I Still Remember

Yeah, disgraceful length of time since last update. Been busy. Leave me alone. In penance, some notes from my palmtop, made over Christmas. Not that there’s anything interesting in them, but it’s content…

“The flight’s been cancelled. Everyone’s tired and sweaty and disappointed. Dad and I are trying not to pick fights with one another, but everything either one of says just gets on the other’s wick. We’re not normally like this. It’s the environment – harshly lit plastic and constant beeping. Bollocks.”

“These are the moments that make it all worthwhile. It’s about 4 on Christmas day, and I’m out for a walk. The air is cold and clear, here in Hillsborough. I can smell woodsmoke. The rest of the family went out for a walk en masse earlier, and I’ve just bumped into my cousin Richard on his way back. Standing at the top of a hill looking out across the fields and hills at the sunset. A huge flock of birds are dancing in front of it, swirling and circling as they begin to roost for the night.

There are other families out now, Christmas dinner over and done with, children riding new bikes and scooters. I’m down in the village proper, look across from the war memorial at the church, its spire eerily greenlit against the dusk-blue sky. Magic. On the way back, I stop at the top of the same hill, and look out toward Belfast’s lights, ten thousand amber jewels against the black land.”

It was a good christmas, and I’ve been meaning to mention it here for a while now.

Indulgence

Poking around an aquaintance’s website, I find a link to Torn Curtains. I’m still trying to make my mind up about this sort of thing – is it an excuse for some angsty teens and twentysomethings who ought to know better to talk self-indulgently about themselves, or is it an interesting look into the minds of other people?

Which of course leads us into the debate about the value of on-line journals. Given that these are clearly written to be viewed by other people, how far can they be trusted? I mean, I know I don’t admit to a fair number of things here that I might do in a private journal. And y’know, if I’m going to censor myself like that, then don’t I have some sort of responsibility to those that do read it not to vanish up my own arse in self-aggrandising “see how deep I am for answering these meaningful questions?” Some obligation to actually be entertaining?

I might continue this later, but right now, I’m leaving work, so I’ll just post this and think some more…

This Feeling Doesn’t Get Better With Time

So, I was reading the new issue of Sequential Tart like a good little monkey, when I came across this article. Go and read it. Now.

I’m still wondering how to react to this article. Frightening, isn’t it? I was going to mail Andrea, who’ve I’ve met a few times, and find intelligent, attractive and generally pleasant company, but then I realised that I didn’t have anything to say. What can you say in response to it? I mean, I’m not going to apologise for them, as it’s not my place to do so, and frankly, I can’t think of any way to apologise for disgusting freaks like that. “You’d ride it, but you wouldn’t want to show it’s face to your mates” is the phrase she picks out, and it really is one of the most nauseating things I’ve ever heard. I could mail her and say that no, in my experience all men do not think like that. I’m fairly confident that no-one I know thinks like that. (If you know me, and you do, then please don’t tell me, and further, never speak to me again.)

I could mail her and say that there are bound to be people out there that would have spoken up, but I think the honest truth is that, no, nine out of ten people would not, unless they were with a woman who was being made deeply uncomfortable in that way. Perhaps that can be written off to British reserve, or even the simple fear of getting a slapping, but I’m not really sure that’s an excuse. For those keeping score: yes, I include myself in that nine out ten. I’m not proud of it, and would like to claim that I would speak up, but I’m not going to lie about it – I probably wouldn’t even register that someone I didn’t know was being made uncomfortable by it. I’d be angered by it, but would probably just retreat to my book. I’m not even sure what I’d do if I was with a woman who was being upset by it. I hope I’d do something.

But as she says, how would she know I was telling the truth? I mean, clearly, there are things out there that do think like that. Hell, if I think about it, most of the women I know probably have similar stories about an encounter with some form of sub-human like that pair she describes.

What’s the point of all this? I don’t really know. I’m just trying to feel around my reaction to the piece. I don’t think the level of suspicion toward men is merited, but I have the key advantange of being a man, and some idea of how men think. But it’s all too easy to see how one could get that suspicious. All too easy.

Ah, fuck it. I hate everybody. Genocide, that’s the answer.

Christmas Eve Day

Sitting here in my grandmother’s lounge, looking out over her lawn at the wind whipping the trees. I’m always slightly awed by th sheer size of the houses round here. Anyway, the only reason I’m really posting this is on the offchance anyone reads this in the next day or two. Merry Christmas, folks.

Drinks

Big WEF(UK) drink-up yesterday. Had a fucking splendid time, marred only slightly by spending the day suffering from a cold that had me feeling like my head was stuffed with cotton wool. (If any of you were wondering why I wasn’t quite at my usual sparkling self, that’ll be why, although given that I was popping pills every few hours, I’m sure you’re all aware of it.) The resturant was fab, if a bit loud and stufy toward the end. Never been to a place where they invite you to draw on the tablecloth, and provide with chalk to do so before. I didn’t try to draw anything, because there isn’t anyone on earth that doesn’t have more artistic talent than I do, but everyone else managed to draw pretty pictures.

Thanks to all who attended for a top time, especially those hardy/mad souls for whom this was the first experience of a WEF drink-up. You’re braver people that I – there were only about five people at the first one I went to, 2 of whom I knew already. I had it easy.

Sudden strange/frightening thought: it’s only a little over a year back that we did the first WEF drinkies. It seems like so much longer.

Glitterbug 2

The more I listen to these Glitterbug MP3s, about a minute each of three different songs, the more they grow on me. Lyssa informs me that they’re playing in London on Monday. I really want to see these people live. So, of course, I’m busy Monday. Fucking typical, really. They’re also playing in London on Thursday. When I am also busy. Welcome to my life.

Hammer

Sometimes, I like my job. Other times (like now), I hate it. I’ve spend the day trying to enable some relatively simple bits with a cookie, and they’re not fucking working. At all. Not even close. I’ve double and triple checked everything, but it’s not fucking working. I really, really hate it when you do everything according to the manual, and it just won’t work. Excuse me while I go and kill something.

Glitterbug

Several of my friends have been going on about Glitterbug for a while now. They’ve mostly been doing live stuff, and I’m not one for going to gigs, really, so I’ve largely missed out on them. Finally got round to stopping by their site today, and downloading the sample MP3s. If chirpy indie-pop-rock is your thing, then you’ll probably dig this. Give ’em a look.

Prophetic

So, my entire domain appears dead from where I am, and since this is one of the few remote systems I can use to attempt remote access to anything connected with it, here’s a quick test entry that I’ll probably forget to delete later.