I promised a mate I'd put this in, despite its mediocrity...

You are talking to Russian Theatregoer
Russian Theatregoer says:
update your blog you bastard!
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
doh. will do when I get a mo'
Russian Theatregoer says:
you're severely inconveniencing me. I've got no-one to live my life through…
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
agh, I remember now - the last one I wrote got lost on monday when it crashed..
Russian Theatregoer says:
talking of life just saw someone getting mown down on St Giles
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
really. shit. dead? (Living your life through another's death - very Cronenberg)
you are joking aren't you?
Russian Theatregoer says:
probably not. she was whimpering 'I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die' which suggests that she was gonna live. seriously!
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
shit. Did you help?!? Or did you piss on her twitching body.... to sterilise the wounds, y'know...
Russian Theatregoer says:
no
the paramedics had just got there before me. I would have given her mouth to mouth
Russian Theatregoer says:
but she was a minger [not that it's ever stopped me in the past]
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
but the paras held you back did they, until they'd finished...
Russian Theatregoer says:
yeah, then I fucked her as rigor mortis set in
Russian Theatregoer says:
how are you anyway?
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
'I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die'
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
No my back's completely fucked, and I've got a fuckload of freelance for tomorrow, and my mum's coming to stay tonight... bad mix.
Russian Theatregoer says:
my back is always fukced!
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
really? that would be to do with the brown bags oddbins sells, right?
Russian Theatregoer says:
wha?!
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
erm... brown bags tend to contain whiskey.
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
Whiskey means tramping
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
Tramping means lying on sleeping rough
Russian Theatregoer says:
oh#
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
Sleeping rough = park bench
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
Park bench = modern stylish living
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
modern stylish living = hypochondria
Russian Theatregoer says:
hypochondria=terminal illness
Chalk on Glass =_= says:
'I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die'

Signs of a bad hangover (no. 195 in a continuing series of alcoholic diasters) : Dinner consisting of canned tuna in brine and mushy peas - mixed. With Guinness as an apertif. Eesh.

Sci-fi idea - future world where everything filtered to end user - houses filter visitors, phone calls filter/alter conversations based on preferences (that become implicit as you grow up in world) - siftware - great theme to bring up standard epistemological question - end panglossian society protected from outside world - crux of course is it's not - real world - assume anyway. future shock in it perhaps...

Pure moments of embarassment §16,970
Sat at desk, with dictionary of quotations open in front of me at completely inappropriate section for computer magazine, with web page open on computer "how to make lysergic acid in the home", and big chunky headphones on spewing out the bonzo dog doodah band's "we are normal and we want our freedom." Interrupted in this by respectable, up and coming young editor who quietly asks me if I'd like to do some freelance... My ruddy cheeks could have turned the seas incarnadine...

I feel...


...like someone should nail me to the wall to keep me up... sleep, and this is just a timewaste. Must sleep. Must work - why not both. Never been happier, perhaps. I'm feeeling pure now, committed, should I be? Yoda moment.

Haiku

Rough rain rolls down glass
trapped inside, warm but alone
no out, strange grey wall

Mmm..;.. rabbits. It's 9:44, I went to bed at 2,
and I've been up for 3 something hours. Great
birthday - we missed your presence (and your
presents :P) Crustily gorgeous beer festival,
typically redeeming curry, and drinks in the
puce tower of my home. There's nice.

yours, laughing in the inferno,

griiiiiiiiiiiiIiiiiiiiiiiiiiiL

Begorrah, the day has come, my will be done, on earth you’ve placed this heathen.

Excuse the religious-associative text, but I’ve finally been embarrassed into writing again. I was trying to avoid it I guess, just subsume my mental processes into a round of drink, games and a little of the other. But I keep finding myself having thoughts I don’t want to lose (like anybody but me cares if they go) and scribbling them down on the backs of envelopes, grabbing fliers off students, buying magazines and inscrawling them. As it is, my little origami memes end up piled on my desk or just tipped away. I’m losing so much.

So, brothers and sisters, the theme for today’s sermon, spread the lard, is ‘classification: or the fitting of an new personality into an established stereotype. How and why it’s another pet hate oh mio, o’ mine.’

Actually I can’t be arsed. It’s my birthday in two days, I’m building myself a computer nad I have far too much to do this lunchtime to finagle with such tchotkes.

So summary instead: Internal of person initially = tabula rasa + predispositions – Leibniz described as veins in marble. Perception of others of external appearance and mistakes builds personality: forms initial personality. Alternative structures for bringing up in mean people don’t fit stereotype personality wise in certain situations – every time I move to new place, people try and force me into something I don’t feel I should be restricted to. Damn this ain’t no summary – Brian bring down the curtain.

Oooh… comic plot – which I hearby copyright, pending offers. Bunch of Philosopher superheroes (Y'know the lens-polishers - Spinoza, Leibniz, Descartes, John Dee and his weapon salve, that Rabbi and his golem) fighting templars and the less philosophically rigourous throughout C17th – plot based loosely on Candide – but starts with Pangloss skinned, being tortured in flame-ridden environment, before chin being grabbed, and far too toothy mouth leering close, saying "still think this is the best of all possble worlds, Dr Pangloss?" Next page cut to mouth similarly positioned breathing on lens, vaguely pob-esque... thoughts?

Signs of a bad huangover (too much saki) (no. 194 in a continuing series of alcoholic diasters) : Putting instant coffee in my filter coffee. Eesh.

Every day I hurry on the way to my perceived work past what Les Routiers (Levenshulme's premier chip gourmand) shurely must call 'Bath's finest eating establishment'; McDonald's. And every night I stroll back past, and think "I could really do with soaking my heart in a big hunk of fat." This, despite what I've read in the papers, despite the hearsay, despite the book I read of the massed factories mulching up meat and potatoes and the quality of those goods, and the total amorality of the original desperate entrepeneurs.

Further it is also the fact that every morning I shudder as I pass the bins where the food is thrown every five minutes. The smell diffusing from these great steaming red and yellow tubs is the same uric dampness that you find on a tramp on the way out: slow death. It reminds the passerby that every chip, every glob of extralipid mayo, is a few more seconds off the dead end of you, the bits of collapsing bowels and kidneys that we all want to miss really. No-one wants to die: some people prefer it to a slow degeneration: but if we have to die (and we do, whatever you think comes after) then we all want to go cleanly.

What we mean by clean varies considerably. Some think it literally. Some think quick and painless. Popstars addled by antidepressants and t' cult o' celebrity think it means young. Businessmen doubtless think it is with their misdemeanours undiscovered. Academics think the same, but relish the thought of a posthumous discovery of their personality (á la john major and his political life). The religious think it is whatever fits in with their arbitrary (but society-supporting) moral code, be it not having chewed bacon rind or having used someone else to bloody their hands. Your mother thinks it's with clean knickers on.

However you opine, on one thing everyone but Elvis agrees: we don't want to be burgered to death.

Next time: how this relates to Plato's concept of 'akrasia' (incontinence)

too many thoughts, not enough sleep. Article title "How can you be pregnant and stylish?" in the increasingly small c conservative Guardian - how can you be so fatuous yet run the country's media, and be the progenitor of the next generation of that bubbleheaded capital elite? Drives me to tears, I tell ya.