primary colours
Feb. 6th, 2008 02:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ravenI was linked yesterday to this article: Jonathan Wolff on the philosopher's sense of direction, which very sensibly asks, if you don't understand the concept of "here", then how can you be expected to manage with a map?
I said that I was now going to blame every stupid thing I ever do on the lack of grasp of reality engendered by my two and a half years with philosophy as my primary academic concern. That's my story and I'm sticking to it, and that seems as good a place as any to start telling the story of Super Duper Shrove Tuesday and how exactly I ended up stumbling in at 5.40am. I want to write this, but I am also incredibly sleep-deprived, so bear with me through this. The whole thing didn't start in quite so debauched fashion; I went up to Wadham with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
deepbluemermaid, a lot of paper plates and a box of chocolate brownies that looked like they hadn't been so much baked as excavated. Down in the cavernous kitchen below Wadham JCR, jacinthsong was making pancakes with gay abandon, there was lemon juice and chocolate chips everywhere, and the air was warm and thick with sugar. All lovely, and I took off my coat and offered up paper plates and juice as my contribution, and was told I had to answer a very serious question. Very serious, they said. Okay, I said.
"Melanin,"jacinthsong asked, "or CUNT?"
A very good question, I said, seeing as how I find it very hard to see beyond my own biology in choosing political candidates, which leaves me in quite the quandary, doesn't it. The question remained unanswered. I ate pancakes.
It had been a successful day, too -foulds and I went on a super-secret co-directorial field trip in the morning and found, much to our joint surprise, that we have a venue for the Aeneid. This had led to suitable jubilation, but not the now traditional victory twirl, which originates from the moment we were originally told we were putting on the show, and we were drunk and eyeliner-smudged and he picked me up and twirled me below the night sky. This will be an important point later, bear with me.
I also have a distinct memory of hittingfoulds with a rolled-up newspaper, and it being a singularly ineffective weapon; I reached out and shimgray handed me a kitchen knife and a tin opener, and turned to find my erstwhile co-director cowering behind the fridge.
After pancakes, there was drinking. The rules of the game weren't strictly enforced, but, pretty much, we were drinking at the mention of "change", "divisive", "America", "Iraq", and indeed, whenever we bloody well felt like, and I have no idea where all the booze came from, but there does seem to have been a lot of it. And, well, this is GMT. The first polls to close were West Virginia, and that was one in the morning, my time, so we had to keep ourselves amused for five hours first.
So, er, we drank a lot. Yes. A lot. Quite a lot.absinthe_shadow dropped in, I remember, and I got sebastienne to sing to me, which was lovely, and as I have just been reminded, I really, really should go to the St Hilda's Queer Cabaret this term. I wanted to last year, and it passed me by. Anyway, I digress. I seem to remember that at this point, we gave up on Real Life and started watching The West Wing for a while, and some of the uninitiated were introduced for the first time to the episodes with Big Block of Cheese Day. I love The West Wing so much, and as noted last night, with a mostly uncritical love - yes it's sentimental, yes the score is schamltzy beyond belief, yes, yes, but it's so smart and so funny and it makes you want a better world. What more can you ask for, in a television show? And, also, it has lines like, "Andrew Jackson, in the foyer of the White House, had a big block of cheese..."
(About a year ago, I promisedforeverdirt I would write a fic where Remus Lupin comes to the Bartlett White House on Big Block of Cheese Day to demand better rights for werewolves. I still need to do this.)
Now, I think that at some point, some point between pancakes and politics, I think I was picked up and twirled. I may be wrong.foulds says not. But: he may be saying this to torture me, and: I remember flying. I remember being suspended below the ceiling and I remember someone saying, "Oh god, he's breaking her", and these things fit together. Again, I am sleep deprived. I don't know.
All of the above took many many hours, but there was no actual politics. At half twelve, we had BBC News 24 on and they called the first state. West Virgina, for Huckabee. There was much, much drinking. The thing about the Republican race is that I'm still very unsure about McCain - the man has some decent policies, I thoroughly approve of McCain-Feingold, I think he wouldn't be an awful president. But he's a Republican, and I don't want a sane and sensible Republican going into the race in November - I want an easily-defeated crackpot. That's not a very sensible bias, but it's one I have nevertheless.
Still, the very fact that there are people in the world who want Mike Huckabee in political office was reason enough for significant amounts of drinking. (Also, I've shaken the man's hand. I went and washed it at this point. Symbolically. Mostly.)
The next few states to be called were mostly ones we could have predicted - Arkansas for Clinton, Utah for Romney - "Mormon" was one of our drinking-words - Georgia for Huckabee. I remember thinking to myself, I'll go home and get some sleep just when the next state is called, maybe I'll have a bit more wine while I wait. This proved to a good plan. Every time the television commentators said something about voters "choosing between race and gender", we drank; every time someone mentioned God we drank; every time there was change and hope for America, we drank. If we'd been watching CNN or Fox News, I'm sure I'd have got paralytic; as it was BBC News 24, merely very very drunk.
And so the night wore on. Eventually, I was perched onshimgray and he handed me his glass of whiskey every time a political candidate said something cringe-making, and it seemed a shame not to see it into the dawn with California. I was sobering up a bit and talking about really, honestly, whom do I want to win on the Democrat side. Obviously, obviously, I won't care even a tiny bit come November. Any Democrat will do me fine, then. And right now I want to say intellectually that apart from the issue of mandated health care - that came up so often when emily_shore and I were working for the campaign - I really don't mind between the two. But intellectual is one thing, and giggling joyously when Clinton won New York is another thing. I think I still want her to win, more than the others. That's not such a bad realisation. What a wonderful world, what a wonderful wonderful world where you can at once be part of a small thing, a room of friends drinking and laughing through the night, and an enormous thing, a whole world waiting for the same story to break, at one and the same time; what a wonderful thing, to be part of something bigger than yourself. Bring on November.
And, finally. 5.15am. The "Hillary Clinton Has Just Been Declared As Having Won California" interpretive dance, courtesy ofshimgray.
(I love how happy I look - tipsy and exhausted and so, so happy.)
We stumbled out into the night, stumbled home, I fell into bed, woke up briefly at ten, rolled over again and went back to sleep. It was a lovely clear winter's afternoon, and I didn't do very much except daydream and direct the Aeneid. And now, back to bed.
I said that I was now going to blame every stupid thing I ever do on the lack of grasp of reality engendered by my two and a half years with philosophy as my primary academic concern. That's my story and I'm sticking to it, and that seems as good a place as any to start telling the story of Super Duper Shrove Tuesday and how exactly I ended up stumbling in at 5.40am. I want to write this, but I am also incredibly sleep-deprived, so bear with me through this. The whole thing didn't start in quite so debauched fashion; I went up to Wadham with
deepbluemermaid, a lot of paper plates and a box of chocolate brownies that looked like they hadn't been so much baked as excavated. Down in the cavernous kitchen below Wadham JCR, jacinthsong was making pancakes with gay abandon, there was lemon juice and chocolate chips everywhere, and the air was warm and thick with sugar. All lovely, and I took off my coat and offered up paper plates and juice as my contribution, and was told I had to answer a very serious question. Very serious, they said. Okay, I said."Melanin,"
jacinthsong asked, "or CUNT?"A very good question, I said, seeing as how I find it very hard to see beyond my own biology in choosing political candidates, which leaves me in quite the quandary, doesn't it. The question remained unanswered. I ate pancakes.
It had been a successful day, too -
foulds and I went on a super-secret co-directorial field trip in the morning and found, much to our joint surprise, that we have a venue for the Aeneid. This had led to suitable jubilation, but not the now traditional victory twirl, which originates from the moment we were originally told we were putting on the show, and we were drunk and eyeliner-smudged and he picked me up and twirled me below the night sky. This will be an important point later, bear with me. I also have a distinct memory of hitting
foulds with a rolled-up newspaper, and it being a singularly ineffective weapon; I reached out and shimgray handed me a kitchen knife and a tin opener, and turned to find my erstwhile co-director cowering behind the fridge. After pancakes, there was drinking. The rules of the game weren't strictly enforced, but, pretty much, we were drinking at the mention of "change", "divisive", "America", "Iraq", and indeed, whenever we bloody well felt like, and I have no idea where all the booze came from, but there does seem to have been a lot of it. And, well, this is GMT. The first polls to close were West Virginia, and that was one in the morning, my time, so we had to keep ourselves amused for five hours first.
So, er, we drank a lot. Yes. A lot. Quite a lot.
absinthe_shadow dropped in, I remember, and I got sebastienne to sing to me, which was lovely, and as I have just been reminded, I really, really should go to the St Hilda's Queer Cabaret this term. I wanted to last year, and it passed me by. Anyway, I digress. I seem to remember that at this point, we gave up on Real Life and started watching The West Wing for a while, and some of the uninitiated were introduced for the first time to the episodes with Big Block of Cheese Day. I love The West Wing so much, and as noted last night, with a mostly uncritical love - yes it's sentimental, yes the score is schamltzy beyond belief, yes, yes, but it's so smart and so funny and it makes you want a better world. What more can you ask for, in a television show? And, also, it has lines like, "Andrew Jackson, in the foyer of the White House, had a big block of cheese..."(About a year ago, I promised
foreverdirt I would write a fic where Remus Lupin comes to the Bartlett White House on Big Block of Cheese Day to demand better rights for werewolves. I still need to do this.)Now, I think that at some point, some point between pancakes and politics, I think I was picked up and twirled. I may be wrong.
foulds says not. But: he may be saying this to torture me, and: I remember flying. I remember being suspended below the ceiling and I remember someone saying, "Oh god, he's breaking her", and these things fit together. Again, I am sleep deprived. I don't know.All of the above took many many hours, but there was no actual politics. At half twelve, we had BBC News 24 on and they called the first state. West Virgina, for Huckabee. There was much, much drinking. The thing about the Republican race is that I'm still very unsure about McCain - the man has some decent policies, I thoroughly approve of McCain-Feingold, I think he wouldn't be an awful president. But he's a Republican, and I don't want a sane and sensible Republican going into the race in November - I want an easily-defeated crackpot. That's not a very sensible bias, but it's one I have nevertheless.
Still, the very fact that there are people in the world who want Mike Huckabee in political office was reason enough for significant amounts of drinking. (Also, I've shaken the man's hand. I went and washed it at this point. Symbolically. Mostly.)
The next few states to be called were mostly ones we could have predicted - Arkansas for Clinton, Utah for Romney - "Mormon" was one of our drinking-words - Georgia for Huckabee. I remember thinking to myself, I'll go home and get some sleep just when the next state is called, maybe I'll have a bit more wine while I wait. This proved to a good plan. Every time the television commentators said something about voters "choosing between race and gender", we drank; every time someone mentioned God we drank; every time there was change and hope for America, we drank. If we'd been watching CNN or Fox News, I'm sure I'd have got paralytic; as it was BBC News 24, merely very very drunk.
And so the night wore on. Eventually, I was perched on
shimgray and he handed me his glass of whiskey every time a political candidate said something cringe-making, and it seemed a shame not to see it into the dawn with California. I was sobering up a bit and talking about really, honestly, whom do I want to win on the Democrat side. Obviously, obviously, I won't care even a tiny bit come November. Any Democrat will do me fine, then. And right now I want to say intellectually that apart from the issue of mandated health care - that came up so often when emily_shore and I were working for the campaign - I really don't mind between the two. But intellectual is one thing, and giggling joyously when Clinton won New York is another thing. I think I still want her to win, more than the others. That's not such a bad realisation. What a wonderful world, what a wonderful wonderful world where you can at once be part of a small thing, a room of friends drinking and laughing through the night, and an enormous thing, a whole world waiting for the same story to break, at one and the same time; what a wonderful thing, to be part of something bigger than yourself. Bring on November.And, finally. 5.15am. The "Hillary Clinton Has Just Been Declared As Having Won California" interpretive dance, courtesy of
shimgray. (I love how happy I look - tipsy and exhausted and so, so happy.)
We stumbled out into the night, stumbled home, I fell into bed, woke up briefly at ten, rolled over again and went back to sleep. It was a lovely clear winter's afternoon, and I didn't do very much except daydream and direct the Aeneid. And now, back to bed.
