Wait...what just happened?

Or

Nothing happens, nothing happens and then everything happens:

There goes August.

We had a party.
In a basement, filled with lights, and sheets of reflective silver paper on the ceiling. (Stacia knows how to decorate with what's at hand). When you look up it's like looking down into a pond at yourself, only backwards and you don't have to worry about drowning. We danced to elctro trancy beats with the drums turned up at my request till 10am. We all fell down in a heap of crazy love with one another, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Finally over the edge.

The sun came up as usual, but I had not seen the sky so close to white before. My heart still hurts a little when I recall wet plaster faces and such grit teeth grins. I think of tortured Picasso ladies and my frightening ambivilance towards them.

Then I had an interview.

Then I got the job.

Then I had my own birthday to contend with.

And now I have two jobs and am 23.

But it could be worse, I could be Simon. He just woke up and found himself with three jobs (a different Simon, not my Simon, not Simon O, and not Colette's dad).

Oh and here is a tag I had to beg for:


1. Grab the nearest book.

2. Open the book to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences along with these instructions.

5. Don’t you dare dig for that “cool” or “intellectual” book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.

Angela Carter's Wise Children is on my desk next to me. I just bought it secondhand a couple on weeks ago, haven't had a chance to open it yet. Here goes...

"Therefore he gave me Culture.

I balked at Proust.

His sweet, befuddled head; that faded golden hair; the large, light eyes with the long lashes; the short, straight nose like the nose of Daisy's Persian cat; the soft, weak mouth indictive of that guitly sensuality so charateristic, I've found, of the North American temperment - that is, they like it, all right, but, all the same, they think it's going tp give them hairy palms.

Attracted as he was to my conspicuous unrefinment, all the same Irish thought it would only make sleeping with me all right in the end if we could read Henry James, together, afterwards, and I was nothing loath because there'd been precious little time for book-learnng in my short life as I'd been earning a living from age twelve and sometimes Irish, when he remembered that, would forgive me everything."

hmmm...

Typical.


Goodnight all.


PS, Come see Snakes on a Plane with me on Saturday night at Nova, I will probably be drunk/ at my best.