Saturday, December 14, 2002

Just got to say before I start this that I've got a head so full of stuff I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore. Last night I decided on my LURPS t shirt slogan, which is going to be "Just The Drugs, Percy" which should probably inform you of my state.

The natural habitat of the poet is within the crowd, without being IN the crowd. we are the spider at the centre of the web, feeling the tiny vibrations, sensitive to every little thing in our environment - yet we are not truly the centre around which things revolve, because every being is the centre of its own universe. So either we are all centres, all spiders, or nobody is, and we all just orbit.

But the crucial thing is the connections. Feeling the vibration - being with everyone, in the atmosphere, but not truly part of it - disconnected involvement - reading the signs and knowing how to interpret them. That's what poetry is.

I've been feeling so nostalgic for days. You know when you get time bubbles? Well the theory is there's so much time it can't all get used up all at once - and I'm indebted to My Gaiman for that observation, but it's true - in any case, bits of lives get trapped like insects in amber, and sometimes they burst out again and you look up into a cold, winter-blue sky iced with high, tenuous clouding mists and you're looking at the same sky of your last term at high school, your first term at University. The same sky. Everything changes but a small part of everything stays the same.

Mutability is fundamentally stable.

Tuesday, December 10, 2002

Hmmm.. I'd like to think I could pass anatomy without too much passing out. Maybe I could. I could handle anything below the neck I'm fairly sure but anything higher and I think I'd probably throw up all over tutor, fellow pupils, corpse, instrument, Ken Brannagh and.. well you get the picture. But anyway, I think I'd make a good doctor. Of the nice sweet yes I'll cure you now give me money type.

And you know, Sir Whinealot is right. "Pudgy" is onomatopoeic. The kind of sound the state of being pudgy would make if it made noise, kind of if you prodded a pudgy person, it would go "pudge!" Hmmm - wanna go prod Tom Hulce. and I mean that in the perfectly innocent way I promise. I haven't fancied him since "Amadeus" and that was only in the later bits of the film.

Well, this was a pointless excuse for a 'blog wasn't it?
"Dear Diary, why does nobody understand me? PS, I am most definatly not mad"
- Henry Clervall

Bleugh.. ok I'm back, and actually scratch that "bleurgh" 'cause I'm feeling a lot better. Having just had to take the last three days off working because I was feeling so crappy and having Sir Whinealot take dictation while I was laying in bed feeling like someone was pummelling my stomach with lead boxing gloves, I finally feel better. So that's food poisoning? Hmmm... it's not so bad, I've had worse, but not in this life. And one thing is for absolute certain, I'm NEVER eating chip shop chips again. Not drunk, not sober, not stoned, no matter if it's all that stands between me and collapsing with starvation, NEVER AGAIN. Thought it was PMS at first (or at least hoped it was since PMS is at least natural, and would mean I wasn't really ill) but apparently not. Oh well.

I put it to the vote last night whether this makes my fellow inmates of the Animal House/Arkham Asylum feel any better since I cunningly avoided the Cold That Would Not Die and indeed every other bug this year. Apparently not - since the CTWND comes with its own set of rather nasty symptoms and lasts a lot longer.

Oh well. I suppose I'd better set my nose back to the grindstone.... essays don't write themselves despite how hoopy it would be if they did. And did I really just use the word "hoopy"?