Essentials for any good conspiracy theory:

1. Something you thought you could trust is now untrustworthy. This is getting increasingly difficult in today's cynical society.
   
2. If at all possible, the Catholic Church should be involved. This does not count as the something you could trust, since everyone expects the Catholic Church to be involved. Perhaps, in a clever twist, they could not be involved, hence breaking out trust in their involvement.
   
3. The more branches of the Illuminati you can draw into the mess the better. The Discordians, the Bavarians... hell, get Shangri-La involved!
   
4. The government has to deny it. Whether or not it's true, whether or not they are involved, they will deny everything. That is what governments do.
   
5. Everything moves in a circle.

I am trying to create a conspiracy of great cunning and complexity. This is proving a lot more difficult than I anticipated, but still a lot of fun.

Wow. My mind is well and truly blown. I just watched the insanely odd Dark Star. I think pretty much everyone has heard of this movie, at least. It's the one where they have to talk the bomb out of blowing up. It's got a very leisurely pace, very 70s, the sort of thing you can just relax into. Great fun. More fun than a lot of modern movies and made on about as much money as I got paid for tonight's work in the bar. Watch for the elevator that's actually a trolley being pushed down a hall. Brilliant. Pure class. And a half.

Incidentally, if you're interested in how one might go about talking a bomb out of blowing up, or you've seen the movie and just want to relive what made it such an excellent piece of work, there's a reproduction of the 'Socratic phenomenology lesson' at this place.

I wish I'd come up with this, but I didn't. The following is from an email that is the latest volley in the "Random thoughts" competition I'm having with H^m. (Want to know the rules for a random thoughts competition? Make them up yourselves...)

If someone is trying to sell you house cladding over the phone, "complete with free measure and quote!" I wonder how they would react if you said one of the following:

a) "Can I clad my dog house?"

b) "Sorry, my house is made of beer bottles held together with sixpack rings"

c) "Cladding huh!?, Does the free measure and quote include an intimate visit from an attractive male/female?"

d) "I TOLD YOU THAT IT WAS OVER BETWEEN US! STOP CALLING ME YOU PSYCHOPATH!"

e) "I am Satan, your pitiful cladding is no match for the heat in hell! You will be in eternal damnation for your sheer stupidity!"

This was in response to my return of serve that included the gem (well, I thought so anyway) of:

What would the McDonalds chick say if you answered her question: "Would you like fries with that?" with: "Oh my god, yes I would! Are you psychic?"

Ploughing is a sport? The mind positively boggles.

And no, not that sort of ploughing. Get yer minds outta the gutter. And stop sniggering.

Although... "Had my dream again where I'm making love, and the Olympic judges are watching. I'd nailed the compulsaries, so this is it: the finals. I got a 9.8 from the Canadians, a perfect 10 from the Americans, and my mother, disguised as an East German judge, gave me a 5.6. Must have been the dismount." (1 point. It's an easy one.)

A is back. There is much rejoicing.

Absent-minded apathetic geekdom is: Realising you've been out of bed (or the shower) and on the computer for two hours now but you've only got two buttons on your shirt done up.

This happens to me more frequently than I'd care to admit.

No, no, no, please no.

Though... I don't know why. This just annoys me. The mundanity and stupidity and complete lack of anything funny in the "Comedy" section I think sums up all the reasons why I don't like this. It's so mainstream America. I thought MTV was sort of the Triple J of America? Actually, when I come to think about it, what the hell gave me that stupid idea? Of course it's not.

Three cheers for X-Men getting stuff and... yeah. I watched it last night, in a tiny window on my computer screen with dodgy quality. Whoever had bootlegged it had missed maybe half a centimetre (in this tiny screen... more like a few inches on a big screen) on the left and right, which made some scenes completely incomprehensible as, say, Hugh Jackman looked at a Professor who was nowhere to be seen. But since I've seen the thing before, I could fill in the blanks. And it's good for getting all the dialogue, which is what I wanted.

In the end, I love sleep too much. Seriously. I enjoy sleep. I can't pull an all-nighter anymore unless I know I can sleep for a long time sometime soon. And I can't do that anymore these days. Hence, no all-nighters. And something beautiful and delicate has passed out of my life. *sniffle*

The problem... well, maybe problem's too much of a harsh word. There aren't any problems. Perhaps: significant factor? Interruption? Glitch? Hmm...

Anyway, the big thing between A and I is that he lives in the real world, solid, grounded, definitely here despite everything. Whereas I haven't figured out quite where I live yet. I'm still hovering. But I'm almost certain that when I do land, it won't be there.

Or maybe I can stay in the air forever. Just above reality. Where he can still touch me.

The past two weeks might just have fulfilled one of the requirements I would have liked to have stipulated at the beginning of these holidays. They might actually have been a holiday.

Long, lazy afternoons spent lounging on the floor or furnishings of fellows' rooms. Rambling and random conversations; today's topics were Kabuki, Buddhism, Pi, why Dⁿ sucks big time, religion in general, the nominality of the political left and right in Australia, loss of inhibitions due to drunkenness and Starcraft. Also making a brief appearance was the fact that the fight scenes in the Matrix look so much better when it's watched on a computer screen at dodgy quality. Everything was blurry, a bit jagged, not so smooth. It made the fights look incredibly cyberpunk.

Back to the point: relaxation as a whole. I can feel my batteries recharging. The only question is whether they've got enough to sustain me past the shock of going back to uni and realising that not doing anything over the holidays means I am now fucked.

"How's your life?"

"In progress." (2 points)

Plans for the evening uncertain. Plan 1: staying up all night to watch X-Men (the movie just acquired on .avi) and read about Confucianism and finish my current fic and generally just because I haven't done it in ages. Plan 2: going to bed at a decent hour and making this yet another day in which I've done bugger-all even remotely approaching useful.

I want plan 1. I'm not sure I have the sticking power, though. Updates to follow...

Currently in the player: Dee's "Loud angry-society music" AKA "The Fuck You Suite". Rage Against the Machine (self-titled), Kittie (ditto), and Dope (Felons and Revolutionaries). Anyone else feel like breaking some windows?

More random conversation snippets:
"He's being evil and cruel and mean!"

"Aww... isn't he telling you what it is?"
"No!"

"Do you want me to tell you?"
"Yes!"

"Well I'm not going to."

"Dude, there's a pillow in your fridge."
"What?"

"A pillow. A little star-shaped one. In your fridge."
"Oh yeah, I know. Leave it there. I don't have anywhere else to put it."

I just almost used the line: "He held his breath, she held her breath. The entire world seemed to pause in anticipation." in something I was writing. Spank me now. I've been spending too much time reading melodramatic roleplay and fan fiction.

Don't worry. Captain Prosaic is on the lookout for all such heinous acts against literature.

I have some weird-ass stuff in my MP3s, you know? Four versions of "How Soon Is Now"; the Smiths' original, plus Love Spit Love, Everclear, and the amazingly superior Snake River Conspiracy. Two versions of "Like a Prayer", not including the original Madonna (H20 live and Bigod 20 - I highly recommend the latter). A playlist that segues from Rob Zombie into the Beatles, and thence into Hole (Spookshow Baby, Eleanor Rigby and Malibu, respectively). And the always-bizarre 2NU's "Ponderous".

"Now I'm on a beach somewhere, and there's a sign that says: 'Aren't you supposed to be at work?' It sort of screamed out at me. (Aaaaaaargh!)"

This is ponderous, man. Really ponderous.

How cool is the site for Our Lady Peace? I sat and watched that opening screen for ages, going: "Wow."

'Superman's Dead' going through my head, good moshing/screaming/leaping around/singing along/playing air guitar music.

Not that I'm doing those things, of course. Well. Not all of them, at least.

H^m just said what I think it quite possibly the sweetest thing I've heard in a while. As I was bopping around his room, randomly singing along to "Commies for Christ" (DAAS - Doug Anthony Allstars - for the uninitiated and Americans amongst you), he turns to look at me. I believe I had just chanted: "My God arm-wrestled Kruschev" when he stated: "Dee, you have more self-confidence than anyone I have ever met."

I paused. Grinned disarmingly. Wiggled a little. Honestly, how do you respond to that? In today's society, it is somewhere in the order of the highest magnitude of compliments. We value confidence above all other virtues. And I'd just been told I was the best example he had ever met.

I don't think of myself as that confident. I have doubts. I have a deep need to be accepted. I worry about what people think. But all the outward signs are there, I suppose. I wear skin-tight hotpants and knee-high boots in public. I sing along to the music. I dance flamboyantly. I don't mind if people look at me. In fact, I actively court it by all the above steps and more.

And even with my doubts and need for acceptance and worrying, I have a tendency to do precisely as I please. Still with the intention to be cool, but to fit my own concept of cool. But isn't that what everybody does?

Note to self: Don't read slash with the door wide open. Especially when it's a well-known fact that people can just wander into your room whenever the door's open without knocking. Especially when all your friends currently in residence are male friends of the moderately-innocent-in-some-aspects variety. That way confusion, embarrassment and quick-fire Alt-Tabbing (to change windows) lies.

The most beautiful light in the world. Around five, it starts. It comes from everywhere and nowhere. It permeates the world. This is what reality looks like. This is how it really is. Not the harsh light of day. Not the tint of rose-coloured glass.

It begins pure and clear. It becomes golden. It bathes the world, worships it, lavish and decandent. The clouds are stained pink, my walls a burnt umber. The colour deepens, bruises, through gold to orange to blue and then the world is laced with dream-light. Anything is possible in the dusk, when life continues as normal but is so emphatically different.

It's evenings like this that I feel like an impressionist, armed with my mind rather than an easel, trying to capture the impossibility of light.

New obsession developed. Ultimate X-Men's Cyke after reading Min's great fic "Chocolate Milk". Ooooh.

Sorry, just thinking about her dark, edgy Scott makes me shiver.

This is getting dangerously close to the crush I developed on Ammar ibn Khairan after reading "Lions of Al Rassan" for the first time. I grew out of that when I realised that Ammar just wasn't enough. It had to be both Ammar and Rodrigo. Together, they are Captain Fantasy-Man.

Yes, now I am getting silly.

Hmm... also reminds me of the time I spent fifteen minutes watching Disney's "Aladdin" for about the fifth time thinking: "Gee, that Aladdin's really cute." And then: "Oh for Christ's sake, Dee. This is a bloody cartoon."

The thing is, see, yeah, Ultimate Scotty is cute and all, but it's his character that I find eminently whimper-worthy. I've grown up. Or something. What I do know is that I have to get the comics yesterday.

Wha? Only after I go through all the agony of trying to figure out which email I used so that I can get my username sent to me so that I can get my password sent to me... only then does Blogger realise that yes, I am actually signed in already, thank you very much.

*sigh*

Last night I was playing a strategy game on a map of London with little buses and tanks as my pieces. (Oh yeah, this was another one of those weird dreams, by the way.) Certain key strategic buildings were the base points to conquer. Inside one building (and this was all happening concurrently), I was in a ballet. New and innovative, but incorporating the feel of conservative dance. I conquered the theatre with a double-decker red bus with no roof (you know, the ones the tourists love and I can't see the point of 'cause what if it rains?) and the two threads of my dream came together like a well-structed storyline. The performance swelled to its climax, borne on the breathless anticipation of the audience. I was just being dragged around the stage by some amazingly famous and talented Russian dancer (Russia again!) when the alarm went off.

I was so deep it literally took me half a minute to emerge. It was like coming up from the deep. Murky green water parting in front of me as ahead, the light gets brighter, and then I break the surface with a gasp and a long moment of disorientation.

There is nothing quite as sexy as a man walking like he means it.

Right. That's the sentence I had to write. Now let me try and explain it. A loose posture. A rolling gait. Yeah, a certain sway to the hips, but not like women do it. More subtle. Long strides. Rhythm. It's not self-conscious. It's not something that's done to look good. It's just what happens. He's concentrating on where he's going. How he gets there isn't important.

But it makes my head turn every single time I see it.

I don't get enough random email. See, one of the things I like most about the internet is that you can talk, immediately, to someone you have never met. Never even seen. Never had the smallest, slightest contact with them or anyone they know.

Yeah, it's possible. But it never happens. Right?

I got two random emails this week. One talked about Gibson's Molly (my role model - does that scare anyone?) and my writing and other things. It was a wonderful email. Simply random contact from someone with whom I would never have otherwise interacted. The other was related to internet/domain business. Less inspirational, but also special, in its own way.

Of course, I might whinge about not getting any random emails, but I don't send any either. I suppose it's a two-way street. So this is what I'm going to do. This week, I'm going to try and send out at least five random emails. Just out of the blue. Find a page, find an address, send an email. Discussing anything. Everything.

Hey, why don't you do it too?

Well, I did have another dream last night, but then I was woken up by a strange noise. Sounded vaguely like... someone trying to scratch through the wall of my room. Except it was on the side of my room upon the other side of which wall there is nothing. Or maybe through the ceiling. But I'm on the top floor.

Very bizarre.

And it drove the dream right out of my head. I know I had one. I know it was odd enough to rate a mention in my ongoing saga of bizarre subconsciousness, but it's gone now. How sad.

Meanwhile, our chapter of Starcraft players was reconvened last night, after a delay incurred by the fact that my Brood Wars CD had died a horrible, painful, lingering death. We haven't played in ages, however, and it was more really by luck than good management that we were able to win. Either that, or we're just Starcraft gods. The boys would probably go with the latter. I'll go with the former. I don't have anything to prove.

Today I have off. This is an unprecedented opportunity to get some work on my essays done. However, I shall probably just waste it. Stupid me.

I went and listed myself at the Koechel project, because it's a good idea and this thing is now sufficiently journal-esque to qualify. I was shocked and horrified to find that Faith No More was not on the list of artists already. Faith No bloody More. I kid you not. What the hell are people thinking? Plus the fact that of the available music categories, only Rock/Pop didn't make me want to hide under the table, and it still doesn't come within damn cooee of my musical tastes. This is a travesty. My final selections: Metallica, Rammstein, David Bowie, Letters to Cleo and Faith No More. The last two were suggestions.

I now go to work, shaking my head at the state of the world I live in. Honestly.

This is turning into a dream journal. I don't remember ever having had this many dreams at any period of my life. Maybe it's the desperate need for sleep that does it.

Not Russia. Somewhere else. Somewhere European. A city of cafes and architecture and slow-moving culture. I was marking the essay of a college student who I can stand, but only barely. G^j was there; she needed to talk to me. She would meet me at the end of pier H in an hour? I realised after she left, taking something with her, that in a little more than an hour I had to return this essay. Confusion.

Somewhere else, in the same dream, Ralph Fiennes (Onegin-hangover?) remembered the gentle delinquence of his youth.

It was a novel, unravelling in my head. Complex and structured and layered. Not weird, except by reference. And by it's very being.

This time I was in Russia. I knew it with the certainty that only dreams give you, when there's nothing to suggest that it is actually the case, but you know it is just because it is. Russia was much like any other city, or a conglomeration of lots. It was cold, and the shops were large and almost empty. Not in that spare, yuppie-expensive shoppe sort of way, but in that non-consumer, little to sell way. I was on exchange? Maybe. I don't remember anything more.

Except that having this dream made me think of Onegin all morning, and the hopeless romanticism of Liv Tyler and Ralph Fiennes, and how beautifully the whole tapestry was rendered. Can I hope to plumb such depths of emotional turmoil and tragedy? (Some would call it angst. Even me. But not when it's as delicate as the Russians can produce.) Should I?

Now I find out what that exclamation mark is doing in the Yahoo trademark name. Porn? Yahoo! (Couldn't have said it better myself.)

I am so tired that there is a monster of a headache building behind my eyes. It crouches, toad-like, filling the cavity in my head left by my shrinking brain. I am asleep on my feet. Two telephone conversations held with minimal involvement. I will have to apologise to both my mother and A at a later date. When I have once again regained coherence.

Too fatigued to live, too apathetic to die.

Found today, in the course of cleaning: a small packet containing four pills. Capsules, the sort you can open with ease to let the powder inside out. Bright, shiny red. The label listed contents in chemicals names, meaningless syllables. I wondered what they were. Whether they should be experimented with. But then I figured that if the college's numero uno drug fiend was throwing them out, they couldn't be any good to start with.

I'm too tired to deal with people who think Being John Malkovich was the weirdest movie ever and just so brilliant. Too tired to try and find the words to explain why it is mundane, lacking. Good, but not that good, kiddo. Lost Highway, City of Lost Children, Brazil. Now you're cooking with accelerator.

Did I spell that right? Any of it? Oh who cares. I'm going to pass out now.

Some minutes blurred altogether, and then there are moments of clarity. Leaning against a wall in a toilet with a flickering light. Cement cold behind my head and how impossible is it to find a comfortable resting position with your hair in a ponytail. Looking at myself in the mirror. Feeling like I was in an arthouse movie. Lighting effects. Silence. Significance. Soundtrack: "Everything Dies" - Type O Negative. Except I only know the words and tune for the chorus, and a little of the first verse.

"You look stuffed." All the succinct tact of college.

"I am stuffed."

Before I go to bed and have it driven from my head by a fresh batch; the Dream Insanity continues. Two nights ago, I had a dream involving old friends from high school. We were playing games, holding hands and tripping lightly through the garden. And for some reason there was an electric door there; you know, one of those ones that detects your presence and slides open. Except this one didn't. It slid closed, and sliced off the arm of the girl in front of me. It landed at my feet.

Traumatised, I woke up.

Later, I dreamed of more recent acquaintances, and people I've never met. College folk from first year ate critter sandwiches. The critters were vicious and deadly, and looked a little like big, unpleasantly sentient ants, but I'd killed them already, squishing their heads. J² wasn't there because he and Mel Gibson were prisoners and building underground shelters for soldiers.

Who knows where that came from. I certainly don't.

Playing with random poetry again. This snippet was good enough to print.

And continuing along
already! After all, shiny, happy people I
feel fully satisfied
with a
porn flick because I
cease to fulfill
the home address and white large check in
America?And the boy says the funniest things I will
reach terminal velocity.

I thought it was quite significant, at least. Good night. I'll see you when I wake up. I'd like that to be on Thursday, but unfortunately it has to be before 8am tomorrow morning. Bastards. All of you.

Things to say, nothing to say, it's all gone out of my head. I'm so tired I'm barely in my body, and I'm wondering how far I can push this threshold before I cease to be capable of functioning in a normal society. The idea, I must admit, has a certain appeal.

Working bar tonight for a private function with a fellow worker. Junior worker, I suppose, since I am, as has been noted already during this tour of duty, the Old Lady of the crew, with this being my fifth stint. My junior, yet still I asked his opinion in almost all things. Inclusive. The management cares about what you think. He acted, did things without pondering. I found myself wondering about gender stereotypes. Asking his opinion all the time, pandering to his choices? Did I feel ashamed to call myself woman with such a submissive stance?

Quite frankly?

No.

Life is made of afternoons like this. Fatigue flowing thick through my veins. A leisurely walk across campus, holding A's hand, appreciating the beauty of where I live, and feeling my soul recharged. Half an hour rambling interaction with a particularly wonderful counter gal at Impact regarding pop culture. Purchase of a CD - Dope (Rammstein's already been bought, and devoured, and relished). A browse through bookstores, sucking in the ambience of all those books like it was a drug.

Life is made of afternoons like this. All the rest, that's just living.

What kind of college student am I? Last night, too tired - no, fatigued, it was definitely fatigued - to party. Even though it was Thursday night, and the end of term, and a bar night, and J¹'s 21st. Hope you had a good one, Bugalugs. I piked. I'll make it up to you.

Today I was cleaning, back on that unique form of torture called WOBCO. Vacuuming all available surfaces with Poe's 'Angry Johnny' stuck in my head.

Tonight I will goth, and tomorrow my fatigue levels will reach terminal velocity. Things could get interesting. Especially since I'm working bar. Coherency not expected.

D: Hi, I'm a spokesperson for Life! I'm here to answer any simple questions you might have about Life, it's policies and processes. We here at Life want all our customers to feel fully satisfied with the service that Life provides for them, so if you have any complaints or suggestions, please let me know.

J^e: Life's a bitch!
D: Thank you for your input! Your opinion is important to us here at Life. Have a nice day!

H^a: You're too happy.
D: I'm in the PR department. I have to be a shiny, happy person.

H^a: You should be shot.
D: All shiny, happy people should be shot. Didn't you get the memo?

Anyone looking for retro posers sure has come to the right place. (For once. Look, people, I don't have any pictures of naked nuns, Ian Thorpe's feet or dogs of any variety. Move along already!) After all, if my quasi-goth tendencies aren't enough to fulfill the 'retro poser' requirements, then I can always provide a link to everyone's favourite retro hippy. She's certainly got the retro bit. And I've got the poser part. In spades.

Yes, because I have the home address and phone number of Russell Crowe just lying around. In fact, I call him up every second day and we talk dirty. The boy says the most outrageous things, I tell you.

Meanwhile, Shauny's tale of road not-quite-rage is one of the funniest things I've heard in ages. My father used to do things like that. And he had two giggling girls in the back seat quite willing to wave and pull faces at people.

Do they actually sell pizza by the slice in America?

And continuing along this mozzarella-and-tomato-sauce line of thought, why do they call them pizza pies? I mean, a pie has to have a top crust to it, doesn't it? I thought that was a requirement. Otherwise it's just a tart. Pizza tart. Sounds like someone who wears red and white large check in short, flounced skirts. She's probably on roller-skates, and wanting to take your order please, in that wholesome American 50s way that you know is about as wholesome as a porn flick because she'd take your 'order' in the back seat too if pressed the right way.

Ahem. Sidetrack extraordinaire there.

Gee, I'm having weird dreams lately. I don't know what to blame it on. The cold disturbing my sleep? The fact that despite all thay my (new! fluffy!) doona seems to make things actually too hot? It could be anything, I suppose.

Thursday night, I was a sul'dam. (I just finished reading Winter's Heart, the ninth Robert Jordan, I told you that, right?) I, and my fellow sul'dam were taking our two damane and escaping. We were also taking a geranium in a pot. The geranium was important. I don't remember why. We were escaping from my parents' bedroom back in my old house in Gladstone. I thought we were busted for sure when another sul'dam came up the corridor and went to the toilet, which is directly across from the bedroom, but I shoved my friend into the cupboard (which was still full of all my mother's clothes) and pretended to be going to bed, and shut the door. Aren't I clever? Then I packed all my clothes, which for some reason were sitting in a hamper under my father's desk. Just as we were jumping out the window (a tight squeeze; I could barely make it through when I was breaking in at 15), I woke up.

And now I don't remember what I was dreaming an hour ago. Damn. But it was weird. Trust me on this.

Dee succumbs to pop culture in her own twisted way (aka If I had any money instead of being flat broke like I am, I would buy):

CD wishlist:
- Rammstein - "Mutter"
- Dope - Anything, especially if it had either/both of 'Spin me round' or 'Debonaire' on it. These guys are growly rock goodness!
- Lash - Whatever the CD with 'Take Me Away' on it is. I heard these guys the other day on the way down the Clyde and immediately sat up and paid attention. They're good.
- And, at a pinch, something by Rob Zombie. I heard one of his songs tonight that isn't on a soundtrack, and within eight bars, I almost shouted: "Damn, that's good." (The song was 'Spookshow Baby' for those who care.)

Book Wishlist:
- My standard academic books, some of which are actually on my Amazon wishlist. Sun Tzu's "Art of War", Machiavelli's "Prince" and "Art of War", Clausewitz's "On War". And Confucius' "Analects". (One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong...)
- Robin Hobb's Assassin series, so I could re-read it. It was so brilliant.
- Sean Russell - "The One Kingdom" or the first book or whatever it's called. It looks damn good.
- Sara Douglass - "The Nameless Day" which I still haven't bought or read and it's driving me barmy an inch at a time.
- Juliet E McKenna - "The Gambler's Fortune" before the bloody shop sells it and I'm thwarted forever.

Of course, it's standard that at any given time I want to strip the fantasy shelves of the local bookshop. And the above list presupposes that I could actually manufacture the time to read the blasted things, and since I'm well behind on the reading list of books I already own, that's even more unlikely than the money I need spontaneously generating. Sigh.

A day of gastro-intestinal wobbles (you'd think by now I'd have figured out that what I'm doing with my body obviously isn't what the designers had in mind, but no, apparently I haven't) and apparent time-wasting. I played Warlords, Heroes and silly-buggers of varying kinds. I raided a friend's MP3s, giving myself a few hours more of music. I finally managed to download 'Sister Salvation' from Napster, after getting eight transfer errors in a row.

But also, despite all this, a day of important first steps. I saw a lecturer about an essay, which means I can now begin writing the damn thing. I cleaned up my desk, which hasn't been done since I dumped all the stuff there in February. And then it had just been transplanted directly from the room one floor below. I reopened the folder that contains all my work on the Amorphous Novel Entity (hereafter to be referred to as the Novel). I skimmed and reread the work I completed on this idea months ago. A year ago, in some cases.

I feel so removed from it. Aloof. Separate. How do I reconnect with this creative entity that fired my imagination previously, and that I am sure is my ticket to a name in raised gold print on a bookcover? How do I begin reconnecting the wires in my head that previously transferred all those ideas that boiled at the mere mention of the principle actors, or places, or events?

I feel like I've dropped a giant egg, and the shell has shattered, the pieces covering an area two-metres square around my feet. But, if I work carefully, and concentrate, I can gather up all those shards and maybe, just maybe, piece them back together.

Of course, I don't have to get them all. I can leave out the bits that look silly, that don't seem to fit in the egg anymore. And should I think that the remaining pieces would look better as, say, a peanut, then there's no reason why I have to put them back together as an egg.

The creative process is a beautiful (traumatic, scarring, liberating, comprehensive, enthralling, infuriating, awe-inspiring, impossible) thing.

I have just returned from seeing Gone With The Wind. On the big screen and all. Oh my. What brilliance. I actually don't like the storyline much. I think it's long and dull and melodramatic and all those things that it actually is, but those characters... Scarlett and Rhett are two of the best characters in fiction. Anywhere. I don't care who, or what, or where you care to mention. Those two are the pillars.

But marvellous as Scarlett is (and she is, even bearing in mind the small dissatisfaction (only small) that I have with Vivien Leigh's portrayal), it's Rhett that really does it for me. I cry precisely three times in that movie.

1: When we see Rhett after Scarlett's fallen down the stairs. He's dying inside over what he's done.

2: When Mammy is telling Mellie about Rhett's reaction to Bonnie's death. Because behind that simple relation hides a whole world of pain.

3: At the very end, when I think how much he has gone through, how much he has hurt, and how much it must hurt him to say those so-frequently quoted words: "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

The character is amazing. Clark Gable is incredible. I have a headache from cold and tears and tiredness. I'm going to bed.

It happens once in every cold, no matter what. That moment of panic when you reach into the tissue box to find that there aren't any more bloody tissues left. And here you are, about to drown in mucus.

EW!

This being sick thing really brings out my disgusting side, doesn't it? But seriously, what's a girl to do? I've got two bucks in my purse and a full day's lectures ahead with no time to duck off to the bank to get the money required to purchase more mucus-absorbers. It's a conspiracy. Stuff that spy-plane bull shit, the world-changing events are going on right here.

Ah... toilet paper!

I can gain an international reputation as the woman with the quick, witty answer to everything, and yet I doubt I have the intellect to pursue serious... anything. I am all froth and no substance.

I am still searching for the "save and quit" button.

On the more mundane side, though, a long, full skirt hides a multitude of sins. And when did pens start becoming so expensive?

I miss something, and I don't know what it was when I had it. Or even if I've ever had it, or just imagined how nice it might have been.

This is bloody depressing. Lighten up!

The sort of fashion statement you only see in a college dining room at breakfast: satin pajamas and a denim jacket.

Funniest thing I've heard all week: "All your spy plane are belong to China."

The story told the official way.

The A version:

A: Right, there was this American spy plane flying over China, and these two Chinese fighters found it and said: "Ullo, ullo, what's all this then?"
D: You're nicked, sonny.

A: Pretty much. Then there was 'a collision', and the plane has to land in China.
D: Whoops.

A: Yep. And the Americans are going: "Um, you give that plane back! And don't you look inside either!"
D: And the Chinese are going: "No."

Honestly. America just can't do anything right, can it? First it bombs an embassy, and now this. China must think the gods are smiling on them.

My temperature goes up when I argue or speak in class. Today I played devil's advocate against a group of... well, I was going to be derogatory, but they don't deserve it. They just said what they'd got from the textbook. From the lecture. I can't help but speak out against those sort of things. Just because. Because views should be yours because you believe them, not because you're told them. Because being questioned is a good way to figure out whether you really do believe those things. And if my half-assed, spur-of-the-moment arguments to the contrary can change your mind, then obviously those views weren't for you in the first place.

It helped that today the issue was one that I actually didn't agree with the textbook about. Feminist issues are frequently that way with me. The situation of women in third world and developing nations. Oh the poor dears. Look at their thankless, payless work in the home. Look at their wages, which are less than men. Look at how they're being exploited.

Let's look at the problem from all sides, yeah? Let's look at the situation of men in those countries, how little they're paid. How they're exploited. Let's look at women in the 'first' world, how they do thankless, payless work in the home and are paid less than men.

The problem with women in the third world isn't the women part, it's the third world part. It's society as a whole. And bleating, do-gooder 'gender and development' feminists piss me off because putting the spotlight on the women's inequalities ignores the fact that it's the society as a whole that needs the change.

Not to mention the fact that we aren't exactly exemplary ourselves, are we?

Oh yeah, and while I'm at it, do you honestly think we should just march in there and un-exploit the women? Throw off your shackles, sisters! We should march in and tell them how to run their country, their society, their lives, according to our moral, ethical and cultural standards?

The arrogance of some people is overwhelming.

Random note of the day, extracted from my lecture notes: "The way he said 'poor' made it sound like 'pure'."

And now, bravely, I venture forth into the cold, cold world. I'd much rather stay here in bed, but that's more a matter of personal preference than any real illness-based reasons. What can I say? I'm a lazy bint. This is something we shall have to remedy. (1 point)

I was browsing some of my archives and laughing at my own antics, when I realised that I don't really blog like that any more. I figured out why, too; because I actually don't surf the web any more. There could be all sorts of reasons. It's expensive, for one, and I'm broke. For two, the huge, overwhelming mass of moronic stupidity out there just got up my nose so much that my subconscious decided it had had enough and stopped me. For three, I just couldn't be arsed.

I love that phrase.

I went to see a friend's band on Friday, by the way. Blueprint, they were called. They were really very good. With a little more polish, they'll be very, very good. I felt for my friend, having to sing in front of an audience comprised mainly of people he knew. That's always more terrifying than strangers. But he had a cool shirt on: "I sold my soul for rock and roll and all I got was this stupid T-shirt." Rock!

I am a sick little girlie. While drowning in my own phlegm (tee hee hee, I'm sure you really needed that gross-out mental image, right?) the weekend that was flashes before my eyes...

It's called the 'Dirty Weekend'. They send the tutors and the house committee on it. We're supposed to bond, or... actually, DOUG knows what we're supposed to do. What we actually do is to drink, muck about and generally waste time. It's on the beach. If you want to give that weak, southern excuse for a beach such a grand title. (Yes, I'm a Queenslander with bias.) I didn't swim, since I knew already I was sickening. H and I wandered the full length of the beach, gossipping about those under our care. Especially B^k, who received a gift of a half-score red roses from a 'secret admirer'. Of course, said admirer's identity is currently one of the most hotly speculated in college gossip. We figured out who we thought it was. We continue to tell no one.

Today I have a complete and utter inability to spell "possess". I'm hoping this will pass.

Later, I finished my book. Finally. A meal was cooked by the seven or so females present. It was excellent (I should bloody well hope so too). And then, we settled into the serious business of drinking. For a variety of reasons, I chose not to, and hence was less than amused at the drunken shenanigans that happened than those who took part. Some, though, were more funny sober. Such as the 'Normality is boring' approach to tequila shots, which declared that the salt should be snorted and the lemon juice squirted in the eye. This proved surprisingly popular. As did the general snorting of alcoholic substances.

I read Pride and Prejudice, found in the beach house's bookshelves in a beautiful small, hardback format that I seriously contemplated stealing due to its sheer beauty as a bound volume. I quelled the urge, however.

I fled to sleep early, feeling smug as I did in the knowledge that I would not be one of those sleeping on the floor tonight. (Eleven beds, thirteen present...) Hence, I missed such sterling events as one girl falling off the verandah (not a long fall, into bushes) and the fight that took place with the plethora of cut meat the kitchen provided for us. I missed the President getting stoned as well (he definitely inhaled), but I heard it all right. Noisy bastard.

There were pancakes. They had peanuts in them. Moral of the story: do not allow drunken girls to mix up the pancake batter. Apart from the traces of nuts, it was excellent batter, though. Seven eggs. Apparently that's the secret.

We drove home up the Clyde making vomit jokes the whole way. I heard the song 'Jungle Boogie' for the first time and too many times.

All in all, I think I might have preferred to go to Augie March with Shauny and A. But it was fun. In its own drunken, dirty way.