Humiliation.

I said I was going to see Kitty Flanagan.

Well, I did, and she was very good. After the show, I went up to her and asked her for her autograph. I apologised for only having a ripped out sheet from a programme to have her sign, and whilst we were chatting I fished in my bag and brought out what I thought was my foldable pen. She looked at it, and said "What should I sign it with? That lighter? I could set fire to it, if you want..."

At which point I realised that it wasn't my pen I had grabbed from my bag.
*faceplant*

So I rummaged in my bag, found my pen, and flipped it open. She then went "What's that? A razor?"

I'm so embarrassing.

But. I just read this and this

Huh.

Seems I'm not alone.

Schaden! Schaden, schadenfreude!

It's got to that time of year where my (mostly quite repressed) sense of schadenfreude kicks in. Normally I'm not one to laugh at other people's misfortunes (that may surprise you), especially those physical ones. I don't find injury funny. But, do you know what?

The Festival turns you, man.

Mimes falling off their unicycles? Hilarious.
Tourists not looking and very nearly getting run over? Hysterical.
Drunken 'critics' tripping on cobbles and going flying? A hoot!

It'll pass with the end of the Festival, as it always does. In the meantime, though, I'm giving it free rein.

Here's a list of some of the injuries I've had over the years, to kick your schadenfreude into gear.

• I fell off a swing onto concrete and cracked my skull.
• I was running along a wall (hey, I was a kid) and tripped and fell, breaking my finger.
• Got taken to A&E with a suspected broken ankle after falling off a unicycle.
• Tripped over my over-long trousers and broke my wrist* (this one is notable, as I had to wear the wrist brace for six damn months, and it seems to have permanently affected how I can sleep.)
• Do the strokes count?
• Trying to open a packet of labels using a scalpel, scalpel slipped (as seen on the MoH forum). I still have quite a large scar on my hand.
• One of my friends startled me whilst welding, and I ran the blowtorch across the palm and fingers of my left hand.

*It wasn't my fault. Flat shoes are teh ebil.

Oh, I'm sure there are so very many more, but that's all I've got for now. Make sure to fully adjust your schadenfreude before starting, and check it's sufficiently oiled.

Huh. Hello.

Well, what to say?

I have spent this week trying to write applications. You know me, I'm not great at promoting myself. It's good, though, that I have people around me who can see all the good in me, and my worth, even if I sometimes can't. I would not have got these done without them.

I am also determined. I am determined that I am not going back to being a waitress. I am not going to be unemployed. When I get my next job, whether it is or isn't the one I am so desperately hoping for, it is going to be something that is worth my while. That I enjoy. That is worth having me doing. There's no way in hell I'm going back. I had my chance. I had my help. I can't rely on that this time.

Oh, here:

PrusSim Blue - the racist pop siblings in Sim form. Good for a chuckle (at them).

Just... interesting. Well-written, y'know?

Excellent art, each with a little story or anecdote.

The End.

PS. Going to see Kitty Flanagan tonight. Yay!

Ahhh! Photos!

Miscellaneous

Organsized?


Paintbrushes


Old boots. I wonder who left them.



Graffiti

Beef!


Note the 'Lizard King' part on the right.



DESTRUCTION!

I walk past the site where they're knocking down a multi-storey car park every day. It's fascinating to see the destruction develop.

Solitude in the skull.

Do you ever not believe in yourself?

Do you ever do that thing when you look at yourself in the mirror, and gradually it just becomes weirder and weirder until it’s like you’re looking at a stranger?

And then you start thinking how you don’t sound like you think you sound (stupid skull reverberations), and that you don’t look like you think you look because, after all, you always see you backwards in the mirror.

And that then, how can you ever know what other people see and hear of you?

And then things you say – do you think about them first? Couldn’t they have been said by someone else inside your brain?

And all the unconscious mannerisms and gestures? How in control of your own body and mind can you ever really be?

And then the things you’ve agreed to and refused – would people be seeing a different person if the choice had gone the other way? Would you be a different person?

What about responsibilities? How can a random jumble of thoughts and synapses be responsible for anything?

How can neurons and bacteria and electrical impulses drive the lump of flesh that you carry around with you every day, making it bow to the whim of the invisible mind?

How can the chemistry make you willing to die for someone? To have likes and dislikes, fears and love?

How is it possible for humans to exist in this maelstrom of doubt and confusion – the ultimate chaos?

How?

And where did I go?

Roses and woes.

Ok.
First things first.
I hate the festival. I hate the crowds; I hate the thousands of crappy drama–student-run ‘plays’. I hate the jacking up of prices. I hate those bloody plastic rain ponchos. That being said, I don’t think this should stop me from taking advantage of the (very, very) few good things that happen around here at this time of year. Get it? Got it? Good.

So yes, this weekend I’ve been quite a busy girl. Friday night I went out drinking with Matt and my mate Colin.

Spent a lot of time with Mouse and her husband over the rest of the weekend.

Saturday I read a lot, went out for lunch, had a nap, then went out to see Dark North (“A television psychic discovers that sometimes the dead and gone really ought to stay that way...”). I really enjoyed it, actually. Nice and dark. Everyone gasped at the point the ‘psychic’ got thrown across the room, except me. I let out a small, inadvertent, ‘Yay!’ I swear I didn’t mean to. It just happened. Anyway, it was absorbing, and added a new in-joke to my vocabulary.

Sunday we went up to the Meadows for Fringe Sunday. I don’t really like it – I get really jumpy in crowds. So we had a picnic and then I was all set to go home again. Until we happened upon the Space Cowboy (who was dressed neither like a spaceman nor a cowboy), who was pretty good. Sword swallowing, juggling three dangerous implements (a fire stick, a sickle and a machete) whilst on a three-metre unicycle (Or, as he said, the suicycle) blindfolded… Yeah, he was good.

Then dinner at ours, and on to Circus Immortal, which was amazing. Half stunts, half acting, it was like nothing I've ever seen before. I was too in awe, too open-mouthed and wide-eyed, too Alice-Through-The-Looking-Glass-ish to applaud.

I've had a fever since Saturday morning (which totally added to the surreality), and all my glands hurt. And, of course, I got my notice on Friday. I hate applying for jobs, and I'm shit at interviews. So yay.

Hello there!

Hi. Remember me?

Sorry, I’ve been a bit busy over the last few days, but I promise to try and not let this blog drop.
Hmmm. I have a bunch of stuff to say.

Lazy blogger bulletpoints!

• This new side-job is terrifying, but fun, and I’m getting more used to it.
  
  
• Someone set fire to the gorse on the side of Arthur’s Seat the other day. I was very unimpressed. I hate it when people do that (even though it doesn’t seem to have been deliberate, this time). There’s a huge blackened patch up near St. Anthony’s chapel. Matt and I were walking home on Monday, and could see the flames. It’s probably the largest fire I’ve seen on Arthur’s Seat.
  
  
• Matt had a nice time on his birthday, and we’ve still got shedloads of lasagne left, if any of you want it…
  
  
• It’s fully fledged festival time here in tourist-filled hell. Once more, you can’t move for people with maps, drama students and drunks. I hate the festival. I want to get a t-shirt made that says ‘No, I don’t want to see your sodding show!’ I can hear bagpipes constantly, and there's fireworks (just the noise, not the sparkle) every night. I wish I could hibernate. As it is, I'll just have to resort to being a grumpy ole bitch and channeling Bernard.

So, how are you? You're looking wonderful. Is that a new top you're wearing?

Literary items.

I was reading this blog (congratulations, Karen!) and was reading the archives of her story through adoption. I came across this poem and, damnit, it nearly made me cry again. And I was doing so well today.

To You (by Karla Kuskin)

I think I could walk

through the simmering sand

if I held your hand.

I think I could swim

the skin shivering sea

if you would accompany me.

And run on ragged, windy heights,

climb rugged rocks

and walk on air:

I think I could do anything at all,

if you were there.

Books.

The Illustrated Man - Ray Bradbury
I first read this at my grandparents' house when I was eight or nine. It absolutely entranced me (although I fully admit to not having 'got' all the nuances at that age). It's still probably the only book that I can definitely put in my favourite top five at all times.

One Hand Clapping - Lise Leroux
This is the oddest book I have ever read. It's a selection of chapters about oddities and genetic tampering, about love and ambition and jealousy and families...
It all comes together at the end as a wonderful revelation as to how the characters fit with each other. It's pretty hard to describe.

The City of Ember - Jeanne DuPrau
A very unusual children's book. The City of Ember is the only light in otherwise never-ending darkness, the old stories say. But now the lights are failing, the supplies are running out, and the city seems doomed.

Being Dead - Jim Crace
This is a love story. It tells of the history of a couple from when they first met to their last day together. The story flips backwards and forwards between their love story, and the story of their bodies' decay on the beach where they were murdered. The imagery is absolutely amazing in this book. It's not a gore-soaked horror that lies on the beach, but the quiet hum of entropy.

And finally...

Litmocracy have a different background now, which I actually got paid for (theoretically). So hooray.

Marketing and the simple mind.

By the way, if anyone here is in marketing or advertising...kill yourself.
Thank you. Just planting seeds, planting seeds is all I'm doing. No joke here, really. Seriously, kill yourself, you have no rationalisation for what you do, you are Satan's little helpers. Kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself now.
Now, back to the show. Seriously, I know the marketing people: "There's gonna be a joke comin' up." There's no ****in' joke. Suck a tail pipe, hang yourself...borrow a pistol from an NRA buddy, do something...rid the world of your evil ****in' presence.

Bill Hicks

Do you know what? No, I don't think I will.

I loathe people that assume that if you're in that line of business, you're the sort of person who's tricking and encouraging obese ten-year-olds to eat fast food.

Obviously, me working my ass off to get information out about such evilness as local-council-run exhibitions like Art Nouveau (the scandal! The stockings!), fairy tales (the violence!) and landscapes and portraiture from the early 20th century (the... ummm, paint!) is exactly the same as people who run scrolling adverts across the bottom of your precious TV shows, bribe children with crappy plastic toys to consume more and more junk food, or market any and all 'lifestyles' with an air of misogyny and body-hatred.

Clearly.

Not that I encourage suicide for them, either.