Hence my silence. Today, sickened by migraine, eye-strain, work-pain, work placements (okay, he's not that sickening. He actually lightened up enough Tuesday to leave his copy of Kerrang on the table, and let me take some photos of him for the diary pages he's doing), Oxford's viral miasma and that back-ache I just can't shift, I cried off sick and stayed at home. Not as relaxing a day as you might think, I'm afraid. I tackled the room.
Not so much a room, really, more a shifting exhibit, a living mass, a selfridges window display of books, toys, videos, artworks-in-progress, comics, magazines, shiny paper, pens and pencils, comics, different sorts of glue, sequins, fashion dolls, cushions, comics, cds, scripts, notebooks, cameras, and, oh yes, comics. I'd been neglecting it and it had been starting to slide, literally, dolls and dinosaurs diving from the higher shelves, paperbacks and taschen porn (strictly for reference, you understand)forming scree-slopes from the heaps to the dark spaces beneath my futon. It had started to eat things -- the stand for my graphics pad pen, Tom the eighties doll, an emotionally significant earring -- and had started to move in the night. It had started -- and who could blame it under the layers of book-dust, coffee-cups and underwear -- to feel neglected.
Today I showed it I still cared, tidying all the way down to my filing box, clearing dust, spiders, kinder egg toys as I went. It didn't resist -- it wanted to be tidied. The toys practically put themselves into pleasing arrangements. I found the pen-stand under a chair, the earring in a pile of papers (yay!) though I'm still a little puzzled about the location of eighties Tom. But I've not gone under the futon yet.
I also had the electrical testing man come round. He looked behind the fridge (something I'm trying to avoid doing, I think it's scary back there)and manfully ignored the piles of dirty washing up. Bizarrely (can you imagine how many houses he does?) he remembered me from last time, and chatted for a bit about his upcoming Ryan Air jaunt to Copenhagan. Just like in the song: I'm the one they recognise, everybody knows my name.
The room's not finished, but it's not looking half bad.
Two films in the last few days, too: should have been three but I spent the time I should have been watching Arabian nights finishing this week's strip instead (it's in colour. I must be mad.) Ghost World's kind of nice in a sort of it-would-be-better-as-a-comic-strip way. Don't think it would really appeal if you didn't know Dan Clowes, though Buscemi's always very agreeable. Even he looked freaked about the implausability of the story-line, though. Why, when people write fucked up teen guys, they're always arseholes, but when people write fucked-up teen girls, they're always miserable? Just for once I'd like to see a full-on angry young bitch who didn't care, you know? People say it's Clerks for girls but, like, NO. And I saw Little Otik, Svankmeyer's latest (geddit?) opus. You might have come across the fairy tale, Rootbaby? No --- well, okay, childless couple, man digs up tree-stump, thinks, that looks like a baby, and chops it and trims it and varnishes it and gives it to his wife. She falls in love with it at once... (imagine this as a mixture of live action, and stop motion, animated wood and tongues and eyeballs, squirming flesh-babies mixed with puppets and roots) ... and then the rootbaby comes alive, and grows teeth, and gets hungry, and (in Svankmeyer's version) eats the cat.
We managed to eat after watching it, justabout.
Eyeballs, burger, beer, friends. A perfect evening.