Obviously, a love of Greg Egan is not my only criteria in finding love… This is just one of many authors / bands / films that have come up with nowt.
A deer wanders quietly in a church in France.
“What is this place?” said Aabyryk.
“A church,” I answered.
“A temple? To what gods? To the Mother? To the Cousin Wind? To Sister Rain? There used to be so many of us, we ran through the skies, butting antlers with the stars themselves. We were full of glory, the power broke through us like rays of silver in a morning frost. One night, I argued with Earth over who was the strongest and kicked a great clod off him. That’s how the Moon was born. She was never an old god like us. We laughed at her, we howled.”
“We rarely manifest now. We sleep and we dream.”
I nodded at her, hoping to look understanding, sympathetic.
She snorted and stared at me, “I do not need your pity, fool. We will rise again. When this shiny world of trinkets you have made collapses, when you are back to the ashes and ruin you love so much…. you will worship us again. We will taste your children’s blood as sacrifice again.”
Dancing round with my mates last night at Rock City and this classic came on at just the right time. We had a SERIOUSLY EMOTIONAL dance. I think I actually saw a woman across the dance floor get a bit weepy.
And then, weirdly, I remembered playing MCR when I was DJing years ago. I had to look it up:
I remembered because the girl who asked me for them was really pretty and had braces (teeth, not trousers).
Isn’t sexuality weird? I only remember that night because I fancied her and fourteen years later, that emotion pops up again (hurr hurr). I wonder where she is now… Is she still emo? Does she still love MCR? How are her teeth? She’s probably like a Mum now and a proper grown up. Unlike me.
Me, I’m looking forward to dancing to MCR and State Champs every weekend though I’m actually feeling like I’m Sixteen Again…
It is so fucking hard to not think about someone when you’re tracking a song about them and have to sing lyrics that tear you up one hundred times in a row.
Thank fuck I record myself. No way I could get this down otherwise.
The mix is 95% done, hence having a tumblr break. And now I can have a cry for half an hour or so.
You know, treat myself.
You lie in a puddle just over 4km in diameter, photosynthesizing. The photons taste like tiny buffalo wings as your greedy chloroplasts worf them down.
A gentle summer shower starts; it’s your 65,536 lovers arriving to fertilise your gaping stomata. The bliss envelopes you all and, inevitably, some of you releases tiny babies in the form of homunculi 236 nanometres long. Goodbye, Children, wave me when you have Minds!
As your family lie in a happy heap around, in and through you, you absorb all pre-existing human media in just under a tenth of a second. That was good but you’re still peckish.
So, you live the life of every baseline human who ever lived, simulating their wildly, ridiculously tiny lives in just eight of your nineteen thumbs. Then you burp. It smells strongly of cyclohexane and Ribena.
Your half-sister waves from orbit. You wave back.
Hmmm… I think British English wins here because we say ‘crush’ too but it means far more than fancying. It’s kind of an old-fashioned word here (I never hear anyone under 40 say it) but ‘crush’ denotes a chronic infatuation rather than just thinking someone is fit. Fancy can be exactly like the old-timey thing of ‘a passing fancy’ whereas ‘crush’ is more serious.
In posh female circles decades ago, the word ‘pash’ (as in abbreviation of passion) was used instead of ‘crush’ and it nearly always meant a lesbian fancying, it was a cute term. Don’t hear it much now. It’s the kind of thing Diana Rigg would say. 😛
This reminds me of the current stages of sexual pair-bonding. In the East Midlands of England where I live, this currently goes:
* shagging / fucking / sleeping with someone
* seeing someone
* going out with someone
The first two phases are assumed to be non-exclusive whereas the last is commonly assumed to be the establishment of heteronormative monogamy (even in non-het relationships).
Today, I thought I’d have a go at casting my hand in plaster of paris. Obviously, this wasn’t a sudden whim because you need more than household ingredients to do this. I’d already bought several bags of Baby Rice alginate plus some mixing jugs that could serve as hand moulds.
So, I mixed the first load of alginate, following the vids I’d found online and… IT SET! Goddamn thing just set pretty much immediately. I don’t know if it was how I was mixing or the water temp. So, I plopped that out of the mould – it was disconcertingly like a huge lump of flesh.
Okay, batch 2, I’ll be more careful this time… Aaaanddd… aRGHhh, it’s all gone lumpy. LUMPY ALGINATE HELL!
By this time, I was a little dispirited and the kitchen sink looked like I’d been murdering aliens in it.
But I gave it one more go. This time, I probably didn’t put enough alginate powder in the mix, I was so scared of it going lumpy again. After a bit, I thought I may as well give it a go and I bunged my hand in and waited. Around ten minutes later (waaaay longer than it’s meant to take), the mould seemed solid so I gingerly wheedled my hand out.
The plaster of paris was a piece of piss compared to the alginate. Mixed, poured, gave it two hours and then, ta-dah! The gallery at the top shows me excavating my cast hand out of the mould.
I’ll let it dry out for a week or so and then decide how I’m going to decorate it. I don’t think I’ll go realistic… maybe a lovely gold? Or silver?
Isn’t it crazy how many of us are lonely?
Not just occasionally, a bit in-need-of-company, at-a-loose-end kind of lonely but deep, existential loneliness.
I had an old friend round a while ago. I actually had to ask him if some of my memories of my first girlfriend were true. They’re so long ago and I’ve remembered them so many times, they don’t feel real to me any more, it feels more like remembering a film I’ve watched rather than my own life. But, no, he confirmed I hadn’t gone full-on Ben Gunn, she did exist and all that crazy shit did, in fact, happen. Also, she was as beautiful as I remember. Go me!
Loneliness is insidious. I’ve been single for nine years now, the longest in my adult life. The only way I cope is to treat the loneliness like a monster in the corner of my room; I don’t look at it, I pretend it’s not there and in return it doesn’t claw me to death.
Mostly, this deal works. I can get on with pretending to be an adult (which… shh… is what every adult does, kids) and I’m not screaming inside for more than an hour or two a day. That gives me enough time to do my tax stuff, run my label, write songs, buy synths I don’t need from eBay. Last week, I even managed to exercise without drifting off into blue funks of reverie. I know!
Other days… well, I look in the corner.
And before I know it, I’m swamped with memories of being loved and cared for, of spooning someone in bed, of the house not being half-empty as it has been for years now. There is nothing as beautiful as the improvised little tunes your wife sings absentmindedly as she potters around the house. Nothing in the entire universe.
Today is a bad day. Today, I could really do with hugs and comforting and feeling at least not ugly for a while. But, this being real life, that’s not going to happen. Like all of us who are profoundly lonely, I’ll just have to grit my teeth and get through another day as best I can.
If you’re reading this and identify with the feeling, please know that, ironically, you aren’t alone in your loneliness. You aren’t weird or bizarre or defective. Millions of humans feel like you do.
Today is the first anniversary of my Dad dying. I can’t believe it’s been a year.
I haven’t slept properly the past few days. I keep waking up every hour or so, like I’m anxious about missing a train or flight or something.
I’ve had such a lonely year without him. I miss arguing about politics with him (he was very left of Labour but not as much as me), I miss geeking out with him, showing him new gadgets I’ve bought. I mean, I’ve always loved my Dad but I didn’t know I’d miss him like this, every day in so many ways. I keep thinking, ‘Oh wait till I send this article to…. “ or “He’s gonna love this new lens…” and then realising I’m forgetting he’s gone.
I have so many happy memories of him carrying me when I was little, of him explaining things to me so, so patiently. He bought me my first book, Asimov’s Mysteries, when I was seven or so. He’s why I’m an SF geek. I had a wonderful father.
I wish I was as good a person as he was. I wish I was as strong and handsome, as fearless and resourceful.
If, like me, you’re lucky enough to have a great Dad, please go and give them a hug or ring them and tell them you love them. Because, one day, like me, you’ll wish you’d done that so much more when you had the chance.