fairytales
And yes, dri, you do need downtime.
I don't have to be doing something every moment I'm home.
How very Bernard of me ... *snort*
I bought Jonathan Strange And Mr Norrell today. Yes, why the fuck was I calling it Mr Carroll? Cos my tangled up synapses randomly tied it up to the White Apples writer, a book I still have to read. *rolls eyes*
From the very tiny but crammed Dymocks in World Square. Which got me wondering why the fuck all the furniture and clothes shops were above ground but the book and EzyDVD shops pushed to the basement level with a minimum of space. And then I wondered if that said anything about the clientele expected in World Square from the high rise corporate Tower people. And then I got mildly depressed. Cos, right, some people actually do value clothes and furniture more than books and movies. Can I shoot them?
The bookshop people told me the cream/black cover versions are no longer available so waaaaaahhhhh. Now I really do wish I had bought it when I felt the need all those months ago. They just seem that much more appropriate, sinister yet strange and unassuming, than the green tree cover version I now own. And was it my imagination or was the quality of paper that much better?
I also discovered Susanna Clarke looks nothing like what I'd imagined. Didn't even realise I had built up an image of her in my mind. But aside from the slightly melancholy averted eyes, she looks in every way opposite to the dark long haired young woman I had imagined. Wonder where the hell I got that image from.
It's kinda lovely how you can form such affection for a writer based entirely on the way they write a novel. Not their opinions or funny photos, just the impression you gain of their wit and wisdom and personality through their third person narrative. What'd I post a few days ago? The things in the novel are not necessarily the author. Right. Gotcha.
And yet. Awwww Susanna Clarke. She's so freaking awesome. And so fucking good, smart I mean, smart in that great I-don't-need-to-impress-you way. This is one time I absolutely adore all the fulsome things splashed over the back cover and inside leaves about this book and her talent.
The Raven King. *sigh*
Oh, I forgot to say how Wednesday night with the Photographer Friend went. Pretty much my worst nightmare.
We went to farewell drinks at the Eastern in Bondi Junction and oh my freaking god, even I felt old. We were stared at, snubbed, avoided, jostled and yep, had more individuality in our little fingers than the entire thousand or so young clones we saw. Christonabrick. I have never felt more real in all my life. Or sober. And it took a good while to realise that, that I looked in every way different to all the girls there and most of the boys too. And y'know, I was actually quite dressed up for me? *snort*
So we spent the hours talking, just her and me, comparing our observations and rediscovering that yeah, we identify so strongly with each other. She had pretty much the same reaction to it at all as I did. And I think we both walked out of there, way more amazed than hurt or rejected, way more secure about our own scenes and personalities than you might expect. Was good. I was slightly astonished at my lack of reaction. Liek pretty much I walked out of there, going "Why? Why would you even be like that?"
*shrug* Lately people have been saying to me, in totally separate contexts, that I seem to have a minimum of bullshit about my public persona. A what you see is what you get and I don't need to impress anyone sort of attitude. Which kinda startled me every time I heard it cos yeah I do feel that internally but just never realised it actually reflected outward too. Through that night and since then, yeah, I am seeing the truth of that persona as opposed to other people's personae. Which is good. Kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Okay. Downtime. Before I Do Stuff on the weekend.
I don't have to be doing something every moment I'm home.
How very Bernard of me ... *snort*
I bought Jonathan Strange And Mr Norrell today. Yes, why the fuck was I calling it Mr Carroll? Cos my tangled up synapses randomly tied it up to the White Apples writer, a book I still have to read. *rolls eyes*
From the very tiny but crammed Dymocks in World Square. Which got me wondering why the fuck all the furniture and clothes shops were above ground but the book and EzyDVD shops pushed to the basement level with a minimum of space. And then I wondered if that said anything about the clientele expected in World Square from the high rise corporate Tower people. And then I got mildly depressed. Cos, right, some people actually do value clothes and furniture more than books and movies. Can I shoot them?
The bookshop people told me the cream/black cover versions are no longer available so waaaaaahhhhh. Now I really do wish I had bought it when I felt the need all those months ago. They just seem that much more appropriate, sinister yet strange and unassuming, than the green tree cover version I now own. And was it my imagination or was the quality of paper that much better?
I also discovered Susanna Clarke looks nothing like what I'd imagined. Didn't even realise I had built up an image of her in my mind. But aside from the slightly melancholy averted eyes, she looks in every way opposite to the dark long haired young woman I had imagined. Wonder where the hell I got that image from.
It's kinda lovely how you can form such affection for a writer based entirely on the way they write a novel. Not their opinions or funny photos, just the impression you gain of their wit and wisdom and personality through their third person narrative. What'd I post a few days ago? The things in the novel are not necessarily the author. Right. Gotcha.
And yet. Awwww Susanna Clarke. She's so freaking awesome. And so fucking good, smart I mean, smart in that great I-don't-need-to-impress-you way. This is one time I absolutely adore all the fulsome things splashed over the back cover and inside leaves about this book and her talent.
The Raven King. *sigh*
Oh, I forgot to say how Wednesday night with the Photographer Friend went. Pretty much my worst nightmare.
We went to farewell drinks at the Eastern in Bondi Junction and oh my freaking god, even I felt old. We were stared at, snubbed, avoided, jostled and yep, had more individuality in our little fingers than the entire thousand or so young clones we saw. Christonabrick. I have never felt more real in all my life. Or sober. And it took a good while to realise that, that I looked in every way different to all the girls there and most of the boys too. And y'know, I was actually quite dressed up for me? *snort*
So we spent the hours talking, just her and me, comparing our observations and rediscovering that yeah, we identify so strongly with each other. She had pretty much the same reaction to it at all as I did. And I think we both walked out of there, way more amazed than hurt or rejected, way more secure about our own scenes and personalities than you might expect. Was good. I was slightly astonished at my lack of reaction. Liek pretty much I walked out of there, going "Why? Why would you even be like that?"
*shrug* Lately people have been saying to me, in totally separate contexts, that I seem to have a minimum of bullshit about my public persona. A what you see is what you get and I don't need to impress anyone sort of attitude. Which kinda startled me every time I heard it cos yeah I do feel that internally but just never realised it actually reflected outward too. Through that night and since then, yeah, I am seeing the truth of that persona as opposed to other people's personae. Which is good. Kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Okay. Downtime. Before I Do Stuff on the weekend.