Monthly Archives: February 2007
Punch and Judy II – Birth & Life & Sex & Death
I’m in a Nauman kinda mood. Prepare yourself for some Clown Torture… So my class of shite Year 9’s weren’t as horrendous as last week. Still not good in any way but better than outright riot. I may get a kid removed from my class for a couple lessons. Joy.
Depressing conversation avec ma Mere this evening; the same old same old-
“Do anything over the weekend?”
“No. I never go out Mum.”
“Oh. Maybe it’ll pick up.”
Sound is required for many of these lovely sites:
Information Aesthetics – Data Visualisation and Visual Design
Colr Pickr – Pick a colour and Flickr images of the appropriate shade will appear
Whitney Music Box This I am particularly enamoured of.
Revver: Scarlatti – Sonata, K. 455 from the Music Animation Machine
Andres Ramirez Gaviria – Particularly the work Composition
I’m feeling the need depilate and take care of myself to feel slightly more feminine. This is because I am tired and lacking affection; I rarely feel feminine except when a male is giving me some careful attention and even then I feel less-than-womanly…
I am the perpetual girl- I am always surprised if I am called a woman. I lack the breasts, hips, demeanour and attire to feel anything other than an impostor. I feel really feminine when someone stands behind me and wraps their arms around my waist. That’s about the only time, not even to a similar level when I am intimate with someone. Who can I show my shorn skin off to..? I think staying girlfurred up is on the cards. Patrick doesn’t mind.
As is tradition I am going refresh-tastic on the old Getty Images event page for the Oscars.
So far Jodie Foster looks pretty in her Grecian folds; Jay Manuel (I had to look him up) looks like a twat (congratulations); Elisabeth Shue looks alarmingly dumpy and Doug Jones looks well, weird. Jennifer Lopez is so knocked up by her weaselly anaemic husband; Emily Blunt looks like she took stying tips from my 1989 Princess Barbie and wow- Cameron Diaz is wearing a giant napkin and looks a complete state.
Oh I just can’t stop. Patrick is telling me off and telling me to go to bed…
Am currently writing this from the work laptop; my weekend is panning out to be it’s usual uneventful self. Yesterday I did have a couple of hours of variety in that I met up with my old school mentor; we drank hot chocolate and we bitched about incompetent staff, then I braved the crowds in the local temple to consumption to mindlessly look at shoes, underwear and other assorted purchasables.
I bought two insanely striped shirts for the grand total of £20 from Topman and two hoodies for the same amount from the men’s section of H&M. I’m all manly, like. Whilst changing I noticed that I have quite a few bruises on my legs and torso from carrying boxes of books and equipment around school due to room changes. I have an almost transparent bruise near my left hip.
Now the post will descend into self-indulgent woe is me-ing. Yay!
Whilst I was lying on my bed watching Kiss Kiss Bang Bang on the relatively shiny new laptop- which is lovely and quiet- I ran my fingers over the watery lilac stain on my skin and felt saddened that I haven’t had anyone touch my skin and appreciate me for a while. I had been feeling slightly glum throughout the day as I wandered around town, as I looked at the shoes and clothes I could not afford or had no-one or nothing to wear them for. I looked at the people walking next to me as I quickly cut through the crowds and thought to myself “What is it I have that they don’t? What is it I lack that they’ve got?”
I usually look fairly rumpled and unpresentable when I catch sight of myself in a mirror. I think to myself “Oh, what a fucking mess you look. Look at your hair! Who the fuck would want that?” I swear whenever I go into a changing room I find myself wondering if the assistants are questioning whether I am male or female. Honest. I know I can look really good sometimes… it’s just that in twenty-six years no-one has ever seen fit to “want that”. Yeah, people might want to “want that” in a short-term sense i.e. fucking me, but that’s because I’m “nice”; they’re more than happy to fuck me but not be with me. Constructive suggestions are welcome as to why this is the case.
As I power walked around foot-dragging teens, inconsiderate couples, over-priced and over-engineered pushchairs and their pushers I felt very separate. I walked extra tall and felt better for doing so, immune to the outside world within the bubble of my Zen. I felt better but sadder I suppose.
I realise this post is terribly woe-is-me-ing and supremely indulgent. Well, it’s my website and my blog made by my own reasonably fair hand, so I suppose I’m allowed to write whatever I want and you can just fuck off if I’m boring you. I just feel the need to indulge in some feeling sorry for myself… I apologise anyway :D
Anyways, I walked around and looked at all the unaffordable/presently pointless items and felt sad as they caught my eye before my brain kicked in and put reality in the frame. The window shopping only served to highlight the issues in my life at the moment i.e. the lack of companionship and diversion.
Over the last couple of years I haven’t minded this so much- I was happy on my own without friends when I was living in halls and I didn’t mind having no admirers as I had the flirtation of MW#1 on my semi-monthly visits to see him. I was happy keeping my guard up and trying not to be attached but now that isn’t the case. I started to care, he didn’t and now everything is a horrendous spaghetti knot of emotions, at least on my behalf.
I feel neglected. I know however that there’s nothing much that can be done about it. I may go out with female friends who love and care for me and superficially have “lots of fun” but in the recesses of my mind there will always be a sore spot. I’ve no male friends to flirt with anymore as they’ve moved away or fucked me over, there is no-one to show me a good time, no-one to tell me that I smell good, that I look “nice” or that I turn them on. I have inappropriate thoughts about MW#1 yet there are moments where I think he is a despicable human being.
I want him to make me laugh ‘til my drink squirts out my nose, to run his fingers through my hair and to hold me; at the same time I feel like everything is pointless and I’m better off not laughing, working at being restrained and punching him in the gut if he even lays a finger on me, because I don’t want to feel wrong like this anymore.
I know what I am like and I know that unlike other people I cannot go out and pull someone- I just don’t work that way. I find myself thinking that maybe I should be able to do this but then I think I value myself too much to do it. I’m high quality goods, baby! I found it nerve-wracking enough being intimate with someone I had known for years, so somehow I don’t think I’d find it any easier getting it on with someone I’d “known” for a half hour.
It’s like the VD venting of spleen- Anguish at all the potential I have that people are blind to or even worse choose to ignore or abuse. My feelings of being the weird outsider are amplified by their behaviour.
As much as I am flawed, I think I deserve to be appreciated and that I deserve affection.
If my life was an operatic act it would end with me numbly standing on a doorstep holding my heart in my wavering outstretched hands, blood up to my elbows, begging to be let in before the door is slammed in my face. I would sink to my knees and proceed to sing an aria about how I had so much to give but the goodness inside me was taken and twisted by others who chose to abuse me for their own ends.
I would of course be looking fabulous dressed in white, perhaps kneeling in some fake snow (all the better to show the blood); as I lost my strength and the audience wept at my ever-so-tragic demise a sliver of red fabric would slowly slither across the stage and wash up in folds on the doorstep. Oh, ho- Dramatic! I would get twelve standing ovations and a basket of fragrant red roses sent to me every night by an unknown admirer.
As my life is hardly the stuff of opera I shall have to stick to being boringly glum.
I can see what my life is going to be like for months to come: Go to school. Come back. Read things on the internets. Look for job. Maybe watch a bit of television. Pine for things. Go to sleep. Get up. Go to school. Come back. Read things on the internets. Lok for job. Maybe watch a bit of television. Pine for things. Once a month or so see somewhere other than the four walls of my room or a classroom or the supermarket. Once every couple of months get an invite from MW#1. Pine for things. Go to sleep. Get up. Go to school. Come back. Read things on the internets. Maybe watch a bit of television. Do nothing. See no-one. Go nowhere. Pine.
Instead of planning lessons I have passed time drafting The Letter that I would potentially send to MW#1 when I reached the end of my tether. Four hundred and seventeen words of finality. I feel so sad.
Hooray. End of first week. Tired. Tactile due to warmth from hoodie, sleepiness and large glass of wine. Visions of gentle fingers softly stroking the nape of my neck are dancing though my head. Fucks sake.
Friday tomorrow. Hooray… Hopefully will get to have a couple of lie-ins with Patrick whilst swathed in my blanket. Just have to make it through a class of Year 9’s… delightful children i’m sure they will be…
Also, UFC is pretty much fucked… lack of funds for ridiculously priced tickets… The saddest part of this situation is that this is perhaps the only thing I had to look forward to in my life. Yes, my life is honestly that pathetic as we all know.
I have tried to think of things I have to look forward to that might be coming up over the rest of the year but there’s nothing much at the moment… Unable to take any holiday due to lack of funds and undoubted unemployment, unable to attend my Gorgeous Texan’s wedding due to work… I suppose there’s my cousin’s wedding in November but I’ve a feeling i’ll just end up weeping at that occasion, which will be most delightful.
I stay in virtually every weekend, I sleep alone every night (sorry Patrick you don’t count in that way) and have no-one to look forward to seeing as MW#1 is MIA… there’s Bobby Convey’s trip to the dogs at the end of March to go to but at the moment I cannot muster the required enthusiasm. Wrestlemania? Well, i’d be relying on MW#1 for that one so… Anyway, I was really excited about going to see UFC and now I am equally glum about it.
Soup does not fortify. At least not the soup I ate for lunch. Out of a small cup. At 4 o’clock.
A quiet, barely-lit room with a sofa, my blanket and someone warm to curl up next to and stroke my crazy hair and my soft stomach would fortify.
Tired… to just close my eyes and draw in the warmth… relax and dissolve where I lie… exist and feel totally at ease and content… I wish.
Today I taught my first lesson proper. It was crap and they (Year 9) were shits. I am feeling very tired at the moment and i’m not even having to teach or plan much. I get in at around 8am and get back around 5 or 6pm; between these hours I rarely get time to eat (apart from a packet of crisps or something), so i’m slowly washing myself out. And this is only day two. Soup to fortify tomorrow I think.
As predicted, my first day was easy. Still do not have map of school, pigeonhole, calendar, or CONTRACT amongst other things, but do now have two laptops instead of one. Hoorah.
First test awaits tomorrow- Year 9. Sigh.
Double sigh- It seems if I pay anything under 100 quid the UFC combatants will be so far away that they will appear to be shiny, sweaty ants. Dammit.
Ak. Job proper starts tomorrow. Should be a relatively easy first day but still have the heebie-jeebies.
Was ambushed by this article today in the Times; depressing familiar reading:
How do I find the courage to tell my ex-boyfriend how I feel about him?
“It seems to me that you love him more than he loves you. That’s the bottom line. He obviously likes you. He probably loves you, but what he is actually saying is: “I love you, but…” Pay attention to the “but”. As a wise woman once said: “In any sentence that starts, ‘Yes, but…’, everything after the but is bullshit.”
The work commitments might be real enough, but the excuses are bull. If he wanted to be with you, he’d be with you.
If he wanted to call, he’d call, no matter how busy he was. We always find time for the people who are foremost in our heart. And you, I’m afraid, are not. That does not mean that you are not in his heart. It simply means that you don’t come first, and that, I suspect, is where you need to be.”
Yes, so MW#1 is not my significant other, but aspects of the article apply rather well… Sigh.
Spazzing. Confusedly. I thought it was Monday but it seems Wednesday is the day to go refresh crazy on Ticketmaster…
Feeling less awash with angst and vitriol today. Just tired, bit glum. Have been house viewing, lesson researching, Mingus listening (as recommended to do with coke by X.Ray Burns), pain au chocolate and mini babybel consuming (not at the same time), UFC 70 spazzing and generally pondering.
The landscape is less bleak today. It could turn into a windswept moor at any moment but for now it’s a desertscape; not much happening, sort of waiting for something to happen- the rain to come, then the desert to bloom.
Charles Mingus – Mingus Ah Um
I spent most of today nursing a VD hangover. Not a hangover in a Flaming Lamborghini sense of the word but in a “human being in continued emotional pain from yesterday” sense.
My throat ached and my eyes stung; I fought hard to keep my composure even when it was just me and Patrick but eventually a few hot tears spilled out. Amongst the sea of odour-less red roses that were reduced at the supermarket I picked out two bunches of tulips for myself to try and cheer myself up; I would much rather receive an armful of brightly-coloured tulips than an armful of scent-free roses. Naturally, the only giving that was going on was for the benefit of my bank courtesy of my increased debt.
Anyways, I carried the dull ache of anguish at the back of my throat and the pit of my stomach throughout the day. I have come to the conclusion that my friendship with MW#1 is most definitely on the downward slope and, if things continue as they are, is rapidly heading towards a sharp, probably fatal drop.
This causes me great pain; it is heartbreaking. I mourn the loss of a friendship that was once so wonderful and held such potential… All I can think about is what a terrible, terrible waste it has all been, how important to me even now the friendship is, and how after all that has happened I still love and care for him deeply.
I’m just not sure how much more I can take. He is losing me, one hot tear at a time.
No Title (At Least I)
I have removed the Dirty Pictures posts because I felt they were pointless as there’s no-one appropriate to take the photographs.
As much as I want someone to record my body for posterity so that I can look back in ten years time and think “Hey, I looked good once,” somehow I feel that the person who takes the photographs should be someone who actually gives a damn, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone who cares for me in that way.
I am fed up of living a life unrequited.
I am fed up of wanting to do or say things then having to stop myself because they are improper.
I am fed up of potential goodness being stifled.
I am fed up of having to tell myself to stop thinking inappropriate thoughts.
I am fed up of always feeling like this. Always.
As was predicted, I am currently feeling sad and neglected. I am also feeling rant-y. Brace yourselves. I will swear lots.
My day was true to form and rather poor. I spent my entire tiring day being visually bombarded with people carrying bouquets and gifts, some of which were puke-inducing and none of which were for me; I went to a stall to buy some flowers for myself as, lets face it, who the fuck is going to buy me any, but none of the overpriced roses smelled of anything, so I gave up.
I usually don’t feel too sad or grumpy on this particular day but as time dragged on today I felt more and more fed up. I listened to Sinatra singing “Songs For Young Lovers” and Julie London and I sort of just… sank…
Love me? Whatever. I hate the commercialism and I hate the couple-y-ness; all I’d like is someone to tell me that they love me and mean it.
I’d like to have the freedom to be able tell someone I care for that I love them without any of the fear and guilt that currently prevents me from doing so. I cannot tell them that I love them, they will not tell me that they love me, it’s all a load of bollocks. Why the fuck do I bother?
It’s because I care. Stupid, STUPID Monky.
Why do you care for people who mistreat and abuse you, or who will never show you the care and appreciation you are entitled to? You are an excellent human being who also happens to look really good in pirate boots- You are valuable.
Why do you long to curl up in the arms of the very same people who make you cry? Why do you waste your time caring for people who through their actions demonstrate that they do not care? IF ONLY I COULD STOP CARING.
In actuality, I should never have to stop caring and I never will. People just need to be kinder.
End of woe-is-me-post. To bed, to hug Patrick tightly and curse the unfeeling, uncaring bastards. GrrrrRar.
David Austin Roses
The Real Flower Company
The one hundred percent record still stands. Surprise.
I hope a little kindness is thrown your way today.
If somebody loves you:
I hope they express to you how much you mean to them, and I don’t mean just in cards or flowers or other VD-themed marketing products.
If you’re like me and lack:
Imagine a disgustingly loved-up couple walking hand-in-hand in the snow… the surface is a bit slippery so one begins to fall and takes out the other in the process… now imagine the bloodstains in the snow from their collectively gashed foreheads… Ha.
I will be spending my Valentines night hugging Patrick extra tight whilst telling him how much I appreciate that he is always there for me and apologising for not telling him frequently enough that I love him. I will also be feeling slightly sad and neglected. Go me.
“Heart on stick must die!”
Wow. Courtesy of an extremely helpful waiter I have managed to find an actual tasty beer- a beer than I can drink without feeling the need to poke my tongue out after each sip. It is tasty because it tastes like cider. Mmmm.
Over the weekend I soberly attended my first party in what must be years. I had an enjoyable time. I unleashed my patented discussion of “things girls just shouldn’t know about let alone discuss” and consequently this psychological warfare worked wonders for my popularity. It also may have helped that everyone else was wasted.
I did my usual trick of talking much but revealing little and being self-depreciating; I talked about the technicalities and practicalities of zero-g porn, taking pupils into pornographic art exhibitions and deviant practices. The usual. Sadly I couldn’t find any takers to talk about wrestling. Boo.
I met one individual whose job was being a courier. He had his own Sprinter van (white, long wheel base, extra headroom- I asked) and of course I wondered aloud if he ever picked up girls whilst out driving his van. He replied that had hadn’t in that van but that in his previous vehicle he had a mattress in the back. A mattress, says I? Apparently his ex-significant other had fantasies of doing it in the van. I then insinuated that she was only with him for his van. He looked slightly hurt.
Then the following comedic gold exchange took place:
Him: I’m Jewish.
Me: Good for you.
Him: No, I’m Jewish.
Me: That must be nice for you.
Him: I was doing my ex-girlfriend up the arse and my foreskin got torn so it had to be removed.
Him: Yeah, so I’m Jewish.
Me: Erm, I think you’ll find that Jewishness is inherited through your Mother. So you’re not *really* Jewish, are you?.
Him: I am.
Me: No, you just really need to use more lube. Remember that next time?
Tucker Max would be proud.
Him and his ragingly heterosexual mates had been attempting to cup each other all evening. Sprinter Boy suggested that he would willingly offer to cup me if I felt the need.
Me: I’m alright, thank you.
Him: Are you sure?
Me: Yes, thanks. I’m fine. [pause] I’m not packing this evening anyway.
Me: Yeah, you know- *Packing*
Me: Packing. Where you pack an artificial cock in your underwear or in a harness. You can buy soft ones.
Him: *Look of confusion*
Him: Why would you do that?
Me: For fun. It’s to fuck with gender roles, you know… [stares meaningfully] The idea that a woman can penetrate instead of being penetrated or a man can be penetrated instead of penetrating.
Him: Oh. [pause] You’re really quite scary, aren’t you?
With a knowing smirk I replied that I can be prickly and that I am well-used to multitasking fending people off and messing with their heads. The scary comment was made by the same person who was trying to grab my arse and poke me whilst talking to someone else and at the end of the evening still accosted me at the door to try and get my number by saying that he’d told all the other guys that he’d already got it.
I told him I had “attachments elsewhere” and he looked rather crestfallen. I’m sure I should feel guilty somewhere here but all I can go is- Hah. Crash and fucking burn.
Oh, such a singularly pathetic triumph… but it felt good…
UBUWEB Vito Acconci – Undertone 1972 (excerpt)
Scroll down to the bottom of the page to view one of of my all-time-favourite pieces of video art.
“I want to believe there’s a girl here under the table…”
Esquire: The Endorsement: Clothes Off [via]
Last day of supply for a l-o-n-g time tomorrow, then a week of unpaid holidaying… Hoorah. This holidaying will consist of me hibernating under my blanket whenever possible. Exotic.
Christopher Walken interviews a centaur for a job- Do centaurs prefer sex with horses or women?
Rancho Woodcut Heart
Eugh, malaise. Life could be a lot worse, but it could also be a darn sight better. Housing situation all fucked up again- again through no fault of my own. Feel tired and lonesome. Not even much to write about (not that that usually stops me I know)… It’s all just blah.
When feeling so, I get the secondary feeling of wanting to curl up with someone. Which is rubbish.
Today I feel physically worse but emotionally better. I realise I am becoming increasingly withdrawn. I make an occasional foray to the kitchen for a hot beverage; I spend time wishing I could be left alone. I spend nearly all of my time moping. I put my headphones on, pull my hoodie up over them and sit and exist. I feel like it’s one big piss-take when I am presented with food or drink; I cannot smell or taste anything except salt or sweet and I am considering eating the same things until my senses return- I might as well eat warmed cardboard for all the difference it makes.
Seeing appetising food in front of me that people have taken time to cook makes me think that they’ve wasted their time and that it’s almost an insult that I cannot experience anything except temperature, texture and slight basic flavouring. I’m considering eating alone until i’m well again. I think it’s so fucking dorky that I am becoming fed up because I cannot experience consumables but hey, I can add it to the list of flaws.
I’ve thought some more about yesterday’s emotional upheaval; have come to the conclusion that I was so upset because I am ill and because I have not had a serious crying session in a long while, therefore emotional tensions have built up.
I am also glum due to an unfamiliar length of time since seeing MW#1. I know that it must go back to the way it used to be- seeing him once a month or so for wrestling, waiting for him to make contact, making no demands and having no expectations- because after all, it’s not like i’m anything to him anyway. I simply have no right to expect anything.
I’m going to find it hard and I think this sadness will be with me for a long time to come. Not much I can do about it though. Just keep existing.
The earlier rather anguished post was written after a half hour or so of weeping. I woke up this morning and spent some quality time feeling nice and warm and relatively happy-with-my-lot; I was cocooned with Patrick under duvet and blanket, lazily stretching and wriggling around as I talked to Pat about how “Monky is ill” and “Monky loves Patrick” etc etc. I cupped a hand over the softness of my stomach and enjoyed the feel of it’s gentle swell, I poked at a breast that had escaped in the night from my stripy vest and I hugged Patrick lots.
I then decided to listen to Diamond Heart by Marissa Nadler, a recent discovery and download. This made me feel unhappy and I eventually progressed to rather intense crying. Did I stop listening to this song that had triggered further dehydration? Of course not. As soon as the song got to the end I hit rewind. It’s not like it was on repeat or loop either; I chose to extend the upset.
Whilst I was heaving from sobbing and making my hair and pillow wet I pondered the current state of play as I see it with MW#1; I cried as I imagined the message I could send telling him I didn’t think I could see him any more… I cried because I miss him and ‘cos I am not allowed to miss him… I cried ‘cos everything is fucked up… I shed tears because if I saw him at the moment I wouldn’t be able to smell him… I shed some more ‘cos i’m fed up of feeling crap and being ill… because I am unimportant to him… because I can’t taste anything… because our friendship is irrecoverably damaged… because i’d like someone to appreciate me and I do not seem to be allowed to love…
I feel blue and hopeless and not-quite-human.
I was given a temporary boost by the unexpected joy of hearing Mile End on Jones & X.Ray; well the unexpectedness made me grin for a few seconds anyway.
Marissa Nadler – Diamond Heart
The Jive Five – My True Story
I am fed up of being ill. I want to get better.
I want to feel attractive. I want to feel appreciated. I have neither.
The birdflu’/SuperAIDS has deprived me of any sense of smell and I can only taste sweet or salt. I’ve been through this many times before, once for months at a time but I still find it depressing. Food is unappetising, eating totally joyless- I long to be able to taste but I cannot. I just hope once the green gunge recedes things will go back to normal.
I feel fairly glum and gross at the mo- skin powdery under my nose from rubbing, body in dire need of a shave, skin dry and dull, lips tender… I am still breathing most of the time through my mouth so my usual dehydration is much worse. I am flying the flag for the ugly with something less than pride.