I've been invited to do the comics workshop at Dublin Ladyfest. A little investigation suggests a train to Brum and a cheap flight from there is perfectly doable. Never been to Dublin, although I have read Ulysses. Probably won't help much.
Then there was Friday. I had no idea what I was doing that night but ended up doing what Warren Ellis told me to which was probably as good a decision as any. For the record, it's the record of me making a good, solid attempt to live in the future. Not very far into the future; I was thinking maybe ten months to a year.
It had a few interesting side-effects; anything I might have been worried about, work troubles, current projects, that bloody mural, I could file under "it won't matter any more" and forget about it. Certain relationships had developed; a few things annoyed me less, or more; the pub stayed open a bit later; and there were rather more people with their Treos out at the gig than I would have expected, even for a noise/experimental/electronica night.
That logical impossibility, "live each day as if your last" gets about a lot, but there's not much being said about the benefits and difficulties of living slightly into the future, even though for anyone expectant or expecting, posessed of ambition or forethought, planning scheming or plotting, it's the emotional truth of their existence. I liked it, a lot.
Planning the following night a year into the future had the predictable result and Saturday would have been a bit of a wash-out were it not for cartoons, sake, and the late addition of several friends. I must have been rather sullen, though; I found myself completely unable to insult Jamie's hair with any conviction even though it (and he) was begging for it.
Habitat (the christmas lights are in!) and then a three-hour stint on the aforementioned bloody mural. I painted a gigantic cockerel and a sly-looking cat onto the electrical cupboard. My oranges were giving me heck, and kept drifting off into pinkness. Cheap whites'll do that, I guess ... I didn't notice the humour of what I'd done till this morning, when I spotted somebody's web-polls about nick-names for you-know-whats. Well, I'm not changing it now.
As if trying to get me to wake up a bit, in the post-painting slump (too ... many ... leaves ...) Tivo showed me an episode of The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy (a cartoon about two kids who live with the Grim Reaper) where Billy gets kidnapped by semi-naked dwarves who work in mushroom mines and persuaded to help in their assault on the smug cookie-making elves (who looked disquietingly like Tony Blair). Conflict eventually resolved when they decide to put the dwarves' mushrooms into the elves' cookies.
The scene where the dwarves' mushroom battering ram bursts though the door of the elves' tree-house was especially striking.