Those perishin' spheres! Dozens of 'em!'s Blurty Day [entries|friends|calendar] Those perishin' spheres! Dozens of 'em! [ website | Sister Diary: Anive ] [ userinfo | blurty userinfo ] [ calendar | blurty calendar ]

[26 Oct 2004|09:14am] Well, i'd fully intended to embark on a homework mission last night. It didn't happen. I met Jamie Larkin at Bens, who was in a seething mood, odd for a slight small man of usually quite docile demeanour. I don't mind talking to Jamie. When he isn't drunk and leaning fully into your face he's pretty good company. We walked to the Bell and had a drink, whilst he talked angrily about some village chav pupae that had been throwing eggs at his house. It's serious stuff, apparenty. He's going to await their next attack with several of his biggest mates. I think anyone bigger than a small goat will have the chavs running for the hills, frankly. The thing is, like so many who suffer at the hands of these horrid little rat people, Jamie doesn't deserve this...he's a decent bloke. Stoney unexpectedly popped in, left Bolb's card, and talked to us for a while, with the beginnings of a beard and jealousy provoking hair that is now in a flock. A damned flock. I want a flock. It was good to see him. He left some odd French cat cards for Bolby and departed, leaving Jamie and I to talk more until Vince arrived. I must have spent an hour talking to Vince after Jamie left. It occurs to me that the only positive voices in Vince's life are the ones he meets in the Bell. Stoney, Bolb, Graham (in a much more cutting fashion, but positive nonethless), and I. After an hour's encouraging Vince to leave the imbeciles behind and exercise the brain we all know he's got, I went home reasonably pleased with not having done any work. I did some good. Somehow. Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|10:31am] I'm supposed to be working on my homework today, but have as yet had no inspiration. This is a time for quiet gestation, and internet research on feminisn. Especially the opposite and equal elements of the movement, now, and in the time of Emily Bronte. Perhaps looking at her writings from a position of her time, and that of a modern/post modern feminist viewpoint. Interesting. To quell my boredom of empty brained pondering, i've been watching "Ghost in the Shell", kindly lent to the Stilwells by Mr Thompson. I have seen this before, but watching again shows how awesome this thing truly is. It is compelling, cerebral, and relaxing at the same time. There is much in this film to write a thesis about, perhaps I will do that. Scenery is important here. Various scenes simply feature views of the city, crammed with the tiniest detail, painted with a washed out couloured beauty, the trip though is possibly a vehicle for the viewer to assimilate the gravity of what has gone in previous scenes. The music is slow, perfectly paced rhythm with shiver inducing voices. I don't know...this kicks Holywood with a painted foot onto a fleshy ass. I do wonder how it did in the theatres. Fucking brilliant then. Virtual reality vs reality. Vs fantasy. Life is a mess. Perhaps this is the extremity of all the lies we create for ourselves, turned into actual taking over of the mind. Or something. Get your lovely gas giants here!

If I were to write detailed......... [26 Oct 2004|10:37am] I lay a while, headphones lolling out of my ears uselessly, thinking about many things. They were like snakes in a pit, writhing, compressed and slippery, messing around with my voice. I'd talk to myself, skitting in and out of coherency. I don't know why I do it, perhaps this is because thoughts are clearer when given voice. I'd do this more when drunk, babbling as if speaking in tongues, a broken skittish dialogue, like a flickering television left on at night. I thought of you, and what you could be to me. Or what I could be to you. A hundered doubts filled me again, as I turned over once more trying to clutch my sheet further around me. What could likfe be for us, if anything? Do we not deserve this? If so, what is it that we do? This is all "what if" and "maybe"'s......but in their own way they intrigued, they became birds in my dreams, flying white doves, each with a different possibility tied to it's leg, flying. I can only catch one and make it mine, making the rest scatter. Darkness took me....sleepless sleep with no energy given upon waking. 3 Petty criminals| Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|11:57am] Just had a shower, hoping that inspiration would come with the water over my mind and body. It didn't...I just got wet. I now have untidy wet hair wrenched into a pony tail. It looks quite nice with the remainder brushed over one side of the face. Yes, anyway...feminism....If anything is apparent from an immediate food for thought, it is that we notice that Bronte cannot have merely changed her name to Ellis Belle for publishing reasons, had she not intended the book to be a controversial one. Or indeed would have known that this would be concieved as being so. Indeed, had it been aparrent that this novel had been written by a woman, it may not have been published at all, given the attitudes to women at the time. For fuck's sake, this is utter bollocks. I need to say something regarding the book, goddamnit. Ok, femisist symbolism...let's pull this fucking thing apart. Catherine is rebellious to the heirarchy, to the male opressors in her life, indeed against even Heathcliff when he begins to exert male pressure on her. His obsession with her only serves to make her distance herself....despite her union to the largely harmless Linton. Linton is an interesting aspect here. He is an innocent, by and large, but one which pulls Catherine back to living as a kept woman, though this is in no way her desire. To recap then....or to annotate...WH is a feminist's paradise. Not just Cathy is worth analysis...but also for comparative reasons, Isabella Linton, and Nelly Dean - Our all encompassing narrator -, and is a largely female led story. Erm...to digress a moment...I hate having a foreskin...every time I take a piss it's either necessary to pull the fucking thing back or to endure the indiginity of the stream being modified by this thing....like a garden sprinkler... Sorry, I don't know why I brought that up now. You know, it's lucky I can type so fast as my mind can work. In many cases, much faster. Something else of interest that my tutor raised last week is the culture of childbirth in the eighteenth century, and indeed the experiences of the women in the book. Catherine dies after childbirth...shortly afterwards in fact, and we are reminded that in this day such an endurance was seen with an almost blase' acceptance. Indeed, it was often expected. I'm yawning considerably, and it's really annoying me. More soon. Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|12:41pm] If you nick some gravel from somebody's driveway, do you think they'd notice? Look...it's a handful of gravel...how much constitutes actual theft? "OI! Have you got some of my gravel?"......yeah, but it's seperate......bits probably get kicked out by visitors anyway, what's a small fistful? You're never going to run out. If it's shingles or pebbles, I suppose it's different. Makes parking difficult though. "I told you not to make the fucking driveway out of boulders!" "What?" "Look at the fucking car! It's dented! I can't drive over these fucking rocks!" 2 Petty criminals| Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|01:34pm] I've tackled this essay and presentation effectively, and maturely...by going into the kitchen to make a big fucking tomato soup. With lots of vegetables in it. For an impromptu work avoiding piece of cookery it tastes really nice! Groan...back to Wuthering Heights... Think i'll have some bread with this. Get your lovely gas giants here!

Bits [26 Oct 2004|02:34pm] John Peel has died. This is a shock, indeed. One less true gentleman in the world. The soup was glorious. Simmered to perfection. It actually tastes like soup, rather than tomatoes and water. Hey! I'm a good cook! Flock to my hand in marriage! Still no further with my essay. It's something I think for my verbal communication skills, and will become easier once I put what I have together with Paul's stuff. After all, we are doing this as a team. Er...regarding the 1,000 word essay, that will have to be sketched out in the Bell tonight. I cannot deal with that today. I'm too fucking tired, and have no grip on any of the possible questions. Perhaps I should create my own question, based on the study oh the characters themselves, and their respective change throughout. All bores me today. I am not inspired, I am lazy, listless, horny, and frustrated. Work is a nuisance. Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|03:08pm] Had to tie my hair again. Feels really nice now...quite bunchy....I feel like I should be washing big sheets in a bucket of water the size of a trough. May watch "Quills" later. I love Kate Winslet, and Jaoquin Phoenix. And not to mention the wonderful snarling horny anger of the Marquis De Sade, played by our very wonderful Geoffrey Rush. Let's see now...a few pointers: Ellis Belle - A sue de nim for Emily Bronter, designed to get the novel published...question is "Why?". This is an important feminist detail. She did this for reasons more than just the publishing. Pregnancy - Hierarchy - The family...the whip...Hindley is above Cathy, and Heathcliff. There is a superority however, of Cathy over Heathcliff. Cathy herself - Rebels against many, including Nelly Dean. Sees authority as worth going against, especially the early writings of being in church. Bronte's father was a clergyman. This is mirroring that. Though, I will have to look into her background more to find the veracity of this, or the specifics. Now then........Emily basing Cathy on herself. On her ideals....the desire to escape this rigidity of lifestyle. Cathy would go walking on the moors, and loved her wanderings with Heathcliff. Miss Bronte would do also, these walks being one the few opporunities for escape...bar the fantasy writings her and her sisters would create. These are intriguing, and sadly lost to us now. If they are relevant to this work, I cannot tell. Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|04:10pm] Happy Birthday BOWL-BEE I can't write in Marquee. It's not that I can't learn it, I simply can't be bothered to. But hey, Anive is twenty four today, you lot. Give her some love. We're going to the Chinese place tomorrow. For munchery and laughs. I'm hoping for chopsticks to be involved, so I can single handedly destroy the entire art of consumption in one evening. I didn't know you were not supposed to clean your ears with them. Fucking rules. So that is tomorrow. 2 Petty criminals| Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|04:17pm] Right, i've sent you a fucking e-card, Bolb. It's frankly RAMSHACKLE, but may amuse on a simplistic level. OPEN IT! Feel the crudeness staring at you! Read the poem! NOW! Or later! When i'm off the computer! Yes. Going out later, more homework, hopefully some of which i'll actually DO tonight. Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|04:25pm] What does music mean to you? Imagery, that is.....let's talk about it. The pictures, people and things you see listening to a song. Is it an evocation of the exact same image, or does it vary on each hearing? I like musical imagery, and intend to explain a little further to create a greater understanding of my own thought. Let's take a burning example....the song "Misty" by Ella Fitzgerald. Upon listening to it I think of what my love should be like, and how it should be. Swirling leaves in Autumn....warm hands clasping, golden lit afternoon streets walking just off the kerb, just on it...i've used this before, but it's clarity is gorgeous and vibrant to this song. And it's something I feel doesn't exist for me, but should. The song is lovely then, but leaves me drained afterwards. Like eating Kinder egg shells. But far more romantic. It's exactly the same every time. An immoveable burning into the brain. However, the B 52's "Love shack" makes me think of the band being burnt in a steel oven. Probably just because I hate it and them more than anything in the world. 6 Petty criminals| Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|05:23pm] Birthday SoupaCasserole....many beans....THIS IS MY ANSWER TO FUCKING FISH MENAGERIE. Not soup, NOT CASSEROLE. It's an uneasy SMASHING together of ingredients, pilfered off a website and bastardized into my own blood red soup. It's full of stuff, won't you try some? Come on now eat it, don't be dumb. Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|05:27pm] Well, the room is a fervent zoo of people and cat now, Bolb is showing off an Emily Strange shirt, whilst a ferret stares out from a box on television. Fundamental home comforts, one and all. Why do Des and Bolb always enter the room together? One...after another. Sometimes the feline first, sometimes Bolb. Always together. Get your lovely gas giants here!

LOTR - The Return of the King - The Rewrite [26 Oct 2004|05:45pm] I am a fucking BARGAIN whore. Check it out, trilogy, all three films (albiet theatrical releases), eighteen quid. It is mine, soon. Yes. To celebrate....here's another jeuvinile rescribing of ROTK, for chuckles, Mr Fuckles: Théoden: "We must ride light and swift." Théoden: "Oh, for god's sake, such a fucking long way..I wonder if my shoes will really wear out? Maybe we should stop by a shoe repair place..." Théoden: "Hope you lot are up for a ruck....this is not a pub fight, lads.." [Merry wants to go with them, But Theoden isn't having it.] Théoden: "Do me a favour son, come back when you've got stilts, or a sword the lenght of an aeroplane wing, piss off!" Merry: "Oh please! I'm good at stabbing bollocks off!" Théoden: "Yeah, but there's no room...you know what they say..taxi's only big enough for three." Merry: "I want to fight!" Théoden: "Got twenty quid on you? The meter's running...no? Bugger off and steal carrot, shorty" [Theoden rides away, turning and throwing crisps wrappers at Merry, and laughing...the other men ride past, each dumping rubbish on him around him, and in his face, all chortling and shouting things like "Wanker" "Rubbish" "You can't fight, you loser", however Eowyn grabs him and slings him onto her horse's arse.] Èowyn/Dernhelm: "Come on...I need a tiny hobbit shield..." Merry: "My lady?" Èomer: "Let's fucking move! No sleep until Glastonbury!!" Théoden: "No, my dear...this is Middle Earth. Much less muddy writhing about! And the bands and drugs are better in Minas Tirith! Booyah! Fucking hell, it's great riding horses and shouting! AWAY!" [We see the host of men ride for Gondor, parping horns, playing bagpipes, and shouting. At the same time, Sauron's huge armies march towards Minas Tirith. They are very close and the air is filled with their battlecries. Huge trolls are beating out drum and bass rhythms, and an orc breakdancing in front of them. One goblin is doing the splits. A giant Kinder Egg is being unravelled. ] [We go back to Aragorn, who is making his way forward inside the underground realm, doing the dance moves associated with the Bangles "Walk like an Egyptian" video. He walks past mates, clapping their hands, pointing and spinning saying "Hey Tarquin! EEHH!", doing high fives. Legolas and Gimli follow behind him going "Yeah, alright mate", Gimli overhearing somebody saying "Beardy axe lover cunt", and looking around, then walking on. Finally they reach their destination. They stop before the huge double doors and look around.] The King of the Dead: "Who enters my domain?" [Aragorn turns around and sees the King appear in front of the steps, leading to the doors.] Aragorn: "You bouncers are all the same...really think you're it.." The King of the Dead: "You can't come in unless you're dead.club policy...you need at least cobwebs or a worm crawling out of an eye.." Aragorn: "You will suffer me! My moves ARE deadly! SHAZAM!" [The King lets out a chilling laughter and Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli turn to look around. They see how the dead army turns visible around them and starts to float toward them.] The King of the Dead: "Your dance moves cannot slay the undead. Check out these bust a moves from the deathy ghouls." [They look around them and see that they are surrounded by the dead, who are now performing a creaky interprataion of Micheal Jackson's "Thriller". To the three, this is without doubt the worst club they've ever been to, and the poorest joke in this sketch,.] The King of the Dead: "The way is shut. You're not on the list. Now you must die......for...some reason" [The King moves towards Aragorn, as if to be a little more threatening, leering and chattering like a misfiring kettle. Legolas immediately fires an arrow, but it flies through the King.] Aragorn: "Fuck. Erm...we've got this oath thing...apparently it's ALL VERY SIMPLE...my dad is a club regular see, and someone he knew who was alive and you lot knew is great and you like him..so you can let us in....and not get us deaded or anything bad.." The King of the Dead: "The ol' king o' Gondor mate...he has the run of the place, and him only. He can even use the VIP area....as long as he leaves it clean!" [Aragorn readies Andúril for the strike. The King swings his sword but Aragorn blocks the blow and the blade of Andúril is on the King's neck.] The King of the Dead: "Okay. That changes a few things, clearly" Aragorn: "Elrond is fucking good at soldering.....I broke loads of his stuff and he fixed all of it.." [Aragorn pushes the King back and the dead remain silent and watch.] Aragorn: "Not only do we want you to let us in for some banging choons and happy hour drinking, not to mention seating areas designed for weary travellers, with nice leather and small cushions...we want you to do some fighting for us, by flying unconvincingly and far too easily through a load of orcs, LAUGHING" Aragorn: "Well?" [The dead are silent and watch as Aragorn walks around them, holding out Andúril, and after every few steps, jerking about like a malfunctioning robot, for absolutely no reason. Leg and Gimli stand there, Legolas a hand to his head, shaking it, and Gimli looking about, as if he's thinking "What the......fuck is he doing? We'll never pull this sham off] Aragorn: "Come on, you transulcent wankers! Stop standing there scarily mulling it over!" Gimli: "Piss off....they're losers, mate. Look at his crown...fucking rubbish. I bet he got that out of Kinder Egg. Shambolic glowing Prick" Aragorn: "OI! I'm....Iseldur's heir! That means i'm allowed at LEAST one of those glass buckets of four pints of lager! For seven pounds!" Aragorn: "And I will hold your oath fulfilled!" [The King merely smiles as Aragorn points his sword at him.] Aragorn: "Yeah......AND a vodka mixer" Get your lovely gas giants here!

[26 Oct 2004|07:59pm] We are coming to the end of this evening tenure....it's nearly time to get ready for the boozer hour. Or three. Will leave the college work behind tonight, as it's Bolb's birthday. I have three more days off to do it, after all. Hooray. Father is going to assist me tomorrow, so we will go through this lot then. For now, many kisses. Especially to you. Bye for now. Get your lovely gas giants here!

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