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walking on the earth

So I did actually, in the end, make it to see Salo. I went to Salo and I didn't do my weekly strip. On the whole, I'd count myself the loser, but that no-body actually noticed so I figure that's OK. I won't dwell on the irony of being to depressed to carry on writing your strip about being depressed, it's ground too well trodden. I went to see Salo alone in absence of Alx, glad on reflection, it was grim and tedious (and in that sense quite true to the spirit of 120 days of Sodom (or 180, as I usually term it, don't know why, maybe I don't feel they suffer enough) though factually they are quite variant) especially the endless (literal and figurative) shit-eating. A long way to walk for a very obvious political message.

Walking there, going to see the film on my own (I don't mind, at one time almost every film I saw I saw alone) something about the smooth light on the wet tarmac put me in mind of cycling back from Crash, the oddest sensation that my bones were slightly dislocated, that this, Cronenberg's least surgical of films, had been the one to take me apart. I turned the pedals, felt the bones of my hips grind and float, grind and float, aware that I wasn't cycling as safely as usual, not aware enough to get off and walk.

Salo brought me down to earth with a bump.

Work was fairly ugly this week, a patchwork of jobs unfinished, unstarted or done badly, meetings to which nobody came, tea droughts and lunchhours where finding a sandwich turned into a quest of epic proportions. I took a day off, which turned out to be a bad idea; I just had less time, and finished even less of what I had to do.

On my day off I went shopping, Christmas shopping with my good friend A. which should have been wonderful but for the same reason as I've been blinking back tears as I cycle past the Christmas tree was something of a trial. I fear I was rather quiet, but in the end we shopped well, and wrapped in the comforting arms of a rapidly rising credit card bill, I even began to cheer up.

The shopping was strange. We "do Oxford Street" which is good if you stay strong. The luxuriousness of the huge department stores is perversely fascinating, the people have glass faces and clothes plated with money. The windows look onto Little Princess worlds of unlimited expense accounts, and everything defers to the consumer. I shop wearing jeans. It doesn't matter. I've been in Harrods wearing ripped jeans. They don't mind, as long as you're shopping.

We started in Selfridges, but on the way to the Christmas Village, we found this concession full of odd little bits of kitsch stuff -- cards, badges, posters, writing paper, cartoony stuff, arty stuff, and in among it all was Mark's Little Book about Kinder Eggs and anti-copyright badges (for about five times as much as I paid for them way back when) creepy almost, funny how the radical art of our yoof has become kitsch ephemeristic lifestyle accessories for the upright urban proffessional.

But going away on Thursday makes coming back to work on Friday very bad, I don't recommend it, though people around to see some of the f***ed-up cartooons I've been taping recently did take out the sting, though all I really wanted to do was drink and cry. I got started on that after everone left, and even drew a few pages before I got bored and wandered off to sleep but like I said, it's such well-trodden ground.