Sunday
What an odd weekend. I spent the week being resentful of having to attend the Art School show on Friday evening, when in fact I was just resentful of being committed to attending. What a freak. Someone please smack me upside the head (whatever that means) the next time I complain about men being commitment-phobic.
The show, however, did little to make me glad I'd attended. I'm not sure how loud you can say this, or how often, until the truly talentless admit defeat and go work for McDonalds, but bland is not ironic, it's just bland. Rubbish all piled up is still just a pile of rubbish, and worse than that, would someone please tell the Situationists that without humour, they are no more than failed wannabe drama students.
That aside, to rescue my mood, I saw a a great architectural remodelling of the concrete abortion that is Appleton Tower, some truly beautiful woodcuts and some limpets that were lit up. I don't know how. Maybe they'd just had great sex.
Afterwards, Ruth and I went to Ecco Vino where we drank Prosecco and Pinot, and ate fantastic fritatta and spiced, yummy salad. My mood improved to the point where I was willing to be outside the house on a Friday night. I went to K Jackson's, got slightly more inebriated and then went dancing. Can there be any sight sadder or funnier than a 35 year old heffer flinging herself about in an unduly enthusiastic manner to 'Footloose'? I fear not. Still, I was in that happy drunk state where I could still walk without crashing into things, and could dance with my eyes shut without falling over, but still felt wrapped in bubble wrap and rather happy in my soul. At least drunk enough not to feel fat, clumsy, undesirable and stupid, which is always a bonus. Thank all the Gods for vodka.
Not sure if it was the booze or the hippo-tranquilising meds for my hayfever (it says non-drowsy, and they're right - but had it said 'non-comatose' I would have had to have a wee word with Trades Descriptions...), but most of Saturday slipped by in a dozy haze. Every time I sat down I slept, so I didn't make it out the house until around 4.30, and even then made the walking dead look agile. First to Filmhouse to do a little work (and when I say little...) and then back to K Jackson's, but not until after I'd been to see SPIDER FOREST which was playing as part of the touring Korean Film Festival. Beautiful movie. People died, they were miserable, heart-broken and damned. Such things often settle my mood.
I made it home, pie in hand, around 1-ish (I think) and conked out, full of redundant, restless anger (for reasons I still haven't fathomed) and had horrible dreams. Again. Every couple of months I seem to spend a couple of weeks being afraid to go to sleep they get so threatening, and this is just the fallout from the most recent episode. I get to scare myself, hate myself, threaten myself, then sit bolt upright and awake, fizzing, until I either pass out or get fractured and frightening sleep. I hate it. What do you do? As a teenager I used to smash my face off the wall until I was properly distracted by real pain instead of the weird shit my subconscious used to dredge up, but the braincells I have left know this is stupid. When I couldn't explain the bruises away any more (my mother was convinced some random boy was hitting me, and the truth seemed even more embarrassing) I used to walk around Glasgow all night, because eventually it would alleviate whatever was going on in the murky smelly stagnant bits of my brain.
Last night, as with so many other nights, I woke up retching. Now there's an attractive image. You fancy me or what? Stressed, exhausted and just fucked off with not being able to shift the mood, I re-read some writing I'm trying to do, decided I was talentless and spent the longest hours of the night wallowing in self-pity, which started to feel ridiculous and over-indulgent by 5 this morning when I finally crashed. I seem to be having adolescence all over again. Lovely.
Still, today is Sunday, and it was a day for me. Still is :) I got up late, late late and made a yummy and healthy lunch. I went for a walk, browsed in Fopp (oh god the money I could spend in there!) then had coffee at Rocco's place on the Mile, watched the world go by, read my book, then transferred to Maxie's and sat on the terrace above Victoria St and read some more. The building opposite their terrace, on the roof, used to have a small glass and wrought iron conservatory that was full of plants with one large reclining chair in the middle. I have long been envious of the owner of that space. How glorious to be in total isolation in the city, on the roof, just the sky to distract you, surrounded by green. Bring a book and a glass of the good stuff, and what more could you want? If the world won't fuck off, then create somewhere where you can fuck off from the world.
It's not there any more. I guess they moved. But what kind of philistine would take it down??
I drank good Sauvignon Blanc, and tried not to hear the minging whores of hen parties screech their ugly way to and from the Grassmarket, on the rare occasion they set blistered foot outside their pink stretch hearses. You can only hope they all die. In pain. Alone. I suppose it's too much to expect them to do it quietly.
I'm reading Lanark at the moment, and although it's shameful I haven't read it before now, I am adoring it. Spending time in Thaw's morose, self-obsessed company this weekend has at last allowed a degree of transference to take place, and I can feel the mood settling.
It's muggy and weird outside, so I am going to go find somewhere else to sit and read, and maybe just maybe, top up the good Sauvignon I had earlier.
Best thing today so far was a huge banner hanging outside Deacon's Close on the Mile. It read "Clairvoyant Gathering". HAHAHAHAHAHA
So why make the banner? These people aren't medium's, they're below-average's if they need the banner. Losers. A bunch of potato-faced wimmin in velour that's only missing the storm pegs, muttering on about your future all the while wondering what happened to theirs.
And on that bilious note, my lovelies, I take my leave of you.
The show, however, did little to make me glad I'd attended. I'm not sure how loud you can say this, or how often, until the truly talentless admit defeat and go work for McDonalds, but bland is not ironic, it's just bland. Rubbish all piled up is still just a pile of rubbish, and worse than that, would someone please tell the Situationists that without humour, they are no more than failed wannabe drama students.
That aside, to rescue my mood, I saw a a great architectural remodelling of the concrete abortion that is Appleton Tower, some truly beautiful woodcuts and some limpets that were lit up. I don't know how. Maybe they'd just had great sex.
Afterwards, Ruth and I went to Ecco Vino where we drank Prosecco and Pinot, and ate fantastic fritatta and spiced, yummy salad. My mood improved to the point where I was willing to be outside the house on a Friday night. I went to K Jackson's, got slightly more inebriated and then went dancing. Can there be any sight sadder or funnier than a 35 year old heffer flinging herself about in an unduly enthusiastic manner to 'Footloose'? I fear not. Still, I was in that happy drunk state where I could still walk without crashing into things, and could dance with my eyes shut without falling over, but still felt wrapped in bubble wrap and rather happy in my soul. At least drunk enough not to feel fat, clumsy, undesirable and stupid, which is always a bonus. Thank all the Gods for vodka.
Not sure if it was the booze or the hippo-tranquilising meds for my hayfever (it says non-drowsy, and they're right - but had it said 'non-comatose' I would have had to have a wee word with Trades Descriptions...), but most of Saturday slipped by in a dozy haze. Every time I sat down I slept, so I didn't make it out the house until around 4.30, and even then made the walking dead look agile. First to Filmhouse to do a little work (and when I say little...) and then back to K Jackson's, but not until after I'd been to see SPIDER FOREST which was playing as part of the touring Korean Film Festival. Beautiful movie. People died, they were miserable, heart-broken and damned. Such things often settle my mood.
I made it home, pie in hand, around 1-ish (I think) and conked out, full of redundant, restless anger (for reasons I still haven't fathomed) and had horrible dreams. Again. Every couple of months I seem to spend a couple of weeks being afraid to go to sleep they get so threatening, and this is just the fallout from the most recent episode. I get to scare myself, hate myself, threaten myself, then sit bolt upright and awake, fizzing, until I either pass out or get fractured and frightening sleep. I hate it. What do you do? As a teenager I used to smash my face off the wall until I was properly distracted by real pain instead of the weird shit my subconscious used to dredge up, but the braincells I have left know this is stupid. When I couldn't explain the bruises away any more (my mother was convinced some random boy was hitting me, and the truth seemed even more embarrassing) I used to walk around Glasgow all night, because eventually it would alleviate whatever was going on in the murky smelly stagnant bits of my brain.
Last night, as with so many other nights, I woke up retching. Now there's an attractive image. You fancy me or what? Stressed, exhausted and just fucked off with not being able to shift the mood, I re-read some writing I'm trying to do, decided I was talentless and spent the longest hours of the night wallowing in self-pity, which started to feel ridiculous and over-indulgent by 5 this morning when I finally crashed. I seem to be having adolescence all over again. Lovely.
Still, today is Sunday, and it was a day for me. Still is :) I got up late, late late and made a yummy and healthy lunch. I went for a walk, browsed in Fopp (oh god the money I could spend in there!) then had coffee at Rocco's place on the Mile, watched the world go by, read my book, then transferred to Maxie's and sat on the terrace above Victoria St and read some more. The building opposite their terrace, on the roof, used to have a small glass and wrought iron conservatory that was full of plants with one large reclining chair in the middle. I have long been envious of the owner of that space. How glorious to be in total isolation in the city, on the roof, just the sky to distract you, surrounded by green. Bring a book and a glass of the good stuff, and what more could you want? If the world won't fuck off, then create somewhere where you can fuck off from the world.
It's not there any more. I guess they moved. But what kind of philistine would take it down??
I drank good Sauvignon Blanc, and tried not to hear the minging whores of hen parties screech their ugly way to and from the Grassmarket, on the rare occasion they set blistered foot outside their pink stretch hearses. You can only hope they all die. In pain. Alone. I suppose it's too much to expect them to do it quietly.
I'm reading Lanark at the moment, and although it's shameful I haven't read it before now, I am adoring it. Spending time in Thaw's morose, self-obsessed company this weekend has at last allowed a degree of transference to take place, and I can feel the mood settling.
It's muggy and weird outside, so I am going to go find somewhere else to sit and read, and maybe just maybe, top up the good Sauvignon I had earlier.
Best thing today so far was a huge banner hanging outside Deacon's Close on the Mile. It read "Clairvoyant Gathering". HAHAHAHAHAHA
So why make the banner? These people aren't medium's, they're below-average's if they need the banner. Losers. A bunch of potato-faced wimmin in velour that's only missing the storm pegs, muttering on about your future all the while wondering what happened to theirs.
And on that bilious note, my lovelies, I take my leave of you.
posted by Adele at 3:43 pm
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