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Blog Posts
100 Works of Art: (Visual) Narcissus by Caravaggio
Today I went to Camden and had an unexpectedly friendly chat with a geezer at Cold Steel (neither Art nor Cars, no idea who this one is) while he sorted me out with a new ear post for my stupid troublesome butt of a piercing; then I went on a meander and ended up buying a sinfully comfortable "extreme cold weather" army fleece undershirt thing from the scowly army surplus man who mustered a smile for me for some reason, and also another fucking green pashmina in a slightly different shade of green. Was also vaguely stalked around by a dude who looked like a gentleman werewolf.
Then went to the National Gallery in the name of "research" but mostly to moon over the Ortolano St Sebastian, which involved a desperately excited TK-Maxx thug chasing me down the street begging for my photograph which was UNNERVING AS SHIT and I say this in the face of him being totally non-threatening and tiny and charming. Was mysteriously grinned at by several female gallery monkeys. Fled with a list of paintings to look up online.
Not entirely sure what's with the male population's friendliness today. I literally just stopped bleeding out of my vagina, there is NO WAY I am giving off fertility pheromones already. WHY ARE YOU BEING FRIENDLY AND SOLICITOUS, MEN? I DON'T TRUST IT.
[/paranoia]
I did also give in to a powerful urge to drown my persistent sorrows (editing, transformation of a friendship into a frothing pit of lies where every time I think "no we need to talk about this" I uncover MORE BULLSHIT, editing, did I mention editing, period panics about flying to the other side of the world which I am dealing with by pretending it's not actually happening, unavoidable evidence that people actually like me which is ALL WRONG) with Cherry Ripes and Jelly Belly beans, and happened upon one of the cashiers trying to explain 9gag and memes to the other, who wasn't entirely sure she understood Facebook. I was sucked into that one by giggling.
Also giggled - out loud and rather raucously - at a poster of a painting I found in the National Museum gift shop which was by mumblemumble and depicted "the family of Darius at the feet of Alexander" and the bark of laughter happened because they were all wearing like 1500s Italian court wear and just no. NOOOOO.
AND I AM BEHIND ON MY FUCKING EDITING AGAIN
Random Memory #1
We used the word 'scab', not as doctors or striking workers use it, but to mean 'one who begs', on who picks up what others throw away. I believe it came from 'scabby beggar', and it was used as a verb. 'Butt-scabbing' was the lowly business of scrabbling on the floor for cigarette butts with enough tobacco left to contribute to a rollie. I did this often enough, because I occupied a position very low in the pecking order, and had no fucking pride. Pride was the refusal to touch filth or perform chores oneself. 'Can I scab some' meant you only wanted a tiny bit of what you asked for, and that you knew your place. No on said please unless they were fucking despised or making a point to staff.
I say 'we' now, because it's the past. No group I have belonged to was ever 'we' at the time unless protesting some external violence. It was always 'they'. I am incapable of considering myself a part of anything, despite the songs my mother taught me: the examples I saw were that 'we' - my mother and I, the largest unit of social unity - did not belong and were not welcome, and where she belonged I was only allowed under sufferance. I sat outside a lot of buildings for many, many hours as a child.
Struck by the sudden sense of having met the world at a very strange time in its life, although when hasn't the world been going through a weird phase?
100 Works of Art: (Visual) Narcissus by Caravaggio
Today I went to Camden and had an unexpectedly friendly chat with a geezer at Cold Steel (neither Art nor Cars, no idea who this one is) while he sorted me out with a new ear post for my stupid troublesome butt of a piercing; then I went on a meander and ended up buying a sinfully comfortable "extreme cold weather" army fleece undershirt thing from the scowly army surplus man who mustered a smile for me for some reason, and also another fucking green pashmina in a slightly different shade of green. Was also vaguely stalked around by a dude who looked like a gentleman werewolf.
Then went to the National Gallery in the name of "research" but mostly to moon over the Ortolano St Sebastian, which involved a desperately excited TK-Maxx thug chasing me down the street begging for my photograph which was UNNERVING AS SHIT and I say this in the face of him being totally non-threatening and tiny and charming. Was mysteriously grinned at by several female gallery monkeys. Fled with a list of paintings to look up online.
Not entirely sure what's with the male population's friendliness today. I literally just stopped bleeding out of my vagina, there is NO WAY I am giving off fertility pheromones already. WHY ARE YOU BEING FRIENDLY AND SOLICITOUS, MEN? I DON'T TRUST IT.
[/paranoia]
I did also give in to a powerful urge to drown my persistent sorrows (editing, transformation of a friendship into a frothing pit of lies where every time I think "no we need to talk about this" I uncover MORE BULLSHIT, editing, did I mention editing, period panics about flying to the other side of the world which I am dealing with by pretending it's not actually happening, unavoidable evidence that people actually like me which is ALL WRONG) with Cherry Ripes and Jelly Belly beans, and happened upon one of the cashiers trying to explain 9gag and memes to the other, who wasn't entirely sure she understood Facebook. I was sucked into that one by giggling.
Also giggled - out loud and rather raucously - at a poster of a painting I found in the National Museum gift shop which was by mumblemumble and depicted "the family of Darius at the feet of Alexander" and the bark of laughter happened because they were all wearing like 1500s Italian court wear and just no. NOOOOO.
AND I AM BEHIND ON MY FUCKING EDITING AGAIN
Random Memory #1
We used the word 'scab', not as doctors or striking workers use it, but to mean 'one who begs', on who picks up what others throw away. I believe it came from 'scabby beggar', and it was used as a verb. 'Butt-scabbing' was the lowly business of scrabbling on the floor for cigarette butts with enough tobacco left to contribute to a rollie. I did this often enough, because I occupied a position very low in the pecking order, and had no fucking pride. Pride was the refusal to touch filth or perform chores oneself. 'Can I scab some' meant you only wanted a tiny bit of what you asked for, and that you knew your place. No on said please unless they were fucking despised or making a point to staff.
I say 'we' now, because it's the past. No group I have belonged to was ever 'we' at the time unless protesting some external violence. It was always 'they'. I am incapable of considering myself a part of anything, despite the songs my mother taught me: the examples I saw were that 'we' - my mother and I, the largest unit of social unity - did not belong and were not welcome, and where she belonged I was only allowed under sufferance. I sat outside a lot of buildings for many, many hours as a child.
Struck by the sudden sense of having met the world at a very strange time in its life, although when hasn't the world been going through a weird phase?