Oh well.
Hello, internet. I am back from the place on the pictures. First let me get this out of the way :just like the rest of the world, I know all and wept about the Tsunami and the half million people swept away, but I won't talk about it. It seems cheap somehow, so here's not yet another blogger's lament. So give money. that's it.

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This blog is one year old today. Go blog! I gain some satisfaction from the idea that I've kept it up for this long. I thought I'd never have anything to say. Now I know that I don't have anything to say, but that it doesn't stop me from saying it.

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Around 3.30 am, I dreamt that punctuation had been abolished by governmental decree. There were no more dams in logorrhoea's way. It was only a short dream, but I woke up in a cold sweat.
I didn't want to come back.

Update on my slow Days

Disappointment
Today it snowed for nearly three hours. I watched the flakes from my bedroom windows, waiting for the build up before I could run out in my mummy outfit and be merry; but each flake melted as it touched the ground.

Distraction
Over the past two days, I read for over 18 hours : a detective novel involving an accordion player, two prostitutes and a medievalist; a treaty on the epidemics of plague in Europe; and a book entilted ‘the perfect masochist’s manual. All this alowed me to ignore Christmas as comfortably as possible.

Delay
I have oodles of things to write about my mother, but I woudn’t even know where to start, so I’ll keep it for some other time.

Dream
I dreamt that I was in a hospital losing a considerable amount of blood; doctors assured me that it was because I had swallowed a spoon. I was adamant that such a thing was impossible since I didn’t not use sugar or milk in my tea, therefore never needed to stir, therefore did not use spoons. The puddle of blood around me was spreading; then A appeared and told me she was going to the beach and I could come along if I wanted. I hesitated because a) I had no towel and b) I was still hemorraging, but I tagged along anyway, then I threw up into my beach bag. She went on and I just sat on the ground and cried. When I woke up I had a sore throat, so now I’m not sure about the spoon aspect.

Delivery
Just as well that yesterday, Pope John Paul II delivered his annual urbi et orbi blessing for Christmas. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling better already.

Story time

This is the most dispirited Christmas I’ve ever spent.

So here is my Chirtsmas story, especially for you people of Blogland. On a good day it’ll make me feel all warm and fluffy inside. On a bad day it’ll make me sneer. Oh, and it happens to be true. But anyway; here goes:

1.The place :
the countryside, north of France; an endlessly flat land, stretched all the way to the horizon. You expect cows, or at least cabbage fields. There are none, because.....:

2. The time: 1915, the coldest fucking winter since.. since at least the Franco-Prussian war. The one before the one I’m talking about. They’re not called Prussians anymore, but the enemies speak the same language.

3. The cast: German soldiers on the one side (the guys with spiked helmets downing bad beer)
French soldiers on the other side (the guys with the rounded helmets swiging crap red wine)

4. Synopsis: They are on either sides of a demarcation line. Helmets are either pointy or rounded, but trench foot is a constant. Both sides are intent on anhiliating each other, because this is what wars are about, and it is war. Until then, they spend their days and weeks crawling in mud, fighting rats for bits of stale bread, and playing cards to try and forget the infinite boredom and the certainty of death.

And then it’s Christmas eve, even in trench land.
Some say that the Germans start singing first. I can believe that, since the French are not known for their musicality. But somehow they join in. And a truce is called, people!
It is said that gifts are exchanged - lumps of coal? tin mugs? dead rats? who knows. And later, they play a game of football. That can’t be easy on the trench foot condition. (Can you imagine kicking a ball with rotting feet wrapped up in rotting bandages and no shoes? But that’s me spoiling this magical moment with my cynicism. No wonder A could’t stand me. Stop digressing. Sorry.)

And the following day, they go on trying to slaughter each other.
Oh, bless.

5. Morale of my story: So now I better stop moaning about my Christmas/life/lost love. At least I don’t have trench foot, and no-one is forcing me to play football wearing a spikey helmet. So now I’ll go swig some Vendanges Tardives Gewurztraminer 1995, which is the God of all wines.

Two pence-anthropology / Chapter I, France Of the Middle

#1
There is here, and there is the rest of the Western world.
The rest of the world is far, beyond the mountains; it’s a long donkey ride into the unknown. In many ways, this part of the world still has to catch up with the most daring advances of progress and civilisation. For instance, the people here have not been sartorially enlightened.Everywhere else but here everyone and their mother and wearing a poncho; not here. Perhaps because it’s so freaking cold here, the outfit of choice for Winter makes everyone, men and women, look like sexless mummies. Fortunately, there are secondary sexual signs to distinguish the sexes. Hair.
#2
I am counting; the number of women over the age of 50 with crimson hair is alarming. I am yet to come up with a theory about it. Zabélie blames Tchernobyl. I am not so sure. No matter what, I am saddened to count my mother as one of the victims of the Crimson Menace. Isn’t it sad when someone close to your heart ends up a statistic?
I wonder if I’d like to see more ponchos and fewer pillarbox-red heads.
#3
Dogs. Are everywhere. There are two kinds: in the posh area of town, they are small, yappy, overfed, and they come with tartan bows and little coats and matching ageing, female, well-off owners.
In the town center dogs are large, underfed and hostile, held tight on their leash by equally underfed and hostile, multiply-pierced people. Those people would like to think they’re punks. They conglomerate to get drunk on Kronenbourg (punk beer) around bus shelters or on the steps of the cathedral, and scare the shit out of the middle class females. Sometimes the hounds take a bite out of the pampered little bichon frisés; for fun. Or perhaps they are genuinely underfed.
No matter the breed or social status, dog owners won’t stoop to pick up their pet’s turds. Fortunately, the cold freezes them solid, so not much damage is done if you inadvertently kick one. On the other hand, I remember a hot day in July.. But better not summon ugly memories.

I really wish it would snow and people would stay the fuck home and stop walking around buying stuff they don’t need. Merry Christmas my arse. I’ll have a glass of water and a dry cracker tonight.
Love you all.

Home
I have to go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.
Carson Mc Cullers

I have transported my neurosis and myself to France for the Christmas holidays.

1. My mother had 'sorted out' my belongings (see previous posts) so I'm feeling more like a stranger in my old home than I've ever done. She has also smoked all the pot that my brother had left. She claims it didn't do anything to her. I'm not sure I buy that, since she is currently painting a mural of camels' heads in the downstairs bathroom.


2. Precious train moments #1
An uneventful journey. Twenty minutes after departure, I offer one of my glossy magazines to the fidgety man with brutal halitosis sitting on my right, in the hope that it doesn't encourage him to breathe through his nose, it will at least sedate him before we get to Paris. Across the aisle from me is sitting an old man; he is echoing every announcement made by the train crew. 'Sandwiches! yeah! Paris Gare du Nord! Ashford! Yeah!' The unsuspecting younger man in the adjacent seat has put on his headphones.'Hey, whatcha doing? 'I am trying to.. I'm listening to some music.' 'I want to do that too.' Not betraying any surprise or irritation, the young man offers one of his headphones. His companion starts belting out onomatopoeia. 'Just listen', the young guy whispers. Later the old man falls asleep, chin on chest. I do no laugh; I am in awe of the patient passenger. I think I envy him a little.


3. Precious train moments #2
A night of January 2002, a South West train is taking my girlfriend of two weeks and me from Southampton ferry port back to Victoria station. The carriage is empty but for a couple of sporty tracksuit bottomed types with generic/matching haircuts. Perhaps we're bored. We kiss; or rather we play at kissing. No, I kiss, and she plays, pulling away with a smile that means to be teasing. Our hands slide under layers of winter clothing. I am intent; she is too, intent at playing. The ticket inspector winks at our intertwined limbs. The game resumes. She stalls, giggles, teases. By now I have lost all sense of humour and only yearn for a frantic fuck - here, anywhere, who cares about the spotty guys five seats away from us, they’re asleep anyway, shut up, come here, hey, come here, why are you stopping? The train pulls into Victoria station hours after midnight and the last tube. On the night bus to her south London home, she falls asleep. As her head rests on my shoulder, I peer out for clues, I don’t know where we are but we can’t miss the stop. It was a game, I tell myself. Soon I will understand that this game is all she is capable of. Those two hours on the train were the most erotic/terrifying we ever had together.

4. It looks like it might snow tonight.

Forget bath salts- All I want for Christmas is this


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Price: Starts at US$99,999,999,99 from Villains supply. For all your villain needs.

dis·trac·tion (d -str k sh n)
n.
1. A condition or state of mind in which the attention is diverted from an original focus or interest.
2. Separation of bony fragments or joint surfaces of a limb by extension.

I’m trying my best for definition #1. Partly because #2 sounds rather painful.

a. Diversion
I read ten lines, write a paragraph, pop bubble wrap, make tea, pop more bubble wrap, drink tea, change an adjective in the paragraph, forget to wash the cup, pop more bubble wrap, put socks on because it’s getting very cold, make more tea, pop more bubble wrap, read ten more lines, delete my paragraph, forget to drink the tea, pop more bubble wrap, put a jumper on because it’s really very cold, make more tea, open a magazine and stare at the ads, drink cold tea, try to wrap the cat in the popped bubble wrap, try to locate a clean mug for tea. The cat won’t stay inside the rolled up bubble wrap. The paragraphs are all crap, I drink too much tea, and dark thoughts come back and pop, pop in my head.

b. Original focus.
I don’t know how much more of this I can handle. I really don’t.

A big step forward for me, a very, very small step for humanity

I’ve finally started on my French blog. This time it won’t just be a haphazard accumulation collection of random things. I even have a structure for it.

J: ‘So you’ll be writing in French, so you can say things like: oh that guy I live with is a pain in the ass, I can’t wait to be moving out, and you’ll be using slang or the imperfect subjunctive cos I haven’t learned it yet. You will, won’t you?’

No, it’s not going to be like that. But I’m still looking forward to it.

Don't say you weren't warned
I was innocently perusing some French sites trying to find out how to while away my time next week when I found this.
So now we know. The dirtiest people on the planet, huh. Well, in my case it really depends on how dirty people will let me be. I don’t want to brag.

Children's Books That Didn't Make It

1. You Are Different and That's Bad
2. The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables
3. Dad's New Wife Robert
4. Fun Four-Letter Words to Know and Share
5. Hammers, Screwdrivers and Scissors: An I-Can-Do-It Book
6. The Kids' Guide to Hitchhiking
7. Kathy Was So Bad Her Mom Stopped Loving Her
8. Curious George and the High-Voltage Fence
9. All Cats Go to Hell
10. The Little Sissy Who Snitched
11. Some Kittens Can Fly.
12. That's It; I'm Putting You Up for Adoption
13. Grandpa Gets a Casket
14. The Magic World Inside the Abandoned Refrigerator
15. Garfield Gets Feline Leukemia
16. The Pop-Up Book of Human Anatomy
17. Strangers Have the Best Candy
18. Whining, Kicking and Crying to Get Your Way
19. You Were an Accident
20. Things Rich Kids Have, But You Never Will
21. Pop Goes The Hamster & Other Microwave Games
22.The Man in the Moon Is Actually Satan (Jarnocan's favorite)
23. Your Nightmares Are Real
24. Where Would You Like to Be Buried?
25. Eggs, Toilet Paper, and Your School
26. Why Can't Mr. Fork and Ms. Electrical Outlet Be Friends?
27. Places Where Mommy and Daddy Hide Neat Things
28. Daddy Drinks Because You Cry