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sometimes I amaze myself December 28, 2006

Posted by eatnorthamerica in things that are not quite things we know.
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shit, watching paint dry is more involving than this shit. 

I know, it’s incredible.

I’ll tell you what’s incredible; between the hours of last night and today I managed to RAISE MY RIGHT EYEBROW WITHOUT RAISING MY LEFT EYEBROW.

yes yes, very good, you say. Well! it! is! I tell you I used to be able to independently raise either of my eyebrows, but lost this ability over the years, no doubt from constantly cocking only my left eyebrow into various expressions of disdain. How absurd it is that you suddenly find yourself unable to do the simplest of things. Such as wiggling your ears, but hey, it’s not like ear-wiggling projects any sort of insight into the human condition besides freakishness, and possibly the ability of my recently-perforated earlobes to exude putrescence.

My left eyelid is marginally larger than my right eyelid as a result of this poorly-conceived practice of scorn! Here’s how to remedy this aberration: close left eye while reading pulp fiction for a few hours while intermittently concentrating very carefully on raising your right eyebrow. finish book. sleep. wake up. do the close left eye thing while, ooh, packing and tidying room with great productivity, or something, whatever. this isn’t important. 

check mirror to discover right eyebrow is indeed once more capable of independent movement, albeit suffering slightly from years of atrophy!

.

I’m saying it’s a matter of stubbornness, yes.

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best December 27, 2006

Posted by eatnorthamerica in things that are not quite things we know.
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Christmas Eve: I went up the London Eye. Let me just add that since I live in London I’ve never felt any urge to go up the wheel, in much the same way that when I used to live in Dulwich (yes I know it’s part of London, be quiet) I never once made it to the Dulwich Picture Gallery (and I steal this from wikipedia: “the world’s first purpose-built art gallery“). Anyway, after having lived in Dulwich for six years, my mother and I decided to go visit the gallery the weekend before we moved out.

It was closed for six months of renovation. I still haven’t seen the damn thing.

I should probably add that the London Eye was exactly as I’d expected it to be, and not necessarily in a negative sense. I took some photos. Here is one.

yeah yeah yeah yeah.

Oh, whatever. If you really want to see shots of those pods, there are a couple more photos on my flickr account.\

Now here’s some amusing shit I salvaged from the detritus of my room:

bill me for each noodle, why don't you

Probably the first time I’ve ever been billed for each individual noodle. The waitress was just as stymied by this bizarre system. I’m still intrigued by the name. Incidentally, my mom’s friend’s friend’s husband (or some such connective convolution) owns that restaurant; he made his fortune from selling the ubiquitous and humble fishball (it’s not what you think) in stalls around Singapore. I find that pretty cool.

I don’t know him or his wife, so I feel absolutely no bias when I say that I and my family actually rather liked the food there. I thought it was very reasonably priced, too (around £6 for a substantial bowl of freshly hand-pulled noodles, I think, or maybe I mean £0.02 per noodle. I hope someone’s counting). Good for a quick eat, anyway. 

perche questa violenza

The best vocabulary list ever bar none. I suspect this was from when I was 17 or 18 and halfheartedly studying (ok, mainly not studying) Italian in school. It’s best, but not superlativelythebest, because quaquaraqua is not on the list, and it is possibly the greatest foreign word ever created.

first bath in half a year December 23, 2006

Posted by eatnorthamerica in things that are not quite things we know.
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And to curtail your line of thought, I have frequent and enthusiastic showers.

You can tell I have a lot of packing and tidying to do because my blog is horribly active.

Anyway, I’ve been finding a lot of things while uprooting the contents of my room. Today’s find was a set of bath fizzers that dyed me pink.

 I crumbled a couple of them under the tap and watched the pale pastel turn a horrific shade of pink, the exact shade of which prompted me to swill some around my mouth and find that it indeed works as a disclosing substance. Tastes awful, by the by.

My bathwater went pink. I lay back and tried to make the most of the moment, only to realise that the fizzers had no discernable scent whatsoever.

I added a Honey Bee bath bomb from Lush.

– doesn’t smell like honey

– at all

– could be due to having lain around my cupboard for a couple of years (theorise fermentation and/or rot)

– made me itch initially (refuse to accept link to previous point as it was still sealed, hence no contact with foreign content along the lines of the lines of dustbunnies lining up against the lining of my cupboard)

– produced cloying scent of roses that made me feel nauseous after about five minutes

– combined with the pink to produce a sort of orange tint that made my skin look jaundiced

– didn’t produce ANY foam at all! in future I refuse to use any bath product that doesn’t cause my bath to overflow with copious quantities of FOAM, damnit!

My skin feels kind of dry. My hand is pink from when I was crumbling the fizzers.

My teeth are very clean. I stink of pink.

I’m not impressed.

smooth criminal December 23, 2006

Posted by eatnorthamerica in things that are not quite things we know.
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My room is tidier, although not visibly so (so! no point screwing around with my camera, you might as well scroll back to the previous post for an example of minimalism at its superlative best).

Last night it is, and I sit on the floor of my superlatively minimalist room, sorting through the remnants of an erstwhile stint in four institutions where I practiced the study of art with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I spend two hours folding and shredding large, unwieldy pieces of paper into smaller pieces of paper that can be shoved in large, unwieldy bags into a tedious recycling bin. Paperoles come apart in my hands like the skins of dead trees. I feel like a murderer.

Halfway through I get very angry. I look at scribbles and sketches and splatters of paint and ink on expensive pieces of natural and unnatural fibre. The worst part of it is that I remember almost every single act of creation. I also remember my family’s reaction to many of these creations — skewed towards poor fine art because I didn’t have the strength to resist the pressure of most of my tutors — cocked heads, wry pauses, resultant “what is it?”s.

I get angrier with each fold. I am anger compacted and cubed. I think “what is this” as I unveil endless horrors of abstract angles and garbled colour. I start throwing away even the drawings that I think I might hate less later. I reduce two hours of backache into seven bags of redemptive recyclable, fifteen pieces of work I have deemed worthy of storage space and thirty lines of bitching.

Most of the ones I keep are self-portraits, possibly because I find the process of ripping my own likeness up slightly unsettling, but then again, maybe because I see some soul in them that wasn’t just a symptom of teacher-pleasing sycophancy (perhaps narcissism, but that’s a whole other story). Two hours of paper condense into two hundred fifty wistful words, don’t give me that “a painting is worth a thousand words” bullshit.

One of my life drawings was done in pencil and white paint and was drawn before I ever knew the meaning of bukkake in its most notorious sense.

Now I don’t have to remember it.

done. December 21, 2006

Posted by eatnorthamerica in things that are not quite things we know.
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progress in yo' face

bedlam, and I’m not even in Toronto yet. December 19, 2006

Posted by eatnorthamerica in things that are not quite things we know.
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shit! shit! shit!

haaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaargh.

initiate transfer December 17, 2006

Posted by eatnorthamerica in things that are not quite things we know.
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Today I relocated from here

life in the ghetto with the pigs 

^posthumorously marked figure 1

to here (whilst being nagged by assorted family members for not having packed my junk before they arrived. Mysteriously, I woke up this morning to find out that my clutter hadn’t arranged itself into neat and tidy stacks of boxes overnight. Poor! Screw this “affirmative thinking” bullshit)

tower hill

and will subsequently (and shortly) be here. Shit is a lot cheaper in Toronto. Example: for the same price as the box I rented in Cambridge (so small you can’t even see it in figure 1), I can rent a huge fucking apartment. For your convenience, I’ve marked out the location of my new condominium.

my new pad

The Great Lakes look pretty damn boring, so I’ve added a couple of minor embellishments for you, you eagle-eyed wunderkind.

it's not thaaaaaat far

I did forty lengths this morning. bring it on.

NOW REFER TO FIGURE 1 even though none of the other figures have any labels whatsoever.

The red dot marks the exact location of a puddle of blood which was still there when I left Cambridge a few hours ago.

That’s right, this idyllic scene on Station Road is in fact the location of life-threatening crime. I have carefully delineated the zone of peril with a red border so that you can stay the hell out of it.

Last night we were turning into my cul-de-sac when Simon’s headlights caught a girl doing something odd-looking near a man who lay comatose on the floor while his blood congealed into a crimson puddle of gore. I believe the blood was coming from his palm, which looked suspiciously as though it had been stabbed or pierced. Or maybe he just happened to fall on an extremely sharp and pointed rock, these things happen.

Anyway, the moment the light touched her she vamped off in an extremely suspect manner, only to reappear with a rather shady-looking compatriot who had handcuffs in his back pocket (also his panties were showing, how’s that for magical powers of observation (dark blue)).

Both of them kept patting at his bag and helpfully saying that they would take care of him so we didn’t have to worry so we could just go away. Despite his very poorly state, the girl kept shaking him and asking if he had been pushed, if he remembered who’d pushed him, if he remembered if he had fallen or been pushed, if he remembered having been pushed, if he remembered having been pushed by her, yada yada yada. OK, so I might have fabricated the last pronoun, but you see where this is going.

Creepy feel’n. Eventually a crowd of people gathered, so Si/Jo bade me farewell and I went back to pack (yes, yes, whatever) while they very humanely stayed back to make sure he made it somewhere safe. The victim managed to get to his feet in the end and got ambulanced away, while the handcuff mafia scarpered as the crowd grew.

Let’s put it this way, I’m glad I wasn’t alone that night.

Screw you Cambridge, I’m going home.

the hell December 14, 2006

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testing image width

Zurich. And why not?

 (from 24 press junket far earlier this year)