Outnumbered Plenty to None

I’ve been reading, and also recovering.

I finished off Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, which left me much less emotionally wrung out and miserable than I expected. Rather, I felt relieved. All of these thoughts I’ve had, the narrative I’ve believed about my foster mother, her illness and her dying with an outside perspective.

Sometimes I think I should go or should have gone into therapy over all of this palaver, but I probably wouldn’t believe anyone else anyway. I’m the only one who knows my story.

In between the wonderful lurgy and the lurking smell of tea tree oil on everything (damn all nits - which we seem to be slowly winning the war of attrition on), I haven’t been able to speak properly for days. While I’m a fan of silence (when I’m concentrating), my own silences are not much chop.

I talk to myself all the time when I’m alone. Usually, anyway. It passes the time. But being unable to hold down conversations with the lads (husbandly and small) seems to have silenced me completely. I still think, but it isn’t the same, and I’m not much of an artist: drawing the shorthand for words in my head is beyond my sad sad sad skills. I should practise them, because I used to be reasonable back in the days where it was standard operating procedure to be drawing diagrams of plants and animals. Ahh, biology, I remember ye well.

And today I visited a bookshop. Actually, I wasn’t holding out much hope of anything. We used to have a Borders and few smaller ones around, but now not so much. And I think I’ve whinged about not being able to touch the books I’d like to buy and read the first page at least. It just isn’t the same. I have a Goodreads account, but reading what other people think of a book is a bit crap when what I really want to know is what I think of it.

I took The Hunger Games home with that first page unread. If I’d read that first page in the bookshop, I’d have grabbed Catching Fire and Mockingjay straight away. I’d have regretted it - since the first one is the strongest in the trilogy - but the agony of suspense was, well, annoying.

As a method of picking a book, it doesn’t always work: Perdido Street Station was a purchase due to repeated exposure. Every time I went into a bookshop, there it was and eventually I caved. Which is a little weird, given that now I own a lot of China Mieville’s books. The Scar is my favourite, and set in that complicated universe that includes New Crobuzon, Remaking, avancs and Uther Doul.

Today’s purchases weren’t picked that way, either. I picked up one by Kim Stanley Robinson, 2312, which I have absolutely no idea about yet (ask me tomorrow, or Sunday) because I wanted to take a punt on something. The other was Without Warning by John Birmingham. Follow the link, he’s a ripping read. It’s roughly twelve hours later, and give or take an hour or four being a responsible adult cooking tea and washing dishes (and the interminable nit comb-though) and less responsibly watching James Bond, I’ve read my way through the whole thing, wide-eyed in parts. Many parts.

It surprised me a little, since I’m not a big fan of alternate history stories (clearly, I am high maintenance and difficult), nor military fiction, but wowsers this is good stuff. I’ll bypass the story, because I hate giving spoilers, but the fun of the technical arts of the story and character interactions, and (yay!) pop culture references I will mention. See, I just did. I don’t mean the technical side of the McGuffin (damn, I do have to say it now, the Wave that takes out North America and a few more bits besides), but the way in which it all hangs together, and the depth of characters.

In one way, it’s a comfortable read, especially for one that isn’t simplistic or dumb (I had my hand on a Patricia Cornwall book today as well - I couldn’t do it to myself in the finish), which sounds like a huge back-handed compliment, but isn’t. While thrillers aren’t my scene, the ones I have read often head for the break-the-action-in-the-middle as a way of ratcheting up the tension, when I would prefer that-the-author-simply-finished-the-effing-sentence. The tension In Without Warning uses the cliffhanger a couple of times, but it isn’t gratuitous and is therefore satisfying. In terms of comfort, it may be that I’m familiar with Birmingham’s style, but I don’t think it is that; it feels very Australian to me in its tone, while encompassing all us chickens under the sun. And then, there are the (yay!) pop culture references, which are so natural as to be invisible. Oh the relief. So often it feels like there are neon signs plastered all over the damn things, and we’re supposed to get all excited. Blerk. If you have to shout about it, it wasn’t worth including.

And oh boy, this post will come back and bite me on the arse one day. Ne’er mind. Where I was headed was about the weight of other people’s words when I have none of my own, but clearly I have at least a few, so I’ll keep burbling on.

From the sublime to the less so, we saw Guardians of the Galaxy last night. Now here’s a film with lots of fun and waaaay cool stuff in it. But I have to wonder what is going to happen when the Marvel catalogue runs dry (and again, here I am clearly high maintenance and difficult). Will it all get rebooted? If so, why should I invest in it now? If ephemera are to be made more ephemeral by repetition (and therefore reduction?), will they be valueless?

I dunno. But I’m thinking about it.

Why that's amazing.

I can never decided whether to correctly punctuate my post titles. I also can never decide what to talk about.

I did put up, and subsequently delete, a real downer of a post about not getting past my past, which has passed. (Couldn't help myself there, snort.)

That post started:

It occurred to me recently that I haven't gotten over the betrayal from my friends at St. George. The question I ask myself is whether I can: someone lied and my "friends" believed the lie. The answer is I think that I have to, otherwise I will always be less than I am.

And pontificated a bit. I took it down after a couple of days, because I just couldn't bear it being out there for the world to see. Then something wonderful happened. (Oh dear, I suddenly sound like an Upworthy post.) I read Doctor Sleep, by Stephen King, almost by accident one night. It is the sequel to the Shining, and was a brilliant confluence of events: money in my iTunes account, bored with movies and finished the Night Circus. I had to put it down and turn off the iPad so many times, because I did have work to do...dammit. I couldn't finish it on my shift, so I was going to get in my car and read it there before I drove home. But a lady wanted my parking spot (right outside the hospital doors at eight am, who could blame her?), so I sucked it up and started driving home. I remembered to change gears (unlike watching I am Legend, after which I drove the whole way home in third - and vaguely wondered why the engine sounded weird).

I don't like giving spoilers, and I will confess to the delightfully creepy fear that one of the antagonists was climbing my leg as I sat at my bench at two in the morning, but I'm not telling you anything else. The wonderful part was not what the book was about (although it was pretty damn good), it was what the book made me remember about how I was when I read the Shining. I read that one when I was about twelve or so, and didn't really like it. Danny is only five after all, and I already knew what horror means to a five year old. I didn't want the reminder of what happens when the grown-ups are the monsters instead of the shields. Or just not shields.

At twelve, though, I was free from that. I still had and would have things to deal with, but the shadows were departing, and I was as bulletproof as you can get when you know you aren't. When you may as well do what you want, because nothing can be worse than what you've seen. I'm giggling madly as I say that, because while it's true, it didn't stop me from being angst-ridden and unsure, but never mind.

So there I am driving home, and a car pulls out in front of me with the fuel cap cover sticking out, open. I pulled up beside and slightly behind him (good timing, red light!), and wondered how I could let him know. Then I thought, "Old me would just get out and shut it." So I did. And the thought process before, during, and after took a lot less time than it's taking to describe it. I was pleased with myself and with the universe in general. Shutting someone's fuel cap cover isn't the stuff of great humanitarianism, but it's a lot better than noticing something wrong and wondering if you should or shouldn't because someone is going to make a big deal about it. ("You only did that to look good.", blah, blah, can't be bothered coming up with/remembering more.)

No, I couldn't finish the book when I got home, my eyes kept slamming shut. Bummers of night shift. But I did finish it that afternoon, and while very glad I did (and still feeling the lingering creepy), I was more excited to remember the girl I was.

Later that week small lad and I were off to the bookshop to get Fortunately the Milk for his nibs and anything I could find for me. Personally I was hoping for a copy of Doctor Sleep (I like turning pages), but instead found Carry a Big Stick, the memoir of Tim Ferguson.

Tim, Paul and Richard, as the Doug Anthony Allstars, were the first group I loved in company. In high school, we'd watch the Big Gig on Tuesday nights and come in raving like loons the next day. One of us re-wrote MacBeth to the accompanying "tunes" of David Williamson's The Club and Anthony Ackroyd's character, Sergeant 'en Smith. But DAAS were our favourites. The first concert I went to (also in the same company) was Kids & Animals, and at sixteen, it was heady, liberating, and somehow, something to aim for. They could sing, as well; always good to have something you like to sing along to (and isn't the latest dull love song). To read about the other side of it, and to hear, finally what all of the "other things" they were doing was great fun. (This was before cable TV or "decent" internet, and our chances of getting hold of overseas shows were non-existent.)

I'm not going to spoil that one, either: please read it, it's a hoot without being a fan of the Allstars. But it was another reminder of what, how and who I was even at sixteen. Still mostly bulletproof (see above), and thinking the world was probably a great place. With corners of absolute and utter shit.

I think this will be a constant battle for me: to remember that I may as well be bulletproof and to recover when bullets come along. I can live with that.

The Bright Day is Done

Convention centres should have beanbags, a pile of extra seat cushions, or comfortable chairs. And footrests.

Now I’m through with complaining, onwards to Continuum 8: Craftonomicon!

My brain was twitching slightly after the first day, because the influx of information was gigantic. Sadly, I haven’t gone to every panel, partly because this is the first time I’ve been away in ten years, and faffing about reading my book(s) and generally wandering about Melbourne had a really strong pull.

The first panel I attended was “Gender and Sexuality in Speculative YA”. The panellists were Kate Eltham, Alison Goodman and Margo Lanagan.

To catch anyone up who is confused by that title, YA is young adult fiction, and if you roam about the teen/young adult fiction section in your local bookshop*, you’ll notice that a great deal of it is considered “speculative fiction” (specfic): either fantasy or science fiction or a mix of the two. Titles don’t really matter in specfic, unless you’re working in the genre. If you’re a reader, big whoop if the story is good**.

Of course, being aimed at teens and young adults, the content and themes of YA will eventually, if they’re doing their job, raise gender, sexuality and transgender issues.

The publishing industry is very conservative in YA, and the argument could be made that it is at it should be: children do not (should not?) have sex or be considering sexuality in concrete terms until they come of age. That’s an interesting viewpoint and one I think is ridiculous on its most superficial level. It’s called YA: young adults are of age.

Teen readers emerging shortly into young adulthood, or discovering questions about themselves cannot be expected to land squarely in their gender identity or sexual orientation simply by reaching young adulthood. Straightforward story, allegory and/or fable can tell us how to live (or rather, how we tell ourselves to), and provide insight on conditions that we may never encounter amongst family and friends.

Without meaning to teach my granny how to suck eggs, that’s where I was up to before I walked into the panel. The ladies of the panel have said it better, but I’m steaming ahead anyway.

The issues facing writers working in YA and trying to get published is being mindful of the conservative: while romance is romance (paranormal or not), “less common sexualities” are considered rare. While not wanting to make a really big point about it. That raises the question of “alternatives” having a value. Personally I question the inherent value judgement of the “alternative” as other, when gender and sexuality come down to essentially human. (That last is Alison Goodman’s point in describing her character in Eon, but one I agree with).

The point was also made that discussing sexuality and gender not your own (separate to it being “other”), is that there is a cultural propriety issue. Inserting yourself into a culture that you are not part of can be cheeky to say the least and can go horribly wrong. Apologies to Margo Lanagan, because I think I’ve quoted her directly without realising it.

There is also the consideration that YA is almost exclusively read by girls. Check out Hannah Moskowitz on the dearth of real male characters and boys bypassing YA and going straight to adult fiction.

Hannah Moskowitz makes a good point about the empowerment of girls, three-dimensional and often violent. That we need to empower girls so they can believe they can do anything, yes, good, but it comes down to (and here I am back in the panel) creating a false reality for young women as they go out into the world. Having read their way through awesome-girl YA, most will assume that they really can do whatever they want.

In terms of getting a job or biffing people (if that’s your style), it really comes down to skill set, and your development and dedication. Being a girl doesn’t award you with the ability to do anything, any more than it does for boys (I think this might be my rant now). While that might read like a whack against feminism, that’s not where I’m going. I deplore the view that saying men and women are equal is sometimes taken that way.

The whole point of equality is equality, not sameness. It is the availability of opportunity regardless of gender. I can do many of the same things my male counterparts can do, sometimes better, sometimes worse. I have a skill set that pays no attention to my chromosomes or my parts – it has been an accretion of skills and experience. I prefer the idea of humanity approaching equality and therefore real choice without limits other than ability, and not as a result of gender, and I’ll throw in all of the other societal limits: money, culture (where it does affect opportunity), feel free to add to the list.

That’s outside the panel, though still part of the argument; YA (most of it) is about the gaining of personal power. Not in the sense of ruling the world, but in the sense of allegory: the reader is coming of age.

The false reality of a lot of YA (and Kate Eltham described it as “Buffy-sized” heroines) is partly due to the fact that the story provides snapshots of time in a character’s life. A montage or a paragraph detailing the years of training is not the same thing as living through all of those boring bits.

*If you can find a local bookshop. Mine just closed down.

**In my opinion. Purists differ.

The next panel was “Daikaiju Go Heavenly!” and the panellists were Dirk Flinthart, David McDonald (can’t seem to find a link for him, oops) and Cat Sparks.

I’ll confess at the outset that I had no idea what Daikaiju meant or rather, are, but the blurb sounded fascinating.

“What if the gods were daikaiju? Could Buddha beat Jesus, could Loki outwit Allah? Is anyone strong enough to defeat Thor and his mighty Hammer? Jade Emperor, Kali, Ganesh. Which deity will reign supreme, or will king of the daikaiju Godzilla crush them all?”

Well after deciding that the gods on Earth would probably manifest from their giant statues, there was discussion about the giant super-Jesus statue in Brazil coming to life. Seeing as how the statue is on the cross already, he is aerodynamically fit for flying and could harry Godzilla quite a bit.

Then there is the giant Buddha in Phuket – but would Buddha fight? Well, this panel thought probably not, being against the ethos of the Buddha. I would have thought the same thing about Jesus, but by the by.

Since Australia is known for the Big everything, perhaps they qualify as daikaiju, and could gang up on super-Jesus.

Once the possibilities include statues, how about the Sphinx? One problem: Godzilla is shit at riddles. Oh well.

But for something interesting, check out the Bloop. There are many things unexplained out there. (Although I do like the idea of ice-calving).

The next panel was “Turning the Gears: Steampunk Craft”. The panellists were Nicole Canal, Paul Poulton (who has awesome facial hair), Michael Pryor (who has some awesome fashion) and Jo Spurrier.

I don’t have a lot to say about this one, although the steampunk aesthetic appeals to me in many ways, but Jo Spurrier mentioned the wood-burning USB charger. The stove really exists, and if you don’t believe that, here’s a short video. So the zombie apocalypse is looking less scary – at least I’ll be able to use my iPad.

I disappeared for a little while then so myself, small lad and husbandly could Skype. We’ve never used it before and it was lovely to see the boys’ faces.

The next panel was “You Say You Want a Revolution”, examining social networking tools in the context of protest, to wit, is it twitter or is it people causing revolutions? The panellists were Dave Cake, m1k3y , Rjurik Davidson, also of Overland magazine, Roman Orszanski and Sarah Stokely.

The springboard for this was the quote from V for Vendetta: “People should not be afraid of their governments, governments should be afraid of their people” (Alan Moore), and the meltdowns in the Middle East.

Given the tremendous power of social networking tools to provide instantaneous communications, the use of twitter and facebook in Egypt and with the Occupy movement raises some questions. If social media platforms were integral, were they the cause of revolution, or simply a tool?

Rjurik Davidson pointed out that posters can have the same effect, and that the advantages of social media are the speed of their messages.

The disadvantages of tools which rely on either corporations or licensed technology are that the corporation may (or may have to) bow to external pressures to shut down these tools, and whoever holds the licence or polices regulation of the internet can attempt to disrupt free speech by simply closing down the network. In addition, the use of monitored technology has several consequence for free speech.

The most obvious of this is surveillance and the erosion of privacy, in particular the potential for government bodies (the FBI was mentioned here) to monitor and profile groups and individuals in their exercise of free speech.

It was pointed out that the majority of usage was for trivial things (my use is often about what I’ve cooked for dinner, so I cringe slightly here), and that both facebook and twitter were primarily designed as distractions: speech and immediate response without deep thought. And how. Even working within email a great deal, the responses can come back where it is clear the recipient hasn’t read what you’ve written, and has replied to what they think you’ve said.

I’m inclined to think that that will change the longer these platforms are used. The majority of my email traffic has been professional, and subject to use by people that are twenty to thirty years older than me, or if they are in my age group, with less familiarity with both the written word (as communication) and the use of email, other than sending around the latest funny picture, youtube link or tiresome joke I’m sure I read first three years ago.

Back to the point and the panel, are these technologies liberational? Since they allow free speech (at least until you hear the jackboots or get a visit from some clean cut young persons), does the platform mean that we can speak freely? Well yes, and more of us can (and do). It has to be said that the vast majority of people use these platforms for simply staying in touch with their friends rather than making political points, and occasionally sharing the thought-provoking moment. (Apologies to a lot of my facebook friends here, who often post thought-provoking material – political or otherwise). (Twitter it goes without saying, since I follow a lot of journalists).

The argument in defence of the “trivial” post was this: the greatest defense of freedom (and free speech) is its exercise. Keep saying what you want to say, regardless of the content.

The most troubling part of this argument for me was the mention of anonymity. That anonymity is integral to free speech in oppressive society, but even in places like Australia. While the police aren’t about to kick open my door because of something I’ve said online, anonymity can have its uses. The troubling part of this for me is old-fashioned: if you have something to say, stand up and say it, as yourself.

There are vast numbers of voices on the net. Could it be possible that your voice is ignored, since it only has an internet profile and no other identity? As a younger woman I would have gotten out my soapbox and made speeches on exactly this thing and urged everyone to be brave. Now I have a child, I worry. I want my son to question everything he is presented with, not to challenge it for the sake of the challenge, but to make informed decisions about how to live. But am I willing to risk my freedom and his? There’s a thorny question. If we lived somewhere where arrest was the only result of protest, you bet I would be anonymous. But we don’t, and the question remains.

If I ever have an answer, I’ll be sure to post.

Check out: Tactical Technology, a website packed with tips and tools for using the internet anonymously and a great one for tracking your digital shadow (I looked at mine, and I’m very scared now, *snort*). Also check out Overland Literary Journal for your provocation.

The next panel was a Joss Whedon fest which involved a lot of back and forth about he and all his works. Enough said.

That was the end of day one, and what a day it was. Since I’m way past my usual word limit, I’m tying off here and coming back to it later.

Apologies to any of the panellists at Craftonomicon if I’ve missed them out (or gotten any wrong). On the off chance any of you have read this, email me and I’ll correct any mistakes.

Thanks for slogging through so far. Laters.

The Mirror [Not] Crack'd

I read a description in a book a few months ago, somehow fascinating and repellent: "...ornate, abstractly phallic orifices". What is an abstract phallus? Is it a metaphorical penis? The kind that women of a ballsy nature supposedly have, or am I confusing my metaphorical body parts? While we're about it, what is a phallic orifice? Blame Kevin J. Anderson.

It puts me in mind of a Lalique homage, a fountain, in charcoal cement, oddly smoothed: grey concrete paving in a cold canyon between black skyscrapers. There are no seats. Men and women are here, not gathered, but not wandering; standing still in deep shadow. The light is that of dawn, but darkness holds sway here. The men wear black suits, black shiny shoes, white shirts and black ties. The women wear black suits with knee-length skirts; their shoes are flat; their hair is long but sternly fashioned. They all look cold between the black glass.

Water gushes, steaming, from the fountain. Standing close to the fountain is warm in spite of the dampness from it. No-one stands close. That way lies madness.

Hello, it's been a while, I'll be a little weird this morning.

Creepy fragments are shooting through my head this morning. ("Once upon a time there was a woman who lived in a small cottage, and her husband beat her.") Don't ask me, occasionally my head just comes up with this sort of thing, although the rhythm of that sentence comes from Neil Gaiman's American Gods. The story of the twins for those in the know ("...the rest is just detail."). The woman in the cottage lives alone, just to confuse the issue. It might be in fragments, but there's an awful lot of detail in the unwritten words.

It's early in the morning, husbandly has left for work and small lad sleeps, sprawled in a warm bed. I have hay fever and am trying not to sneeze - I don't want to wake him.

I have housework and sleeping before paid work to consider for the day, but a twitching in my fingertips that wants me to type, to write something, anything, even if the ideas cupboard is full of fragments and Browning's "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" keeps hovering at the edge of my mind.

In a reflective mood I carry on, even if he lied in every word and looked askance to see the effects: in my case it's statistically more likely that she lied. Most of my friends and acquaintances are girls (of varying ages and probably not qualifying for the soubriquet of "girl").

Labels only matter if the substance of them is wrong, and to my mind we're all kids yet. Why not? It isn't a matter of being a child but rather retaining childhood's filters, seeing the world anew every time. That I'm a grown woman with a child of my own makes no difference that I can see. Even in those times when I have to be the grown up and responsible. That's part of the fun too.

The cat sits on the table outside, puffed out and cold looking; while she would like to be patted, and warm, if I bring her inside I'll score another puncture as she tries to bite me. She tolerates me, but it's husbandly she truly loves. There are birds squawking rather than singing in this post-dawn apocalypse. I don't know why "apocalypse" seems right and the word itself looks wrong the longer I look at it. I keep waiting for the steel drum to start, but then realise that I'm thinking of calypso music, with a quick cross-reference to Pirates of the Caribbean and weird crab things. Full of fragments, that's my head this morning.

I could go like this all day, but prosaically I have to consider the morning-before-school routines and I want to post this because I'm tired of coming across this blog in corners as something undone and waiting. I like talking, even in the written word, and that this is not so much a conversation as a whisper in your ear is of no moment. Whispers, intimate things, reaching out in the dark (I don't care that it's dawn here, whispers should always happen after lights out, the best way to share secrets). This whisper reaches out to you, to stir not response but reflection; man, do I have my freak on today.

Spiffy Abounds

For some reason I'm sitting here with a blanket over my knees instead of turning on the air conditioning, but other than that, it's a normal day.

I look up at my ego wall and consider straightening one of my certificates inside its frame, but for some reason I feel affection for its skewed mien.

This week is more and yet more working night shifts with barely any breaks off, but oh well, what the hell, at least I'm not flying into a mountain.

Have once again finally had enough of the neighbour and just been over to ask her to keep it down. Much better than sitting here getting wound up every time her voice penetrates through the three closed doors and brickwork in between. Bloody hell.

Feeling a bit more than slightly guilty at the moment as I'm about a month overdue on my letters to my Aunty, but I hereby vow to write one today and print it on my beautiful new printer. It's awesome.

This afternoon's plan, since I'm free from cooking dinner tonight, is to take t'yoong man out to Campbelltown, buy some batteries for his beautiful new walkie-talkies, some vegetables for all of us and maybe call in to JB Hi-Fi or Dick Smith and get a new toy. A composite AV cable for my iPad, a cordless keyboard, or something. And an iTunes card while I'm there. Maybe. We need food more than we need that and I'll have to check the bank balance first. And I doubt Mark Latham will be there this time, as he was when I bought the printer.

The reason I'm free from cooking dinner tonight is because somehow the boys missed the dinner on the stove yesterday and had sandwiches. I enjoyed it though, although I think I rather overloaded my bowl for work. I spent the rest of the evening walking around very upright because my stomach was so full. Hard life, not.

The creative writing course has finished, although I didn't attend the last class. Originally when I booked in I was working every second week before the class. Not too bad, I think. HA! It turned out to be every week. So on the final, faced with exhaustion and an overwhelming desire not to be looked at like I had two heads, I chickened out.

The previous week I fell asleep at my desk just before the class started (at least it wasn't in class), and the horrified looks were a bit off-putting. So it goes. Still worthwhile, and if I can get the rest of my life sorted I'll book in for another couple that I have my eye on.

Getting my life sorted means getting out of this horrible roster and getting some normality back. Reclaim my life from its ashes and so forth. Possibly attend some social functions. Without having to go to work afterward.

Bliss.

Not just for smack-heads.

The Ties That Bind, Then Choke Your Brain

It's been weeks and weeks.

I'm writing this with about five minutes to spare, no drafting and minimal thought.

It's been a fairly horrible couple of weeks, months, nearly a year. We are really short staffed at work, with people on holidays and people who have left and have not been replaced (in one case, we're getting to the six month anniversary and the fourth re-advertisement). On average, it's midnights, one off, one on, one off, several on. Throw in a midnight (leave work at eight in the morning) and an afternoon (come back at four or five of the same day), and no wonder I'm exhausted.

I had my third go at that one (two shifts on the one day) in a fortnight and feel like I've been abducted by aliens. I've lost a day. It's one day later than it should be. It has been for the last four days.

The creative writing workshop started two weeks ago, tomorrow is week three. Our teacher, Mark Tredinnick, is very good. I suspect though, that I'll be reading a lot of books in my future that I would not have considered (aside from, maybe I should read that) just from the short readings alone - and there's even more mentioned in the Little Red Writing Book (yeah, his).

I would like, very much, to quit my job and work on this. See if I can take it anywhere. See if it can take me anywhere.

See if I can have a normal life, where I'm not tired all of the time, disoriented and perfectly uncertain about the time of day.

But of course, we're already short, so...keep twirling until next time. Or be rebellious and inappropriate; that's my default when I'm this exhausted.

Nothing more. Too bored and furious (it's an interesting combination - I recommend it for enemies) to focus a lot of the time right now. I would like about four days of sleeping whenever I want to.

Since I have no end phrase (and I'm twenty minutes past my five minute deadline), bye.

It's 3am but I'm not lonely

Crashed and burned early yesterday evening, thanks to the help of some red wine.

I've had an overload of news in the last day or so and gone back to work on top of it.

One of my friends has given birth to her daughter, my sister's book arrived from North Carolina and another friend is taking a job overseas. Overload!

Congratulations to everyone.