There is less to say, these days. That is probably a good thing. Back in Xinjiang, when I tried to do regular weekly updates, I found that the amount I could write about a given week was usually inversely proportional to how personally satisfying the week was. The less I feel the need to express myself to people back on the island, the better I am usually doing where I am. That's how these things work, I guess.*
Erm. So. What did I do this week, and why am I having so much trouble thinking of it? I did a whole bunch of stuff, the most major of which is write a full draft for my first commissioned play. It's not a very good draft, granted, but I'm still chuffed to bits that I've got it out there. What comes next is a couple of weeks of talking to historical re-enactment folk and the like, getting an idea of what the dialogue and tone should be like. I also am probably going to end up reading some Sharpe novels or something. This, and the fact that I am wargaming next weekend, means that I am going to have plenty of time to get in touch with my masculine side, which is no bad thing. There is nothing wrong with man-fun**. Interpret that how you will.
And when is this masterpiece to be performed, you ask? Well, the scheduled date for the grand pyrotechnic spectacular is August 24, 2014. Yes, that is four years and a month away. Yes, the world may well have ended before then. And I'll be 25 AND PROBABLY TERRIBLY FAMOUS ALREADY DONCHA KNOW (ha!). But on the plus side it'll be a brilliant personal time capsule. I suspect there may be advance performances before then, so hopefully it won't just be sitting in a drawer gathering dust for four years. Or maybe it will? Time will tell.
(There are a huge number of helicopters and sirens outside. What on earth could be happening? This happens on a surprisingly regular basis, although it might just be a byproduct of living in the middle of a big city with functioning emergency services, which I have never done before)
I should probably recount some witty anecdotes now, shouldn't I. Errr... well, on Thursday I went to a gay bar and it was really good for a while but then creepy men started getting the wrong idea. Why is it that the ONLY clubs where I get attention from (invariably male) strangers are gay clubs? Maybe they were just dancing but... man. I have developed a Thing about grinding, which is that I do not want you behind me full stop no arguments I do not care who you are even if I am attracted to you I do not want you expressing yourself like that thank you. Front is absolutely fine (unless you are REALLY creepy) but back... eugh. Eughhhhhh. No.
Are my parents still reading? Good... I also now have my grandmother on my Facebook, so she might be here too. If you are around, this is probably as naughty as this is going to get, I promise.***
Sidetracked again. This is ADD blogging again... anyway, erm. We'll gloss over Friday and Saturday (drinking, horrible security at a club, went to Spy Museum, went to sculpture garden and sat with feet in pond for a while, ate Thai food, watched HORRIFIC movie) and go to Sunday, which was slow as Sundays here always are, and largely revolved around trying to go to the swimming pool with a bunch of people. We got there mid afternoon to find it busy but not uncomfortably so, and obligingly hopped in and appreciated not being in the disgustingly hot air for a few minutes; conversation revolved in part around the insanely smug life guard kid, who was clearly enjoying the power trip of his summer job and kept wandering around blowing his whistle and getting people to stop doing inane things just because he could. After fifteen minutes, however, our fun was ruined by aforementioned kid coming along telling us all to get out of the water. We look confused, but obey (1 British, 1 American, 2 Catalans; therefore a 50/50 divide between people with a reluctant but largely unquestioning obedience to authority and those without...); however, the whistle blowing soon turns into a shout of "clear the decks, clear the decks!" This apparently means leave the pool. We look bemused, as does every single other person in the place, and refuse to move. The kid continues, now backed up by some slightly more authoritative looking folk. Eventually, someone does the obvious, and shouts: "Why?"
"Thunderstorm", the kid tells us, with an insanely large grin on his face. We look up into the CLEAR BLUE SKY and grumble. Then we all leave. These people are not so different to the British after all, no matter how many weird words they may use (my personal favourite at the moment is "penmanship", meaning "handwriting". The kid in the library I went to today was like "I apologise for my poor penmanship, ma'am" to the librarian when handing her a form, which has to be the poshest way to say "Sorry about my handwriting" I've ever heard in my LIFE. He was my age...)
The blue sky persists all along the walk to the frozen yoghurt shop (DELICIOUS), continues whilst we eat our frozen yoghurt, maintains itself once we get back to the house and even manages to stay around for several hours, which we spend sitting in the garden talking until dinner time. At around 10pm, there is indeed a storm, and it is the most terrifying one yet, but it was not a reason to leave the pool. Except it was. Bloody life guard kids and their hallucinations.
Monday night is salsa night. It's great fun, except it requires a lot of concentration to keep your arms and your legs moving simultaneously. I am forced to leave for toothache related reasons earlier than I would otherwise have liked. I have a wisdom tooth intent on suicide right now, which is beyond infuriating...
One last thing, then I'll go. I've been at a brand new library again today (I took a picture but my camera is not within reach whilst I am sitting down...) and with new libraries come new exhibitions that I can pop into during my impromptu lunch breaks- this time, I spent a bit of time across the hall from the library in a small modern art exhibition. It was a fairly odd mix of stuff from one lady- some of it I really liked in a sort of "oooh, what nice colours in a nice pattern" way; a few were "ooh I can tell what that is meant to be and it is a nice representation of it", and then a lot were "oh. some colours on a canvas. Nice."
I am halfway through the process of sorting paintings into the three categories, when a woman comes up to me, with a bright "Hello, I'm the artist."
Oh fuck, I think. "Oh, how lovely," I say. We converse enough for her to clock the accent, and then have the obligatory "yes I'm from ENGLAND what did you think I was a South African or something?" exchange (I actually did get mistaken for an Australian once. Bleh.) When she discovers this, she looks excited and exclaims that I will REALLY appreciate this one painting she has done. She then promptly drags me over to a large painting which appears to be a set of squares and triangles in yellow and green on a black background.
"This one's called 'The Tate'. It's of the Tate." She stares at me, expectantly. I stare at the painting, desperately, trying to think of something, anything to say about it that will get me out of this horrible parallel world where I care about modern art and have something to say about it.
"Oh. Wow. You know, I really like everything with bright colours. i get dragged in by them" I say (truthfully. This happens basically every time I go clothes shopping; as soon as there is a bright thing in a window or just inside a door I AM THERE). I give her a still slightly desperate smile, and hope that this is an acceptable answer; she sort of smiles back but her expression indicates that clearly I have failed some sort of modern art test I didn't even know I was taking. After showing me to her guest book, she wanders off to annoy somebody else.
I return to staring at the painting. It's just some shapes on a canvas. It doesn't remind me of the Tate AT ALL. I'm not even sure what part of the Tate it was supposed to evoke. Maybe I was supposed to ask her this, but I can't say I care what the answer was. After a few seconds more of "appreciation", I go to look at the pretty ones of beaches again. In her guestbook, I write that I like the colours, and that I'm glad she liked the Tate. And that I hope I never see her ever again.
Nah, just kidding. That would have been rude.
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*Related, I found this vaguely interesting. Specifically the whole "body interpreting depression as infection and isolating you" thing. All the lifestyle shit is bloody obvious- sleep, eat well, don't think too hard about it, get some sunlight, do you really need a book to tell you that'll make you less depressed? Come to think of it, you probably don't need a book to tell you that your depression is making you avoid those things and thus locking you into a vicious cycle, either... anyway depression is for losers and I'm just a fake poser depressive who's never been on a med in her life so whatever.
**You know what? I am even going to give up on the conviction that some films that other people like and I don't are only considered classics because they're boy films. I'll officially concede that Pulp Fiction is a gender neutral classic film, and I just don't like it for the same reason I don't like Catch-22 or Mozart. Or... you know, some girl thing I don't like despite it being classic. Like. Um. George Eliot.
*** And yes I am being safe and sensible and not spending more of your money than is strictly necessary to keep myself in the manner to which I have become accustomed etc. etc.
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