I had a dream about plumbing last night. I mention this only because it is very rare for me to remember my dreams, which apparently means I repress things more thoroughly than most people. I dreamt that I plumbed in a toilet, but that for some reason the only pipe that was available to do it was the hot water pipe, then I had a discussion about how this was not very economical, and concluded that hey, I don't pay for my hot water so what the fuck.
I have studied psycholanalysis, and I know that everything is supposed to be about sex on one level or other, but what the fuck?
Other than that I am spending my free mental hours investigating the game of diplomacy. Mr Moments has suggested that I, Sianodel, IamEvil and a few other choice mateys try a game or two. We'll be PBEM (playing by e-mail) so it is going to take a long time, but as yet we haven't bee allocated our countries. Moments is allowing us to nominate our top three countries, and I am hopeful that I might get my number 1, as I nominated before I knew anything about the game, and have since discovered that Italy (my no.1) is the nation least likely to win, statistically, so I am out to prove statistics wrong, but I am currently worrying over my neighbours, since I am friends with a fair proportion of my fellow players, which is good for Italy, but bad for friendships when I discover that X is Turkey, and I really have to kill them off quickly, or suchlike. (Obviously, Turkey - I wouldn't dream of attacking you, ever... well, hardly ever.)
Right - I have cooked myself a fryup this morning, and I think it is ready tweet.
- posted by Buntifer @ 3/29/2007 08:29:00 am
Perpare yourselves for another rambling mind dump. I've not been writing, and it needs to be done, I reckon it's worth a try doing daily pages style things again, so I should be posting more regularly, but with less coherent content than recently.
Show's started, and so far I haven't forgotten my lines, although yesterday I did belt some poor woman in the knee with a step I have to fit for one of the scenes. The Front of House Manager spoke to her, and I apologised at half time, and apprently she left at least partially mollified, I did spend most of the perf worrying about her though, whish wasn't pleasant, so I'll be looking out for that next time.
I have just finished reading a Frank Herbert book, which came with a naked woman on the front - It is a source of bafflement to me how sci-fi books do this. It's like the editor said "It won't sell without a naked chick on the front."
Author: "But honestly, it's actually quite a good book - there are some cracking characters, and I think I've readlly managed to say something about the human condition in relation to the often experienced paranoid feeling that something is controlling us in the way we lead our lives. I have used aliens as a substitute for the 'God' that most of us attribute this to and even worked in some clever allusions as to how the aliens might have come down to the planet surface and played God with us."
Editor: "Dude - naked chick. Otherwise it's remainder material."
Author: "There's actually a real chance that this might bypass genre boundaries and become one of the few science fiction works to be generally accepted by the mainstream readership. Even the thickest and most snobbish of them, who demand that any novel deal solely with investigation of the human condition won't be able to turn this down on that basis."
Editor: "Two words - NAKED CHICK"
Author: "Please. Are you even listening to me? There are no naked women in this book. There is little nakedness at all, and the nakedness that there is within is tastefully necessary.
Editor: " Naked Chick, Naked Chick, Naked Chick, Naked Chick, Naked Chick, Naked Chick..."
The author is eventually forced to crumble, at which point the readership becomes composed solely of people who bought the book because it has a naked chick on the cover, who will be sorely disappointed, and those people who are brave enough to read it anyway, and suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous accusations of reading porn by Jilly Cooper readers.
So, I'm thinking up another cover pisture for my novel, one with naked chicks on the front.
I must leave you now, and go to sleep, for I am tired, and my brain is made of sleep sensitive cheese.
- posted by Buntifer @ 3/25/2007 09:49:00 pm
So, it's all a bit of an epidermal leisure pastime
Can you guess what play I'm in?
Oh yeah, I have lines on a professional stage. Only three, but hey, who's counting?
Mind dumping into a house now filled with electromagnetic waves. I've gone wireless, mainly to stop the Brunette from pulling the bundles of wires out from under my fucking desk every time she uses the internet, but it seems to be working so far, and it should help in the new place, when we finally get the shit sorted. I just fear that I may be electrosensitive, or that I may develop this. You probably haven't read my book, but I suggested that there might be people who were more sensitive to the electromagnetic smog we are immersing ourselves further and further into, and guess what? There are. Long term consequences? Who knows, that's the great thing about thalidomide...I mean, long term things. Sorry.
I also found out that my lawyer used to be a playwright, apparently he had some things on at Contact while I was there. Interesting, and he understands careers in theatre. The problem? Playwrights make fucking awful lawyers, the man's a cretin. If he's billing us by the hour then he's a crooked cretin. Fuckwit. He never calls anyone, and never answers the phone. When I complained in an irritated fashion to his receptionist she said, "Well that's Shaun for you, isn't it?"
Quality - so even his receptionist knows he's an idiot.
Right - tired and got a matinee tomorrow. Toodles.
- posted by Buntifer @ 3/21/2007 11:53:00 pm
Two pillars of mud drip gently as they grow upwards from the floor,
parentheses of stinking dirt and cloying water stand before a bed.
Thus far the victim sleeps, cherubic and serene.
A muddy figure stretches forward
pulls the covers back.
The child, bared now, shivers in their sleep,
prescience of the figure that watches every breath.
The golden hair surrounds a mind untroubled in its dream.
The muddy figure stretches forward
pulls the child towards itself.
The child awakes and struggles, panic dawns.
It opens up its mouth but makes no noise except to choke.
Now the mind is open, empty but for fear.
The muddy figure stretches forward
plunges its hand into the child’s mouth and pulls,
and pulls the child inside out, the blood comes.
Red and fresh, blooming brightly, roses on the bed,
as what was once a child begins to shake.
Its tortured muscles twist and twitch and tremble
as it slowly loses life, it’s nerves no longer fire.
Its heart, dangling, writhes as it tries to pump,
the empty skin hangs from one clay hand and seems to cry,
and the muddy figure speaks
“You should have been a better boy.”
- posted by Buntifer @ 3/02/2007 12:06:00 pm