It gets to me, sometimes, especially on grey Friday afternoons. What am I doing? I've been in post since, what, May? and I'm still just running down the side of an avalanche. I get to wondering, how hard have I worked and what have I done? Is it me, is it my fault, that I'm still sat here now not in control, not making everything work, not with systems in place and contacts well managed, meetings clocking by and work, well, working. I should have done better by now, I should have got more done.
Friday afternoons should come with a warning: caution, excessive reflection can cause unhelpful thoughts.
Or perhaps it's my room, still preying on my mind even though it's left behind at home. I've not tidied it properly in a while and it's begun to turn nasty, eating my earrings, hiding my post, shuffling my toys around while I'm not looking, whispering and crackling and shuffling when I'm trying to get to sleep. It's put my needles somewhere, and given that I keep turning up shards of glass in dangerous places, I'm not looking forward to finding them. I get the feeling it's warming up for a major attack, and before that happens I'd like to spend some time with it, real time, quality time ...
But I have to have to have to ...
Reviewing again last night, a truly gruesome student production called Lesbian Laundrette a misguided attempting to spoof Macbeth (yes, in verse) in a sort of League of Gentleman-Rocky Horror style. The plot was hard to follow (impressive, considering how closely it stuck to Macbeth), the attempts at gender-fuck fell through because everyone looked just looked eighteen and inexperienced, their idea of outrageous was rubber mini-skirts and joke-shop wigs, and it was full of that special sniggering homophobia know only to young, arrogant gays. Everyone in the room (about equal numbers of cast and audience) knew each other, so of course they had no reason to print up programmes or anything, though monotone girl (the writer, I think) wrote down a couple of names on a piece of paper for me. It would have been a total horror, were it not for the mesmerising thighs, massive voice and dramatic flouncing of the girl playing the embarrassing fag-hag/malcolm. Her gold sandals were two sizes too big, her gold dress was two sizes too small, and she easily out-outrageoused all the supposedly outrageous characters. The drag queen, especially, was super-tedious, though being butch I'm prejudiced, of course ... though I laughed at Priscilla Queen of the Desert same as everyone else, and anyway, some of my best friends wear dresses ;) I dunno, I've been doing this reviewing lark for a few years now, and I just wish I'd see a bit more stuff that was genuinely shocking, rude, outrageous, screwy, off-the-wall ... I wouldn't mind things being bad so much, if they weren't so, well, ordinary with it.
Never mind, I've a busy week/end coming up. Harry Potter (got to get the book to read first, too), Little Otik, of course, and it would be nice if I could get to this week's Pasolini as last week I missed Canterbury Tales which includes Tom Baker TOTALLY NUDE! Darn. Next time.
rrrgh. I thinkk I have a miggraine coming onn