I think – think – I’ve emerged from my pisser, and about time, too. It’s really incredible, how hotly a person can defend their own depressive state – guard budding resentments jealously against resolution and reconciliation – cut off their nose to spite their face – anyways. Time to shake off, fight off or lick off the thick sludgy molasses of inert gloom. It’s being a very pretty autumn and I have a great deal to do that is both amusing and imperative.
Not much to say that’s fit for print, except it’s striking me afresh, as I listen to French protestations over not wanting to sanction Iran while seeing eye-to-eye with the United States, and American refusals to tolerate a nuclear North Korea which they are in the process of calmly tolerating, that it’s shocking people pay any attention to what comes out of individual politician’s mouths. It’s such an annoying and inescapable reality that most national decisions and platforms are shaped by overarching imperatives and entire political structures. Anything a government spokesperson says is usually just an effort to dress that up as something more than impotence. . .
Even so . . . I remember during coursework in Paris during the lead-up to the last presidentials in the United States having to do a blow-by-blow comparison of the candidates’ stated platforms – practically identical. It was a disheartening exercise. They can’t even talk the talk different from each other in that country. I really don’t understand how Americans tolerate their fucking horrible democracy. The only role of the Republicans as a party is reconciling the opposites of fiscal libertarianism and social conservatism; Democrats are just as sloppy . . . what the hell is even the point of holding elections there? Distraction? Advertising revenue for the news channels? If those people had any fucking gumption left at all, they’d be on the street right now insisting on electoral reform. Too many Twinkies and television channels, that’s their problem.
Ahhhhh. I love ranting my way out of a grump.
venerdì, ottobre 13, 2006
giovedì, ottobre 12, 2006
Scott really hates us, Phillip.
I need a slap, because I seem to be refusing to snap out of whatever big fat crank I’m in at the moment – really losing patience with myself because small problems are being unduly magnified and I’m getting tetchy with my best people. Fucking hate that . . . I think part of the problem is that I see no prospect of rest or change in front of me. And this weekend is already trés chargée, trop chargée, and with things I can’t or simply won’t drop. Especially after the Scissor Sisters cancellation, I need to Shake a Tail.
Of course there are other things preying on my mood, rather more serious. Cancer is one of them. Another friend has been diagnosed with it – no sooner is Carmen fully out of the woods than Miss B. tells me she’s about to start a course of radiotherapy after having gone through the chemo and the boob surgery. I hope everything goes as well for Miss B. as it did for Carmen. In both cases I blame France for their illness.
This also comes hot on the heels of news a much older friend of my family has decided to stop treatment for ovarian cancer – she’s in her late seventies and I suppose the physical toll the treatment wreaks is insupportable to her now, despite her prior good health. Cancer was also a contributing factor to my grandfather’s death – he was diagnosed with a couple different kinds earlier this year that had probably been present in his system for three or four years, but progressed so slowly because of his mighty age.
So cancer is something I’m thinking about a lot. Not so much cancer as a disease, but how people react to it, treat it, try to prevent it . . . it risks becoming a fixed idea. There’s something really barbaric about how cancer is treated. Like old military medicine or something, or the way they treated crazies when everyone was excited about electrocuting each other. I guess part of the puzzle comes in asking what my older friend’s ovaries have in common with Miss B’s young tits – seems to have nothing more in common than HIV and HPV do, so why is the treatment so very similar and why – more importantly from a layperson’s point of view – do we have the same sort of emotional reactions to hearing the name of their disease?
Yeah, so, weeeeeeeeeee! I’m in a pisser.
Of course there are other things preying on my mood, rather more serious. Cancer is one of them. Another friend has been diagnosed with it – no sooner is Carmen fully out of the woods than Miss B. tells me she’s about to start a course of radiotherapy after having gone through the chemo and the boob surgery. I hope everything goes as well for Miss B. as it did for Carmen. In both cases I blame France for their illness.
This also comes hot on the heels of news a much older friend of my family has decided to stop treatment for ovarian cancer – she’s in her late seventies and I suppose the physical toll the treatment wreaks is insupportable to her now, despite her prior good health. Cancer was also a contributing factor to my grandfather’s death – he was diagnosed with a couple different kinds earlier this year that had probably been present in his system for three or four years, but progressed so slowly because of his mighty age.
So cancer is something I’m thinking about a lot. Not so much cancer as a disease, but how people react to it, treat it, try to prevent it . . . it risks becoming a fixed idea. There’s something really barbaric about how cancer is treated. Like old military medicine or something, or the way they treated crazies when everyone was excited about electrocuting each other. I guess part of the puzzle comes in asking what my older friend’s ovaries have in common with Miss B’s young tits – seems to have nothing more in common than HIV and HPV do, so why is the treatment so very similar and why – more importantly from a layperson’s point of view – do we have the same sort of emotional reactions to hearing the name of their disease?
Yeah, so, weeeeeeeeeee! I’m in a pisser.
mercoledì, ottobre 11, 2006
Bitcheroooooo!
Wah wah wah today. Right whiny, twitchy, annoyed mood. Part of the reason for which, outside of abstract frustration with my race and times, is that today I should be jizzing all over the screen about how awesome last night’s Scissor Sisters concert was.
Yeah, well, fuck you too.
Instead, besides seeing Lady, which was nice, I made vegetable broth and roasted a turkey as part of a successful bid to clean and regulate the fridge. I am not a well-regulated woman, but I’ve realized there’s nothing, when it comes to domestic order, that pisses me off worse than a badly regulated fridge.
I think that’s a double inheritance. First from my English grandparents, who lived through two world wars, the Great Depression and 35+ of retirement and came out of it with large amounts of money because they never threw out food. And second from the Calabrian side that violently objects to eating food that isn’t close to the peak of its flavour. This means a well-regulated fridge is absolutely essential to my peace of mind, or else things get pushed behind things and forgotten, superfluous produce is bought while their pre-bought co-nationalists wilt, veggies in opaque bags get lousy, small condiment jars are neglected behind big ones until one must throw them out - awful.
I can live with the fiercest, stupidest, most egregious messiness and even domestic filth – once in Italy I left a pat of lousy aeroplane dinner butter on my bedroom floor for weeks to see who would be the first person to step in it – but a badly regulated, smelly fridge where things get lost or lose their edible loveliness is an affront to affluence, the benefits of agrarian civilization and my own present poverty.
Yeah, well, fuck you too.
Instead, besides seeing Lady, which was nice, I made vegetable broth and roasted a turkey as part of a successful bid to clean and regulate the fridge. I am not a well-regulated woman, but I’ve realized there’s nothing, when it comes to domestic order, that pisses me off worse than a badly regulated fridge.
I think that’s a double inheritance. First from my English grandparents, who lived through two world wars, the Great Depression and 35+ of retirement and came out of it with large amounts of money because they never threw out food. And second from the Calabrian side that violently objects to eating food that isn’t close to the peak of its flavour. This means a well-regulated fridge is absolutely essential to my peace of mind, or else things get pushed behind things and forgotten, superfluous produce is bought while their pre-bought co-nationalists wilt, veggies in opaque bags get lousy, small condiment jars are neglected behind big ones until one must throw them out - awful.
I can live with the fiercest, stupidest, most egregious messiness and even domestic filth – once in Italy I left a pat of lousy aeroplane dinner butter on my bedroom floor for weeks to see who would be the first person to step in it – but a badly regulated, smelly fridge where things get lost or lose their edible loveliness is an affront to affluence, the benefits of agrarian civilization and my own present poverty.
martedì, ottobre 10, 2006
Another day, another fork in my eye
I'm pretty glad to be back in some ways - missed Figaro like crazy, missed talking to people who say 'fuck', missed my cat, et cetera. In other ways I'm not. I really do love Northern England, you see. It's pretty. Nature is pretty here, and the people are better looking. Otherwise, there's about 2/10 aesthetic value in my parts of Ontario.
Anyways. Tonight's Scissor Sisters concert was cancelled. Mr. N thinks it may be rescheduled at a bigger venue since they've exploded with that bloody cute single about not wanting to dance and there's been no mention of refunds yet. All I can say is fuck you, everybody whose fault this is. I wanted fucking Scissor Sisters tonight.
I need to do some of the work I didn't do last week now.
Sigh.
Anyways. Tonight's Scissor Sisters concert was cancelled. Mr. N thinks it may be rescheduled at a bigger venue since they've exploded with that bloody cute single about not wanting to dance and there's been no mention of refunds yet. All I can say is fuck you, everybody whose fault this is. I wanted fucking Scissor Sisters tonight.
I need to do some of the work I didn't do last week now.
Sigh.
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