May 9, 2008
The power hasn’t gone to my head; it only exists in my head. So far I have abused my power to:
– procrastinate wildly despite having deadlines
– abuse the internet at work
– give up adding any tags to my posts. Who would use them?
I will also have power over certain guests who are coming to stay with me this weekend. As the old cliche goes: with great power comes great responsibility, and it’s up to me to make sure everything goes smoothly and no punches are thrown.
Under the list of things I thought I had power over but really don’t is my body. I had been proudly sprouting body hair all over the shop – legs, groin, abdomen and breasts and thinking myself ever so clever for not being arsed to conform to ideals that involve sharp blades near my fragile skin. But. Then came warm weather. With hipster trews and t-shirts that aren’t quite long enough. And I was embaressed that not only could people see my protruding belly but that it carried the extra offence of a large patch of inch long dark brown hairs.
I caved, I shaved the part that was visible and understood that I was weak and that half the things I thought I was doing to be clever I was just taking credit for because they were safe. Once again I am shown how little I understand myself and that I give myself too much credit. Fortunately the people I care about, apart from occasionally elbowing me in the eye, accept me the way I am. Eventually I will discover what way I am. There may be some kind of epiphany invovled, but I doubt it – I’m not in to that Hollywood crap.
May 7, 2008
I was going to write about my favourite TV shows and the strange fixation my housefolks and I have developed for watching Quantum Leap but talking about what I watched on TV last night would make me pathetic. I lie, it would make me human, but it would make me feel pathetic. More pathetic in fact that talking about my cat, because at least that would give me one more tick on the list of how many fake types of crazy I can pull off.
I do less than three Sci-fi. On the one hand I want to say that this is down to the high standard of plot and writing that has to go in just to get a prime time show aired or movie produced. But then I remember such gems as the Lost World series featuring jungle Barbie which if Battlestar Galactica was Picasso would be a crayon drawing of a stick man on the back of an envelope.
I think great Sci-fi comes from the space the genre gives to explore ideas without getting heavy handed and preachy about it. Not to say they don’t, like in last week’s episode of Dr Who when in a discussion on slavery the Doctor states “where do you think your clothes come from?” Now I heart the Doctor and I am interested in where my clothes come from but asshat writers who stomp all over BBC shows (why do you think no one watches Robin Hood) and hijacking characters to put their messages out are not welcome on my TV. I am glad they at least had the sense to have Donna tell him off but in general this was a poorly scripted episode. Fine plot (ish) but poorly executed. Shame on you BBC, you must try harder if you want a gold star.
Traumas: work has been assigned, I shall have to conclude my meandering nothingy thoughts later.
May 6, 2008
An acquaintance of mine got married around New Years, and managed to wait an entire three weeks before developing a parasitic growth. The fetus has just been announced as having passed the 13 security zone and they are now planning the move in to their new house (yup, just six months to redecorate, move in, and prepare for the new arrival).
So what was the point of spending £10,000 on a party when all they really wanted was to have babies? Why not spend that money on a bigger house? A savings fund for junior? Even just for security in case things go a bit pear shaped? To me it is madness. I am in two minds about whether or not to marry. I love my partner, and despite my principles I am pretty certain that if he asked me to marry him I would gush and squee and instantly accept (though what kind of wedding it would be is a whole different story). But if I did marry, it would be … well I’m not sure. Not really to declare our love to all and sundry because I’d want an intimate ceremony. Not to please God because I’m not part of a religion that would require that. And not to have babies, because I’m fairly certain my uterus will (or won’t, depending on the secrets of my internal health) incubate a fetus regardless of the paperwork.
May 2, 2008
Yesterday was local council elections day, and my oh my do I get a buzz from voting. It pleases me in a tingly, pleasuresome way. Despite standing in every ward the BNP failed to win any seats, and in my ward the Lib Dems retained their place which is good as they have made many investments in the local area already. Sadly many people seem to be migrating from Labour to Tory but that’s a rant for another day (or not at all, seeing as the parties are essentially the same apart from slimy little David Cameron having some media savvy).
The sad thing is that around 25% of people voted. More people in my ward will go on to develop cancer than voted in that election. Three quarters of the people who made the effort to register (so there may be even more non-voters) weren’t arsed to go down to their local polling station and draw a cross on a little slip of paper. It’s funny that in the west we benefit from so many human rights not afforded to those in other places, and yet when it comes down to it we are too complacent to make any use of them. People fought for centuries for this right. And I don’t just mean women: most men didn’t the vote either for a long time. Our democratic system, although riddled with thoughts, was hard won and cannot be appreciated enough.
In a Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf addresses a lecture hall of young women, stating that they’ve had the vote for ten years – what are they going to do next? Apparently the answer is ‘decend into a well of apathy, barely kept afloat by the desire to consume’