(no subject)
Unlike apparently everyone else who flings themselves at words, I still prefer the "actually writing" bit to the "I have written" bit unless there's something worthwhile to distract me from the HIDEOUS GAP between "finished doing a thing" and "someone has acknowledged that I've done the thing, therefore it is Real".
Today there isn't, because I am supposedly Taking A Break, which means what is actually happening is my brain is eating itself, although I did also finish the chapter on Victorian Homosexuality in Catherine Arnold's book and managed to stop wanting to punch Wilde in the head in favour of groaning about all the stuff I agree with him on, including and especially "there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book" etc., and less eloquently "fuck improving art in its stupid fucking face", which I didn't adhere to anything like as strongly 10 years ago because fandom hadn't turned into a bucket of didactic anti-sexual PUS then.
On Tuesday after I'd upchucked my first words I met up with Some People (Fiona, Ruthi, Emma, and Holly, variously) and hung around in the DEAD THINGS museum (which happens to be one of the locations from my stupid book and was therefore Technically Research, especially plus the time I spent gawping at tools of the surgical trade in the hopes of remembering some of them and thus being able to include them in the book); with a G&T, and also later, once I'd done the participatory bit in the McRae gallery, with a plasticine penis in a jar of water (Jess is very unimpressed by my souvenir and won't look at it, whereas I explained to the volunteers at the desk while I was buying SOME PHOTOGRAPHIC SLIDES OF DENTAL X-RAYS as further souvenirs that I had made it because "In The Wasp Factory, [Spoiler (click to open)]a plasticine penis in a jar is AN IMPORTANT PLOT POINT, so I saw my chance and WENT FOR IT" - the volunteers in this instance were a) old, b) posh, and c) delighted by this). Once we'd looked about - there were a couple of muscular, serious-looking, virtually identical gays there on a date and !!!!! I WOULD VERY DEFINITELY PUT OUT IF SOMEONE TOOK ME TO A BAR IN A FUCKING SURGICAL MUSEUM ON A DATE, JUST PUTTING THAT OUT THERE, OH GOSH !!!! - there was also a talk on the Anatomy of a Hanging, by a retired and absolutely charming surgeon. At one point there was a demonstration which I wanted to volunteer for (it involved a rope) but was stricken with the sense that My Dear Friends would think I was being embarrassing and Typically Attention Whoring, which in retrospect seems odd considering that both Holly and Ruthi have frequently encouraged me to make a tit of myself in public and Fiona has certainly never expressed any opprobrium. Oversensitivity won out, however.
YESTERDAY I cut it very close - Jess was stricken with STOMACH WOES and I was... busy writing. In fact writing got rather on top of me and round about the time I was meant to be LEAVING I was still in bed emailing the draft out. HOWEVER by some train-related miracle I got dressed, fed, contact-lens'd, etc, in time and actually arrived slightly earlier than necessary... met Melanie's Fake Wife Suzy (later spent part of the evening trying to convince Melanie to Fake Marry Suzy because I want to go to more extravagant parties) and her Not Boyfriend Simon, experimented with some largely disappointing cocktails in Dirty Bones, and accidentally uncovered Simon's DARK UNDERBELLY as someone who Does Not Believe In Vaccinating Himself (everyone else apparently is allowed to).
Rather than responding like mature adults about this Melanie and I made horrified faces and laughed for ... probably far too long, and made a healthy decision to depart for the other cocktail bar.
Which was in a disused Tube station, and was Extremely Extra. Everything - EVERYTHING - was in theme as a 1940s speakeasy, and the cocktails were amazing, and the staff were lovely, and the decor was incredible, and I need more money. We attempted to plot the Drunk Freelance Writers' Christmas Party on the grounds that writers don't get office parties, and I ... rainchecked on the museum tour thing I was meant to be doing because frankly it was cold outside and I wanted to sit in a warm bar and drink more extravagant cocktails where I could sit and stare at the bartender with the ginormous arms and the serious beard.
(Like, everyone continues to be overwhelmed by the weight of my great coat. IT IS A GREAT COAT WHAT ARE YOU EXPECTING. Of course it is bloody heavy! That's the WHOLE POINT).
So yes.
Now I don't have plans for the evening and I'm uncomfortable and weird, and Jess is ill, and I don't like my house, and I'm also in a moderate amount of pain, and increasingly fed up with the whole binder situation. The first Bio-oils massages have begun, which are also surprisingly painful and worrying, and while I'm trying to be cavalier about the fact that there's definitely going to need to be correct surgery on the charmingly-described "dog ears" thanks to fluid, I am DEEPLY BORED WITH BEING TIRED AND IN PAIN AND NOT BEING ABLE TO BREATHE PROPERLY MAKE THIS BE OVER NOW I WANT TO TAKE MY SHIRT OFF
also it's 10C I don't approve of this being the warmest it gets during the day. Sort it out, weather.
Oh also also: check out Simeon Solomon. Less for his work: which is fine Pre-Raph stuff if you like that one Pre-Raphaelite face (ref. Rossetti if you don't believe me, and Burne-Jones - whom I love but really), more for his biography (outre Jewish Londoner artist militantly fails to stay in the closet as a big gay and a sado-masochist, tragic impoverished death, rather hypocritically called rude names by Swinburne because he sold some rude letters by the latter while flat broke and starving, etc).
Today there isn't, because I am supposedly Taking A Break, which means what is actually happening is my brain is eating itself, although I did also finish the chapter on Victorian Homosexuality in Catherine Arnold's book and managed to stop wanting to punch Wilde in the head in favour of groaning about all the stuff I agree with him on, including and especially "there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book" etc., and less eloquently "fuck improving art in its stupid fucking face", which I didn't adhere to anything like as strongly 10 years ago because fandom hadn't turned into a bucket of didactic anti-sexual PUS then.
On Tuesday after I'd upchucked my first words I met up with Some People (Fiona, Ruthi, Emma, and Holly, variously) and hung around in the DEAD THINGS museum (which happens to be one of the locations from my stupid book and was therefore Technically Research, especially plus the time I spent gawping at tools of the surgical trade in the hopes of remembering some of them and thus being able to include them in the book); with a G&T, and also later, once I'd done the participatory bit in the McRae gallery, with a plasticine penis in a jar of water (Jess is very unimpressed by my souvenir and won't look at it, whereas I explained to the volunteers at the desk while I was buying SOME PHOTOGRAPHIC SLIDES OF DENTAL X-RAYS as further souvenirs that I had made it because "In The Wasp Factory, [Spoiler (click to open)]a plasticine penis in a jar is AN IMPORTANT PLOT POINT, so I saw my chance and WENT FOR IT" - the volunteers in this instance were a) old, b) posh, and c) delighted by this). Once we'd looked about - there were a couple of muscular, serious-looking, virtually identical gays there on a date and !!!!! I WOULD VERY DEFINITELY PUT OUT IF SOMEONE TOOK ME TO A BAR IN A FUCKING SURGICAL MUSEUM ON A DATE, JUST PUTTING THAT OUT THERE, OH GOSH !!!! - there was also a talk on the Anatomy of a Hanging, by a retired and absolutely charming surgeon. At one point there was a demonstration which I wanted to volunteer for (it involved a rope) but was stricken with the sense that My Dear Friends would think I was being embarrassing and Typically Attention Whoring, which in retrospect seems odd considering that both Holly and Ruthi have frequently encouraged me to make a tit of myself in public and Fiona has certainly never expressed any opprobrium. Oversensitivity won out, however.
YESTERDAY I cut it very close - Jess was stricken with STOMACH WOES and I was... busy writing. In fact writing got rather on top of me and round about the time I was meant to be LEAVING I was still in bed emailing the draft out. HOWEVER by some train-related miracle I got dressed, fed, contact-lens'd, etc, in time and actually arrived slightly earlier than necessary... met Melanie's Fake Wife Suzy (later spent part of the evening trying to convince Melanie to Fake Marry Suzy because I want to go to more extravagant parties) and her Not Boyfriend Simon, experimented with some largely disappointing cocktails in Dirty Bones, and accidentally uncovered Simon's DARK UNDERBELLY as someone who Does Not Believe In Vaccinating Himself (everyone else apparently is allowed to).
Rather than responding like mature adults about this Melanie and I made horrified faces and laughed for ... probably far too long, and made a healthy decision to depart for the other cocktail bar.
Which was in a disused Tube station, and was Extremely Extra. Everything - EVERYTHING - was in theme as a 1940s speakeasy, and the cocktails were amazing, and the staff were lovely, and the decor was incredible, and I need more money. We attempted to plot the Drunk Freelance Writers' Christmas Party on the grounds that writers don't get office parties, and I ... rainchecked on the museum tour thing I was meant to be doing because frankly it was cold outside and I wanted to sit in a warm bar and drink more extravagant cocktails where I could sit and stare at the bartender with the ginormous arms and the serious beard.
(Like, everyone continues to be overwhelmed by the weight of my great coat. IT IS A GREAT COAT WHAT ARE YOU EXPECTING. Of course it is bloody heavy! That's the WHOLE POINT).
So yes.
Now I don't have plans for the evening and I'm uncomfortable and weird, and Jess is ill, and I don't like my house, and I'm also in a moderate amount of pain, and increasingly fed up with the whole binder situation. The first Bio-oils massages have begun, which are also surprisingly painful and worrying, and while I'm trying to be cavalier about the fact that there's definitely going to need to be correct surgery on the charmingly-described "dog ears" thanks to fluid, I am DEEPLY BORED WITH BEING TIRED AND IN PAIN AND NOT BEING ABLE TO BREATHE PROPERLY MAKE THIS BE OVER NOW I WANT TO TAKE MY SHIRT OFF
also it's 10C I don't approve of this being the warmest it gets during the day. Sort it out, weather.
Oh also also: check out Simeon Solomon. Less for his work: which is fine Pre-Raph stuff if you like that one Pre-Raphaelite face (ref. Rossetti if you don't believe me, and Burne-Jones - whom I love but really), more for his biography (outre Jewish Londoner artist militantly fails to stay in the closet as a big gay and a sado-masochist, tragic impoverished death, rather hypocritically called rude names by Swinburne because he sold some rude letters by the latter while flat broke and starving, etc).