fine compensation for having to walk home late at night. #
• 22:46 @MattStaggs This cheese kransky was born of the best sausage-makers in Melbourne, and it is MINE, PRECIOUS, MINE, IT CAME TO ME. #
• 23:09 @ciabatta *petpetpet* #
• 23:10 At the tone it will be 12:09am...dit...dit..dit...beeeeeep. BAKING TIME. #
• 00:02 @MattStaggs I hope your fresh and virginal Wednesday includes dinosaur biscuits. Mmmm. With little piggies. And fishies. #

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and then the tide came in

Sleep didn't acknowledge me till 5am last night, and the hours were long and nothing on my iPod was what I wanted to listen to. I suspect that will be making itself felt shortly. At least, I hope so. It'd be nice to sleep at a reasonable (ie, before 3am) hour tonight.

Ah, Melbourne. It's a chilly night, the rain has been lashing against my window, and my fingers are too cold to type properly. A good night for sitting at home with multiple cups of tea and a movie. Or doing tax. Meh.

Before I disappear into that dungeon of bizarre financial questions I do not understand I will share with you some things.

First; the Red Paper Lantern Medusa (for which I can find no wikipedia page).



The above link is to a Pink Tentacle article, which includes a video of raw footage shot by JAMSTEC, starting with a medusa and including a UFO at 6:11 and a poor jelly with its tentacles snared in the sub.

The JAMSTEC videos suggest that a variety of sea creatures regard the red paper lantern medusa as a safe place to establish temporary residence. In the video, the developing larvae of shrimp and sea spiders can be seen hitching extended rides on the jellyfish.

“We didn’t expect to find such a variety of organisms attached to the jellyfish,” said Dr. Dhugal Lindsay. “Humans apparently are not the only ones attracted to red paper lanterns.”

So, apparently hitch-hiking on a jellyfish is the done thing these days.

And at Zooillogix: Piglet Squid. Looong at that picture, I have the irrational urge to squeeze the little tyke till it pops.

ETA: Estimated tax return of $6. It didn't take long though, so I am thankful.

Find Your Way

While it wasn't probably wasn't included in design concepts at the time, hypertext is a choose your own adventure. The back button on browsers is a hell of a lot more painless than keeping one whole hand of fingers marking the pages of your last decisions, which is limited to five. The internet is one giant CYOA. Sometimes you die. Sometimes you find goatse. Sometimes you make it out alive.

I've actually done a proper one before, ish. I wrote out a html maze. Mapped it out on grid, inserted random numbers and lines, made sure there was actually a path from beginning to end, and then wrote one html page for every grid square, and made sure they all matched up, no matter what direction you came from. That was on geocities (anyone remember that?) back in 1996. YES. THAT IS HOW LONG I'VE BEEN FIDDLING WITH MY JUNK ONLINE.

Blogger being set up the way it is, I don't have the means of setting up a true, stand-alone static CYOA. Well, I could, but it'd be right pain in the ass getting all the urls set up.

The restrictions of doing a sort of live-action CYOA (a LARP CYOA? LOL? WTF?) worked to my advantage in this case. With each stage being rolled out once a night, the means of turning back, reneging a decision and choosing an alternate path are removed, which takes a huge load off. The fact that players won't see anything but the one path they choose is also a load off, as I discovered.

Here's the map of the first;



Which, as you can see, was a process of trial and error and I actually made it so I knew what I was doing, not you. And I still had no idea what I was doing.

At first I was skeptical on the idea; writing seven choices with branches, is that seven squared? Do I have to write 42 events when they'll only see 7? That's a lot of writing no one will see. To cut down, I started angling choices so that two different responses could lead to the same outcome - the ButlerBot completely ignoring you was useful for that. Using a scenario that was bare-bones simple - a conversation with only two participants and very little activity - was vital as well.

I also learned that at each level, the same information needs to be revealed, regardless of the decision that brought the reader there and what actually happens. Which I totally screwed up with the whole Lords of Heegurkurkur taking over the world thing.

Originally, there was only one way outcome out of all choices in all branches that saw you become a superhero, but I changed that at the last minute, for the hell of it.



Having learned all that, I was better prepared for the second one. The trick is actually to work backwards - establish the end point, and then deconstruct the steps to get there. Hence the narrative in this one made flowed significantly smoother. I also worked around having two streams with two sets of decisions by writing responses to each choice, and then having an overall 'next step' which all responses fed into, thus keeping it from branching out all over the place. Whether or not the pirate arrr!ed, dodged or shot the cowboy, the outcome was the same.

That said, bringing the two streams together meant I had to wait till the last night to actually write the end, and discovered I didn't want to do terrible battle with either, 'cause I liked them.

The last rule I couldn't break was inserting any choice that would see the reader die before the alloted time was over. My most powerful memory of reading CYOA in primary school was picking the book up and being dead within three page turns. Which kinda ruined the whole book and I didn't seem much point trying again after that. Although I would have liked to include some sticky deaths. It'd be easy to insert some, now I think about it. Just reveal you're dead, go back and repost according to the runner up choice. Hmm.

Anyway, there you are. I learned it so that you may use it. Now someone else write one! I want a go!

Doom. Doom. And also? Doom.

Here we see the Jules Verne burning up on re-entry into the Earth's atmosphere. I would like to think that I would be just as spectacular to behold, should I ever make it back to Earth.

And should I ever make it back to Earth, I would find empty oceans;



As pointed out by deep sea news, this is already true. Tuna is already near extinct, catfish are discovering the joys of human flesh, beautiful platinum arowana are held in small tanks and sold for £200,000, and oarfish get themselves caught out of deep water.

If I'm lucky, I'll burn up in the sky and never see this.

But it is already true.

every time i lose altitude

It has taken me 27 years to figure out that yes, summer dresses are designed for summer. For the past 26 years I've been schlepping about in jeans and t-shirts on 40 degree days. I have no idea what I was trying to prove, but hallelujah I have seen the light. I barely noticed the mercury hit 33 today, 'cause I was too busy poncing about in my girly dress and bare feet, and being all, you know, not stinking hot and dying. I'm converted. Some more dresses and slip on shoes and I might even like summer. Pity about my blinding white legs.

Thanks for stopping by Jeff's blog while I trashed it. It went better than I expected, and look! I had no picture for the triumphant little old lady, so the mischievous KJ Bishop drew one:



I think she's adorable. No ninja or pirate could defeat that, not without the spectre of their mother and their mother's mother and their mother's sister and their great-great aunt rising up to haunt them with a vengeance. I love the milk carton, heh. Thanks Kirsten!

Sleep has been coy of late. She relents, eventually, but the nights are getting longer and I'm not seeing much of reasonable hours. It isn't too much of an issue right now, as I'm staring down a barrel loaded with a week and a half of afternoon shifts, but I suspect it will be a long season of sleeplessness.

I need to get back into the practice of making use of these hours. My insomnia muscle is out of shape.

desire the horse, depression the cart

Book of Longing was not the mindquake-causing work of emotive genius I was expecting. It was strangely unmoving, which was disappointing, but from that grew a stillness that was more than the absence of movement. The shapes created by the poetry and music fit in with the shadows One Hundred Years Of Solitude cast, and in that stillness the water was disturbed. Somewhere in depths we rarely venture something passed through. Something vast and so unknown it defies the imagination, and though we strive to give it form, it will forever remain a mystery. We know not what it was, what it is, what it might be. We are left only in the passage of its wake, and the water disturbed.

"Boo. Muthafucker."

Every week (or so) I do the dishes. Living alone and eating most meals at work doesn't generate dishes fast enough to warrant any further water usage. They get washed when either a) I run out of clean mugs, or b) I run out of space to stack the dirty mugs.

Total washed tonight: 21 assorted mugs and glasses, 3 be-sandwiched knives, 2 small tupperware containers for taking nuts to work, and the chopping board.

I dunno, that just seems sad. BUT I AM NOT ASHAMED.

Making a mug dirty right now.

One of the instant selling points about this flat was the bedroom window. It's huge. The view isn't of note, being other peoples' back yards and the rear of the shopping strip, but after the absolute desert wasteland view of my city apartment, it this window is like a magic window. I can actually see stuff out of it!

More than anything else, I can see the sky. The sky is huge, bigger than any other window I've had. My old bedroom window was sizable, but blocked when they built the units next door. The windows in Canberra were likewise cramped, or full of trees (not complaining about the trees, mind you).

If I have an evening at home, I can't not sit with the curtains open and the lights and computer off. I get myself a drink, turn some music on and watch the sky after the sun has set. Twilight is a strange time, full of shy colours and timid shades, all hiding themselves away. What starts as a silhouette against the fading light becomes lit up against the night. Once the stars are out, I wish on them, and then go back to work.

No, I don't need a TV.

"What in sam hell is a 'puma'?"

For the next few days I will be hijacking guestblogging MAKING A TOTAL ASS OUT OF MYSELF over on blog de VanderMeer. Which, on thinking it over, is nothing that you guys haven't seen before.

I'll be running another CYOA, which will involve two separate streams that will effect each other, because clearly I need that sort of mad organisational brainfart in my day. If any of you are interested in giving it a whirl, please head on over and I'll be forever in your debt if you show the uninitiated how we roll. It's significantly less crap than the last one, as I had a better idea of what I was doing this time around. I'll post the flow charts for both after this one has ended.

If you've just come from Jeff's blog, hi! Welcome! And how! Feel free to poke around, make disparaging remarks, and what not. This is a personal blog, so while I do talk about books and writing, I also talk about chocolate cake and ponies and the state of my toenails. Be warned. I'm about to do some personal blogging right now, after this line break. Ready?

Liz Gorinsky's eye for an interesting show saw us sitting on the floor of the Ding Dong watching gothic/industrial tribal tap dancers moonwalk. Most excellent. It got me thinking, and I've decided that there is nothing about tap dancing that isn't awesome. Not merely the deep rhythm and astonishing dexterity involved, but that they turn the earth into a percussion instrument, and who honestly doesn't enjoy stomping around making lots of noise? Tap dancing is muchly awesome.

Yet, not cool. Still. Liz said it came with that 1940s vibe, and I have to agree. Despite all contemporary developments and acquisitions, it still carries a huge suitcase of lame ass dork. I tried to put myself in the situation of coming out as a tap dancer in high school, and it didn't work.

Go you awesome tap dancers. Stomp that suitcase to the curb.

Confession: I have an intense artist crush on this guy.





Not only is his art so beautifully whimsical and simple and sad and delightful, but his taste in music resonates with my bones. I devour his art, then I devour the music, and then I pine away the time between now and the next time he updates his journal. Every musician he uses I note down and hunt out. His first name is Tobias, I have no idea what any of his posts say, and I kind of like it that way. Art transcends language, and feeling transcends art. More and more and more such pictures at http://tebe-interesno.livejournal.com/

Random: A' DEEZ NUUUUUTZ?!



The whole bag is full of crazy mutation peanuts. They're like, conjoined peanut twin pod babies. Must be a tough life, being a conjoined peanut twin pod baby. I eat you, put you out of your misery. Nom nom nom.

Fight or Flight! Or Saving.

I've been watching the current economic meltdown in much the same way I watch the footy season - I'm not. I own stocks in exactly nothing, I have exactly no debt, I don't even own a car to be bothered by rising fuel prices, I'm not even enough of a consumer to be particularly fazed with the idea of rising prices, and so it has nothing to do with me. Yet despite having nothing to do with me, it still affects my life, and that puts me out a bit. I fail to see why I should suffer the consequences of decisions that, again, had nothing to do with me.

Due to the current state of the Australian dollar, that tour of Tibet I've been eying off has risen in price by ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS. My heart, it bleeds. Why for must the company list their prices in euros?

I can still afford it, but...uh, not if the dollar gets any worse. My stomach did that hard little clench thing when I discovered this, which indicated to me that I'd already decided to go, I just hadn't realised it yet. Given I still harbour ideas of moving states and going back to uni, I'd rather spend less on travel than more in the long run.

Oh, doldrums. I contemplated my other destinations of choice, being Mongolia and Russia, and didn't even do any googling. I've already an idea of tour prices in those countries, and it would only cost more.

But then I got talking with a co-worker, and remembered that Jetstar, a budget airline here, fly to Osaka. And checked their prices. AND GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST RETURN TO OSAKA FOR $700? I could do the bottom half of Japan! Hell, at that price, I could spend a fortnight just futzing about Osaka and Kyoto and Tokyo again. It seems wasteful, returning to a country I've already visited when there's so much of the world to explore, but the thought of going back made me so excited. Something of a false glee, I know, wholly contaminated by the fact that I had such a good time last time. To know that I can get there on such a cheap airfare is...wow. My stomach is doing flip-flops now just thinking about it. I'm concentrating on not digging out my guide book again.

I'm incredibly fortunate that the only way the current crazy economy will truly affect me is in my travel plans. I'm never going to have trouble paying bills or feeding myself. I'll never own a home, but I resigned myself to that a while ago. But I've come to realise that, right now, I need travel rather the same way I need quiet time and laughing time and the odd bar of chocolate. I need something to look forward to, and I need something to remind me that the world is an amazing place, I need something so unexpected it will shake me out of my head. A future without something new and unknown and astonishing is a bleak future, for any definition of 'something'.

My kettle has become some sort of ants' graveyard. It's where they go to die. Horribly. I don't really get why they aren't going for bread crumbs or checking out the water in the sink. Possibly because such activities aren't lethal.

Whatever. I drink the water that killed them anyway.

Shadow Queen

Deb and I were fresh meat together at Clarion South 2005, and you know, if no other good came from those six weeks at least I met her there.

Fortunately, a whole lotta good came from those six weeks, as she went on to write this...thing, this story, this...showcase of how freakin' vindictive she is. Which I mean in the nicest possible way, of course, but holy fuck. I haven't read a book with such relentless drive for ages. Matilde is ruler in waiting, but due to hostile intervention (that's such a polite way of saying it) has her home, position and family ripped out from beneath her, and must go about winning them back using wits alone. Deb has perfected the knack of writing her protagonist out of an impossible situation only by writing her into a different impossible situation, over and over. It's OARSUM.

Allen & Unwin are pushing it largely as straight fantasy, which I think is misleading. This is political, machiavellian, more than fantastic. And it's also fucking brilliant more than fantastic too. I got too caught up in reading rather than actually analysing and critting the MS, which is always a good sign. (Except for Deb, who had to put up with a lot of "OMG WTF NOOO!" in the margins.)

Book one is now available fore pre-order here, here, and here.

drone

Call it a compound fracture. Call it a repetative strain injury.

I can't tell the difference between what is good for me and what is not any more. I called time out and removed myself from the world and instantly felt better. Isn't that good for me? I just want to stop feeling bad. It's like when you're sick; the instant you stop feeling sick is a marvellous moment, and it's easy to confuse not feeling sick with being well again. It takes normal activities, like getting a drink or having a shower, still being difficult and challenging and taking more energy than you have to remind you that just becuase you don't feel sick doesn't at all mean you're well.

I have that every time I pull my vanishing trick. That I no longer need to worry about all the consequences of my interaction with others because I'm not interacting any more is a bigger load off than I ever imagine, every time, every single time. Once cut off, it seems like a lot of fuss over nothing. That I'm being silly. That I should just get right back in amongst it all. At least I've learned not to go with that urge. I've learned to appreciate an empty inbox and a phone with no new messages. Still I have no time, but this quiet is something I need. I have to take up as little space as possible, be as small as possible, as irrelevent as possible.

But I don't know if it's doing me any good. A respite, but not necessary helping. I mean, how does running and hiding accomplish anything? It doesn't. It never has. I've taken tenative steps. Maybe replying to email doesn't seem like such a big deal, that I'm being silly again. It's no small decision here. And maybe it was wrong. It just brought all this....this whatever it is, back to the surface. Disturbed the water. What is this, I don't know, stress and fear and anxiety because every thing I've said and done and every choice I've made this year has been...not right. Not necessarily wrong, but not right. It filters down through the channels to the small things, where now small decisions on what to eat for dinner, whether to take my umbrella, whether to reply, what to say, are all not right. A lot of them go so far as to be wrong. Then there's the waiting, and waiting, to see if what I said was wrong, if my doubts were founded, if I'm just being silly. I can't take the waiting. It is better to say nothing at all.

Gmail also appears to be eating emails. I could be wrong. I don't know. I'd resend them, but then, maybe all my emails are getting through fine. Resending would then be infringing on a person's right not to reply. I don't know. It's better to say nothing at all.

This isn't helping. I won't build up any sort of resiliance or immunity to the world unless I expose myself to it. But then...but then the world isn't like chicken pox. I'm not getting stronger. I jump off this cliff over and over because if I do it often enough, I might become immune to gravity.

But I'm not well. I was going to go home and see the family and the dogs but I have a cough, and I didn't want to wake mum with it, and if it isn't just hayfever I can't be sick around her. So I haven't gone home. I'm spending this day alone. I couldn't go home because I thought it was hayfever but maybe it isn't. I was sick last night. I lied, it wasn't motion sickness on the train. I know what motion sickness feels like, ant that wasn't it. It was a fast heat and sudden nausea, that which comes before collapsing. I thought it would pass but it didn't. I couldn't go home because the trains had ended. I didn't want to take a taxi becuase I was sure I was going to pass out. There was no one I could call. I had to stay there. I coudln't even sit I had to lie on the couch, and there was no one I could call ad nothing I could do till the first train of the morning. I think maybe I'm too tired. Too tired. I've slept, and I thought that would solve everything but I felt weak again in the shower, and I only sat at my desk five minutes before I started shaking again, and I felt sick again. I'm glad I have a laptop. I can't sit, so I guess today will be given over to watching movies in bed.

I'm not thinking clearly, I know.

But I don't remember the last time I did.

And I'm not immune to gravity.

c. HAMMER TIME.

“I beg your pardon,” the ButlerBot says.

“HAMMER TIME!” you roar, and manifest your true identity of SuperFuturoidThor! With Hammer! And knock the ButlerBot’s head off. Which is mighty satisfying. Infiltrating the networks of those fools who would bring about a New World Order through alliances with the Lords of Heegurkurkur is tough, and requires significantly more patience than the ButlerBot displayed, but someone has to do it.

“Whoa.”

You turn, and find that a Lord of Heegurkurkur has manifested in the middle of the pillows, and is sinking into the mattress. It looks rather like rice pudding gone bad.

“This isn’t part of the plan.” The Lord oozes nervously, eyeing your hammer. “Have you seen my sacrificial breakfast around?”

“Parsley!”

“Aw, come on,” the Lord whines, “not again. I said no parsley. Er. That’s a big hammer you have there.”

You beam proudly.

“I’ll just be going,” and so saying, the Lord of Heegurkurkur demanifests.

Oh yeah, saving the world before breakfast is something you make look easy, ‘cause it is easy. Time for crocodile steak.

Congratulations. You avoided the parsley porridge.
You have winnar!
Game Over

a. Cry. (coin toss tie-breaker)

“There, there,” the ButlerBot says, without making even the slightest effort to sound comforting. “There’s a time and a place for that, and I must confess to have neither the interest nor software to indulge in such behaviour. Please save such displays for Miss Henry.”

The ButlerBot ejects a spoon and scoops a thick glug of green puree from the bowl.

“The Rites of Heegurkurkur deplete the physical body’s precious bodily essences. Miss Henry is quite clear on the matter.”

The spoon nears your face, gliding closer, closer…

“You must eat to replenish your essences, before it is too late. It is nearly time!”

a. Eat the damn porridge.

b. Cry more.

c. HAMMER TIME.

a. Throw the damn parsley porridge at the ButlerBot, throw the pillow at the ButlerBot, throw yourself at the ButlerBot, etc.

The bowl of fine bone china made from real Chinese bones smashes on the ButlerBot’s monoform head, and fails to even scratch the polished finish. Parsley porridge oozes down the ButlerBot’s chassis like so much ectoplasmic mucus, the smell of overstewed herb thick and repugnant in the air.

You leap after the bowl, flailing through the manchester trappings, and the ButlerBot bats you aside with ease, wrapping and pinning you in a sheet with a smooth fluidity that suggests you are not the first person to react in such fashion.

The ButlerBot produces another fine bone china bowl made from real Chinese bones.

The ButlerBot vomits parsley porridge into the bowl.

“Please eat, before it gets cold. The time is at hand.”

a. Cry.

b. Scream bloody murder.

a. Swim to the edge of the bed, find your clothes and GTFO!

The ButlerBot sighs as you surge into action. The pillow, holy smokes, the pillow! It’s a trap! You flail about like an epileptic fish, the pillow your soft and loving captor, the sheets your decadent bindings. Oh, the pillow! An ill-calculated roll sees you near suffocating in that soft lovingness, but the same move allows you to get your arms beneath you, and you surface, gasping.

At last you can see the room. It’s all pillows and drapes and suspicious stains and burnt out candles and floral patterns and goat testicles.

Aaaugh, must get out must get out. You flounder about the bed, but holy smokes, the bed! It has no edge! The whole damn room is one giant bed and you’re drowning in throw pillows and 10,000 thread count sheets! It is a bog! A terrible bed bog!

“Please don’t spill the porridge on Miss Henry’s sheets,” the ButlerBot says.

a. Throw the damn parsley porridge at the ButlerBot, throw the pillow at the ButlerBot, throw yourself at the ButlerBot, etc.

b. Calm down, be reasonable(ish), request your clothes and a taxi. Quickly. NOW.

a. Do I look like I eat peasant food, you obsolete calculator?

“I’m afraid that is the extent of the morning menu. Miss Henry has very stringent ideas concerning early morning digestion. As is oft quoted, ‘that will go straight to your arse.’ I have no comment on parsley.”

The events of the previous night rise to the surface of your mind like so many cooked potatos. There was some tequila at a bar after work, which saw you entangled with someone’s after party that somehow lead to a circus, then there was some gin, and some gin got in your gin, followed by a sports bar, some scotch got in your gin, a souvlaki at an all night kiosk, and…Miss Henry. Followed by a lime milkshake and the Rites of Heegurkurkur.

Oh boy.

a. Swim to the edge of the bed, find your clothes, and GTFO!

b. Sit there grinning like a top square school kid who just won the spelling bee.

c. I’d really like a crocodile steak.

c. Wait…er, where am I?

“You are in bed,” the ButlerBot says, with a faint tone of long-suffering and entirely non-judgemental patience that is nevertheless pure scorn. The robot goes on to lay out a silver tray set with lovely fine bone china, made from authentic bones removed with surgical precision from the bodies of authentic Chinese people.

There is a small vase with a jonquil. There is a large deep bowl. It is full of a disgusting green slurry. This is parsley porridge.

a. Do I look like I eat peasant food, you obsolete calculator?

b. Actually, I’m allergic to porridge.

c. Er…so how did I get here?

Predestined (to a point): MAJORITY RULE

These sheets have a 10,000 thread count. It could be higher, but there comes a point where quality can no longer be measured, and merely falls in that vast and unquantifiable realm of luxury. These sheets speak to you through your skin, and they aren't so much talking as kissing your back and ankles and when you shift, ever so slightly, oh goodness.

These pillows have been filled with the downy feathers of two week old baby FlufferBirds, lovingly plucked by VestalVirginBots, spun with the hair of plump burbling blonde babies and stuffed in something that also has an astronomically high thread count. Your head is sunk in one, and while it supports you perfectly, just perfectly, you’ve no peripheral vision and your ears are covered. No wonder you slept so well.

This mattress is...kinda weird.

As sleep recedes slow and gentle you open your eyes. Great veils of velvet obscure the ceiling. And the walls. You raise your head, but don’t quite escape the pillow.

"Good morning," the ButlerBot says. "I trust you slept well. Will you be taking breakfast in bed today?"

a. Not this morning, please pass my clothes.

b. Yes! I want a crocodile steak. With tomato sauce. And a toasted muffin. Is there any vegemite?

c. Wait…er, where am I?

It was a random encounter at the station, and I ran. I didn't know I was fleeing till I'd fled, and by then it was too late. Just goes to show that nothing has changed, and nothing will change, and I've gone nowhere and done nothing. Everything I thought I might have possible dealt with just came gushing back up the plug hole. That was probably the universe caught in a moment of kindness, giving me one chance to make things better, and I ran. I was ashamed and pathetic then, I'm ashamed and pathetic now. I fucking hate myself. These things will never change.

I said that it's probable all the fear and helplessness concerning Mum comes bursting out at any opportunity. There's nothing that can be done about Mum, I can't show these things to Mum, and so when entirely unrelated upsets pop up, it all leaks out and makes my ever reactions a bit more fraught.

I don't suppose it matters. I like to get big in my head, and imagine myself capable of dealing with the situation, any situation, better, but I know I couldn't. Even if I pulled such a feat off, I wouldn't be able to sustain it. It all ends on the lounge room floor, over and over.

I'm not reading, I'm not checking, I'm not here. Sorry.

for archiving and propaganda purposes

• 08:56 Hello again, 4am. Oh, you brought a friend? Nice to meet you, 5am. And 6am? Gosh. Gee. Whizz. #
• 11:32 Finally twitter has been blocked at work. I'm surprised it went unnoticed so long. #
• 20:30 If you insist on crawling into my kettle, then I insist on boiling you alive. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter

oh, she found a hangover to hide under

Letters from India: Serving the Goddess looks at the lives of current day devadasi, a class of sacred sex workers who ply their trade in the name of Yellamma. It is devastating, the lack of choice many of the women who become devadasi had, and then heartening, the way some of them use their position to their advantage and improve things not just in their own lives, but that of friends and family, and then devastating again, because no matter how they try, it can only end badly.

On a Wednesday Night

Each text message I receive is a Big Event, as they're as rare as rocking horse shit. This text message is from my mother, and it reads "So this is what the inside of a black hole is like. Looks familiar".

I stare at this message for a very long time. My mum just sent me the most depressing text in the history of history. I don't know what to do. Should I go home? Today was her chemo-on day, maybe she's having a bad time.

No, this isn't mum's style, not her style at all. I have no idea what she's talking about. But what if she's flipped out, like really flipped out so much she'd send out of character and emo as all fuck text messages? This is serious. Should I go home?

No, really, no that can't be it.

But-

Wait.

"are you talking about that collider thing in France?

"Yes. It happened about 2 hours ago."

Ah.

A Yankee In London: From Hell Chapter Four Walking And Riding Tour is the report of one person following the steps of Sir William Gull and his driver Netley as they trot about London and Gull freaks poor Netley out with his vast conspiracy and ritual talk. It goes through many churches and sites of significant cultural, historical, and religious events, and on reading the chapter it is hard not to believe the whole shebang. Taking the tour today sounds slightly less magnificent than when Gull and Netley did so, but it remains an interesting read. That particular chapter of From Hell is my favourite, seeing it mapped out in photos is a treat.

On A Saturday Morning

I spend two minutes of my life waiting for the kettle to boil, and that is all those two minutes contain. The kettle clicks. I put the teabag in the cup, and pour boiling water, and little black shapes come whirling up in the currents.

At first I assume they're escaped tea leaves, but on closer inspection they turn out to be ants. Boiled alive. Six of them.

There are no ants in the tea box when I check it, and there were none in the cup. They must have been in the kettle. That could mean the insecticide I sprayed about got in the kettle as well.

I spend another minute of my life considering whether or not to drink this cup of tea, six dead ants and insecticide, and that is all that one minute contains.

As far as merchandise goes, I would love to have this t-shirt. Although the lack of visible collars bothers me. Ties without collars just don't work.

In the Sunday Smallhours

There's blood all over the toilet paper.

Ah.

Surprise blood isn't that surprising any more. There's plenty of reasons to start randomly bleeding from the vagina. This blood isn't the colour of menstrual blood, it's brighter.

Maybe going off the pill brought it on. Maybe stress brought it on. Maybe a night full of alcohol brought it on.

Let's be honest, it's probably all three.

Let's be even more honest, I don't care.

NIN Dazzles With Lasers, LEDs and Stealth Screens looks at the light and video set up involved in the current Nine Inch Nails tour. The amount of interaction between performers and stage set up is brilliant, to the point where they're not just playing instruments, they're playing the whole stage. There's a video included, showcasing some of the incredibly nifty stuff they've pulled off. One thing the video demonstrates is the sort of crowd that goes to these concerts. The dull roar of people not paying attention to the quieter pieces, who are impatient with the soft piano and just wanted to bang their heads up and down, this vexes me. They show no respect to the music. I love those pieces most of all. Were Trent Reznor to tour alone, playing only the piano at tiny little venues, there'd be no upper price on what I'd pay for a ticket.

On a Sunday Afternoon

I put the tea bag in the cup, and pour boiling water. One dead ant swirls in the currents. I watch it sink to the bottom.

Quote Captain Badass

On the few shifts I have that fall in the realm of normal, sane, everyday business hours, I tend to make an effort when dressing. It's in keeping with my usual dress code, which is less about comfort and more about blending in. The only way to blend into the crowd on the 23:08 train from Spencer Street is to look like a scruffy bum.

And the only way to blend into the crowd on the 18:05 train from Spencer Street is to look like an office worker.

Most of the time, exercising extra care in my appearance makes me feel like shit. I'm certain absolutely everyone can see through me at first glance, and are thus able to turn up their noses and snort, because daaaamn I'm a lousy poser.

I've never quite managed to achieve pretty, but thanks to my boots, I've been hitting badass quite regularly.

These boots, you see, I love these boots. They're the bestest, most badass boots in the whole world. They are not, as people are wont to say, made for walking in, oh no. These boots are made for standing on podiums and observing military parades, these boots are made for sitting in rolls royces, these boots are made for commanding the invasion of a foreign country in. Combined with the bestest coat in the world, their powers combine and I become Captain Badass, Your Slick As All Fuck Overlord. Ave moi, bitchez.

Which is pretty interesting. The idea that someone might pay attention to me is pathetically devastating, but I'm more than happy for people to pay attention to my boots. I've heard people talk about getting facial piercing and tattoos for precisely that reason, so that others look at and talk to the body art, not the person.

Still, Captain Badass is not a permanent diversion. Captain Badass does get attention, and while it's amusing every now and then, Tessa is better at being invisible. Even Captain Badass is just a poser, and every poser is seen through eventually. Probably right in the middle of a hostile invasion.

"The name's Crocker."

"Betty Crocker."

Yeah, I made Dad triceratops biscuits for Father's Day. I don't know if he liked them or not. I liked them.

After a mad search for envelopes I thought I had and did not have, the magazines were dropped in the post this morning. Arthur Miller should get his before the end of the week; you internetaional kids will have to wait and see. I've no idea how long they'll take, but it was airmail, so it shouldn't be too long.

I feel bad for those of you who missed out, so if you want to send me your postal address anyway, I think I have some squid and cuttlefish postcards still lying around. Somewhere. Possibly.

I'm having some trouble with myself. After a lovely couple of months respite the universe is reasserting itself, and the axis of Planet Tessa is a bit wobbly. I've also manaegd to fall behind on my own work, which is pretty impressive considering I don't actually have any deadlines to meet. Regardless, I'm behind, so blogging will be sparse for a while.

To keep you entertained while I am gone, I give you the end of the world, a la big ass asteroid.

Presents!Dénouement

1. Selena - because she's gone and moved herself to some sort of horrible alternate dimension where there are no books. What's up with that?
2. Arthur Miller - as the goldfish ties in neatly with Evolution, in a far-reaching sort of way. Best of luck to the goldfish.
3. Gillian - she's threatening to send me an old toothbrush, and of all the things I'd like to receive in the mail, old toothbrushes aren't in my top 10. Or top 100. Or top anything. Ew.
4. And finally, Charles Tan, who, in a moment of acute insight, cottoned on to the fact that yes, I am the sort of person to get excited about posting mail to the Philippines. Whee!

YOU HAVE WINNAR! Please send me a postal address (email link on the right there), and I'll your copy of Weird Tales in the mail. Apologies to Chris, Matt and ~. I've learned my lesson; next time I'll just do first come, first serve.

An Exercise In Logic

Time is a guy.

I rather like Time, you know, in that way. Due to the current narrative laws of my life, this means that Time is charming and inconsiderate and never around. Where is Time? I want Time. I ain't gettin' any. There's shit I Need To Do and he's off somewhere else with other people and he's not even thinking about me.

That is Time.

All Hail The Shifting Gears

The Earth is in constant orbit of the Sun. Every day we've changed the angle the light hits us, and yet it only ever takes two or three days for the transition from the weak and distant winter sun to the brilliance and warmth of a real sun. Thump; and we have Spring.

Somewhere, deeper than molecules and cells, is the recognition that the Sun gives us life, winds up our lives and makes us go. We are no Pompeii Worms. It's hard not to be a flower in these early days, and turn with the spin of the Earth to face the Sun, where ever it is in the sky. I feel myself unfolding.

However Many Days Is Never Enough

Still life is not a relief.

So you've weathered the stormy seas, the swells have dropped and the winds died down and there's no more lightning and the thunder is only a distant grumble, not willing to leave entirely but prepared to leave you alone for now. You've weathered the storm.

Still life is not a relief. There's nothing to do now but try to clean up the wreckage and repair the damage and you're not up to the task. Maybe you didn't expect that.

It's a big knotty mess, and I'm picking at it and picking at it, because if I can unravel it, it will make sense, and if I can unravel it, then I must be able to make something positive out of it.

Maybe there is nothing positive to be made. No small triumph to be found. Nothing to make it worth the trouble.

It isn't the irresistible pain of a tooth ache. Treading the waters of these memories is a kick in the gut. I tell myself I go there over and over to make myself immune. I'm fooling myself. I'm just brooding, deepening the all the damage with needless repetition, and going nowhere.

Maybe there isn't yet enough time between then and now.

Maybe there never will be.

Heartache is radioactive. It leaks all over you, your life, you past and future. The depth of hurt correlates directly with the length of the half-life. The strength might decay over time, but it never disappears completely.

for archiving and propaganda purposes

• 12:39 Printing 100 double-sided pages without page numbers is not the most intelligent thing I've ever done. #

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for archiving and propaganda purposes

• 19:36 Athena has vacated my cranium. She said it was too cramped and smelt like mildew. #
• 20:01 There is no icecream in the freezer. OH WHAT A WORLD, WHAT A WORLD. #

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Presents!

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS?


Aside from a really bad photo, that's the current issue of Weird Tales. I just finished eating it, partial to All In by Peter Atwood, How I Got Here by Ramsey Shehadeh, and Evolution by Karen Heuler. Nom nom nom.

Ann, being a rocking sort of person, sent me spare copies. I have four to give away, so leave a comment and I'll send you one. I'd say first come first served, but if you're feeling particularly creative and come up with a compelling reason as to why you should get a copy, then I have no choice but to be compelled to give you one. You know what I'm after, blatant lies and blackmail attempts. Amuse me!

ETA: I'm going to leave this up for a couple more days before, er, probably pulling names out of a hat, 'cause you guys are too funny. I'm not afraid of paying international postage either.

and now we're falling off the launch pad

When I woke the migraine had downgraded itself to merely being a razor-edged headache, and that's, pfft, easy peasy, so I went to work.

Where the migraine proceeded to regroup and launch a second assault, having brought in the reinforcements of nausea and mild vertigo. Fuck that horseshit. I'm home now, am snorting my way through a sloppy lunch so the pills aren't sitting on an empty stomach, and I'm about to make a complete blistered baboon's arse out of my sleeping pattern and go to bed. Again. Where I will feel sorry for myself some more.

I would like to say that this is all run of the mill stuff, the harbingers of imminent period arrival, but, haha, I've been caught out.

The Vandermeers are off traipsing about Europe (as rockstar authors and editors do, right?) and in doing so discovered my Secret Glowing Penguin Army in Prague.


In the future, armies are manufactured on request (you've all seen Clone Wars), and this is the future. My marvellous Dr Who Villainesque penguins, you will note, are not walking the plank, but invading from the water. They're beamed down from the mothership (cleverly disguised as a weather balloon, as you can see), and are currently completing infiltration exercises in Prague.


Which mostly involves visiting museums and pretending to be art critics. They're doing a great job.

However, to oversee the logistics of such an operation I must project my mind-control super-vibes all the way to Europe, and dude, that's on the other side of the planet. Do you know how much concentration that takes? It takes a lot. Hence I have this blinding headache, and some rogue green penguins.

The bunnies, though, are nothing to do with me.

It's times like these I really feel for Zeus. His headache was so bad he had someone cleave his head in with a hammer, and lo! out popped Athena. I doubt any BAMF goddesses are lurking in my frontal lobe, but I do fully sympathise with the sentiment, and harbour a great desire to stick a screwdriver in my temple.

However, doing so will probably result in more multi-coloured penguins, and this army ain't no disco.