Bleat

Apr. 9th, 2006 12:12 am
devi: (capsule)
It was so sunny earlier that I went into town without tights on. My legs were so shockingly white I thought I might become the first person in medical history to get snowblindness from looking at myself.

I'm spending my weekend teaching and bleaching. And bleaching and teaching. Bleaching things and teaching people. Not teaching things and bleaching people. (Unfortunately.)

(I think I must be high on bleach fumes. I should go to bed.)
devi: (Default)
I am closer than I've ever been to the room I have in my head. I got the first lot of my stuff back last night, from [livejournal.com profile] secretrebel's attic, and spent several glorious hours book-geeking – sorting them into categories and shelving them. Then I lit the lanterns I posted back from China and lay on the bed staring at the swirly patterns they make on the walls and thinking OMG my room is TEH COOLEST.

But today I woke up already feeling gloomy even before I was properly conscious. Yet another dark cloudy day, maybe. Or maybe it's the Red Wall oppressing me in some unconscious hardwired way. (Though I doubt it. I love the red wall.) I'm flat and uninspired and dwelling on things I shouldn't be. Even the books look weird to me. So many of them! So many words all over the walls! I'm not used to having so much stuff any more. I thought opening the boxes would be like coming home, but there was a funny undercurrent of unfamiliarity too. Like I'd broken the bond with the stuff by leaving it in an attic for seven months. Why do I have all this? I wondered.

I think I joined Oxford Freecycle at exactly the right time.

There was a girl at the bus stop the other night with her hand full of 2p pieces. She begged me to swap them for a 50p. I looked at her suspiciously even as I put my hand in my pocket, waiting for the catch. "I'm not a gyppo or nothing," she said. That word pisses me off (ever since the doctor who first shot me up with Depo-Provera said smirkingly, "We call it contraception for gyppos, you know") and I wanted to put the wind up her, so I said "What if I told you I was one?" I think she believed me. She said "Awww, bless!"

Then again, maybe being Irish and having had no fixed abode for half of last year would qualify me as one in her eyes. Who knows?

But it's great, even through the gloom I know it's great, to have a place to live again. And I know the books will come round. They're like wary pets who aren't quite sure what to make of you when you've been away a long time, but soon they'll remember me and love me again.
devi: (Default)
After a surreal half an hour or so where my new housemate and I were the only people in B&Q, I spent yesterday evening painting my room, with a soundtrack of Sergeant Pepper and Motown.

I’m going with the three plain walls, one red wall plan (thanks for the advice!), but I made an error: I picked a colour called ‘apricot’ because I thought it looked like a more interesting cream, when the point of the neutral colour is that it's not supposed to be interesting. Turns out it’s horrible. It wobbles about on the line between being neutral and being a colour. Finally it decides to try being a colour, fails hilariously, and its friends point and laugh at it. Oh dear. Time to paint over it with plain white. The red wall rocks, though.

This whole business is weirdly exciting. It’s so strange to me to be able to change my own living space that I was almost scared to make the first brush stroke, and hesitated with the brush held hairs’ breadths from the wall, and then had to go through with it because the brush would drip if I didn’t.

A couple of weeks ago, just before catching my flight to Ireland, I went to Herbal to see [livejournal.com profile] dr_f_dellamorte doing his DJ thing. He was fantastic and I got my groove on to his funky breaks till late into the night and then stayed over at [livejournal.com profile] ultraruby’s, and when we got up the next morning we sat in her lovely kitchen talking about house-painting and DIY and it occurred to me that I always thought you couldn't have both at once, the nestmaking and the getting your groove on, and that you had to sacrifice one for the other. And if that’s not true, then it’s a whole different world.

Home

Dec. 17th, 2005 07:53 pm
devi: (capsule)
Today, for the first time since July, I have a room that I live in.
I have a permanent address.
I have shelves I can put my books on and leave them there.
I have a wardrobe I can hang my things in.
I have a desk I can spread out my stuff on.
For the first time since July I have completely unpacked my rucksack and put it away.
I've got a bit of space that I have a right to.
It's weird. It's good.

What a strange six months it's been.
devi: (busy)
It's official, the cats hate me now. They are crouching behind me, looking balefully at me and hissing. I committed an unforgivable sin. I took away Winston's prey.

He came in and started to scuffle around behind the sofa. I thought he might be playing with the dice I gave him. I had a look down there but saw nothing moving. So I went into the kitchen and then, in the corner of my eye, I saw a mouse sprinting for freedom down the hallway, Winston in hot pursuit. I opened the door to let it out and closed it before the cat caught up. "Run, mouse, run!" I said. I hoped the delay while the cat got over his confusion and out through the cat flap would be enough. It wasn't. He strutted back in with the mouse in his mouth and proceeded to bat it about, swing it by its tail and other foul tortures. Now I love cats, but I also have great affection for mice and rats and I sure as heck wasn't going to watch one be beaten and nibbled to death in front of me. I pulled him away by his tail. He was alive, but there was a large hole in his neck. I wrapped the poor little guy up in a copy of Property Weekly and took him out to the roadside to die with dignity. But one horrible thought remains. Would you have had the guts to put him out of his misery? I certainly didn't.

"Mew," says Winston accusingly, and goes out slamming the door. He's a teenager, all right. Oh, hang on, he's back and on my lap. No one ever said cats were consistent.
devi: (Default)
I feel weird. Doing displacement activity (I cleaned a wall earlier. Just one wall. In the bathroom) but not sure what I'm trying to displace. It feels like summer in my flat, which is great, but it's bringing back the way I felt for much of last summer, all twitchy and paralysed, wandering from room to room incapable of actually doing anything. And I'm wondering how on earth I managed to finish writing my book in that atmosphere. Oh yeah, that's right, I didn't have internet access.

It's not helping that I've packed my suitcase already, which I normally never do till 3am the night before I go somewhere, so part of me is convinced there's no point doing anything because I'm clearly about to walk out the door to the airport.

And postwodehouse.com is down. There was a server problem, and they're restoring from backups, but so far they've only got up to domains beginning with C. So there will be a Friday Update, but it'll be a Saturday Update instead.

Maybe the Chemical Brothers will help knock some of the ditheriness out of my system.

But what's the good of all these gigs and fun and socialising and experiences, if I don't make something out of it all? Gah. I should be writing.

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