Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day

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middle-aged women keep on walking into me

and my legs are cold.

Do you think there'll be snow this Christmas?

Oxford is horrible today; there are no wearable shoes anywhere (current shoe crisis now means my feet are bruised and blistered) and the roads are sticky with black slime. In the centre of town, the christmas decorations are full of revolting clowns. On Cowley Road, nothing, not even any Diwali lights.

Still playing with spambots; I put smallCAPSsmall into the trash today, but I kept the messages from the translator, unable to resist the abstract glory of:

You can metamorphose to the top-grade c hap for your girlfr iend

This pharmaceuticals is used to heal cavernous dysfunction,
besides famed as an inability to copulate. This is when a someone cannot obtain, or keep,
a rigid vertical phallus good for sexual activity.

This medication is :
  • appropriate to be used as a execution foil
  • has many vantage over other pharmaceuticals
  • can operate for 2 days
  • can construct up in the trunk

I spent the weekend as much in London as was practical, using all the bus-time to read a heavy book rendered portable with a kids' halloween rucksack, trying not to boggle as everywhere I looked livejournallers and friends lifted out of the background detail of streets and gigs and galleries like odd 3D effects; constructs of words and pictures and comments into people, performers, conversations. It was pleasant but unsettling, like a dream where everything is nice enough, but moving too fast.

Also in London I met the new niebling for the first time. Elle pointed at my spots, laughed, and told me the name for sympathetic pregnancy symptoms, which I promptly and disgustedly forgot. Later, some overzealous chef dropped raw green chillies onto my pizza, scraped them off, and tried to pretend nothing had happened. Well, we got a free dessert out of it ... that I was too sick to eat.

Eyes, Lies and Illusions was very interesting, though it suffered a little from low exhibit density* and bland gallery presentation. Of course, you can't turn the Hayward into the Pitt Rivers just like that, but exhibits of this type are natural denizens of the interactive and densely crowded world of Cabinets of Curiosities, and get anxious when they're stranded in vast expanses of whiteness and punctuated with vaguely irritating bits of modern art, and start worrying if they're worth the admission price (£9). Despite my fondness for optical toys, I came away with no merchandise at all, although I was struck by the Hayward's ability to pick the least appealing images from the exhibit for the postcards, which wasn't confined to this exhibition; the sale section was stuffed full of cards from the last few shows, reduced to 25p, and still not worth it. If you decide to go, remember to pack some 5p pieces; there's a pay-per-viewmaster upstairs that's well worth the look. It's opposite the devil's talkshow and the naughty nudie ladies.

The robot cats do not have your interests at heart.

Though causing nowhere near the mess achieved by some people, the damage done by one misplaced mazda does rather leave me wishing that if people feel they have to commit suicide they would do it quietly, at home ...

... and just as I'm sinking into misery, comes the welcome reminder that while sometimes you don't recover from nasty injuries, sometimes you do.

* Which is not to imply that there wasn't much to see. In fact the rooms were stuffed; stereograms of grinning devils with glowing eyes, videos of antique flipbooks with ghosts and little girls in big skirts, a wall covered with flashing colours that made me feel like I was being hypnotised by an evil genius, ancient shadow animation crawling with many-headed demons, walk-around sculptures which changed according to perspective (and a room which did the same), pictures which slid between night and day, prospect and disaster, flowers and people, and (in one case) Napoleon and his tomb, playing cards, tea-cups and tablets with pornographic images hidden inside them, magicians' mirrors, anamorphic discs and much, much more; but something about the way it was presented gave a sparse impression, compounded by the fact that a certain number of exhibits were broken or intentionally static, and the interactive lab contained so little to do that the gallery attendant was performing magic tricks to amuse the bored and confused children. Specifically, she was making money disappear.

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