raven: Paul Gross as Geoffrey Tennant holding up his hand against a blue background (s&a - feeling a little crazy)
29BC - Virgil, a Roman poet who probably didn't deserve any of this, is instructed by Augustus to write an epic glorifying the Romans much in the style of Homer. Homer's great themes being, to whit, a war and then the journey of one man, Virgil includes both. The first words of the Aeneid are: "Arma virumque cano..."

nobody expects divine intervention... not in the very first scene, anyway! )
raven: Paul Gross as Geoffrey Tennant holding up his hand against a blue background (s&a - feeling a little crazy)
"There will be struggle. There will be sacrifice. There will be tears, there will be the occasional fistfight. And in the end, there will be transformation."
-Geoffrey Tennant, Slings & Arrows

That line was written in reference to Macbeth, not a student production of Virgil's Aeneid involving swordfights, jokes about penetration, suggestively-shaped vegetables and an enormous cheesegrater costume, but I'm willing to hang onto hope wherever it suggests itself.

It is now four hours until the first performance of the Aeneid, a show I have co-written, co-directed and co-produced, as well as having done the print design for, so I'm somewhat invested in it at this point. And not at all crazy, not at all.

Things that deserve recording at this point:

-Picture the scene. Ten o'clock, the Gloucester Green Wednesday market, lots of little old ladies happily bumbling around picking up their shopping. Meanwhile [livejournal.com profile] foulds and I are picking up courgettes and saying things like, "No, no, not phallic enough. Maybe one with more of a curve?"

We eventually bought a Giant CourgetteTM, two bananas and an aubergine. Oh GOD.

-Due to our being fairly tense for obvious reasons, and also spending every waking hour together, my esteemed co-director and I are getting a little frazzled, of course, and last night I might possibly have called him the rudest thing I knew. Oops.

-Further to all of this, of course, I am quite unutterably crazy at the moment. I haven't eaten more than about a thousand calories in four days, despite [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong, [livejournal.com profile] shimgray and [livejournal.com profile] foulds all trying their best, and last night, I came in to the kitchen and wobbled significantly. When I woke up, Maria was peering at me from a great height and wearing a plague mask. I promptly passed out again, naturally.

I came round the second time, was fed some jelly with a very sharp spoon - god bless Maria and James, really; they petted me and looked after me and did not tell me I'm being ridiculous, which I am a bit (I just can't eat; I look at food, even things I like, and go, "....no.") - and went to bed with a pause to note that my room is rapidly becoming a public health hazard.

-To wake up in the morning and go prop-shopping - hence the courgette - and go off to the auditorium, through Balliol, where I met my History tutor, reassured him that I am slightly less crazy than when he saw me last, I'm all right, really, I will come to the next class, and realised later that all the time we were talking, I was waving a shiny plastic sword at him, because that's an entirely normal thing to do.

-What else? Er, the backdrop for the Aeneid is perhaps the most awesome thing ever to be awesome. Maria made it over the weekend with a handful of sketch maps of the ancient Mediterranean, a handful of brightly-coloured felt-tips, six metres of white fabric and a room full of drunk and vaguely depraved people. We have the Trojans' route done in ecstatic red arrows, around the landscape of Carthage - with a heart drawn around it - and Cumae and Crete (with Minotaur) and the island of the Cyclops (who has his eye back, having had reconstructive surgery), and, in the Eastern world, Margaret Thatcher being eaten by a half-man, half-pig monster. Because.

...okay. A few hours to go. I should try the whole food thing, I should maybe learn my lines do last-minute things, things like that. Er, yes, I occasionally go weeks at a time without doing things like this. I do. I think this has just been an extraordinary week.

And in case anyone in the world hasn't seen this: Virgil's Aeneid, a new comic adaptation )


Feb. 18th, 2008 01:38 am
raven: red tulips in a vase on a balcony, against a background of a city (stock - tulips)
Over the weeked, [livejournal.com profile] glitzfrau asked me how long I've had insomnia. Twenty-one years, I said. (This is, indeed, broadly true. My poor mother.) At least, she said, it's vaguely glamourous as life-long afflictions go. It's not, for example, constipation.

Needless to say, I am finding this an oddly comforting thought at 1.27am. I am overtired in that very special way that involves pacing up and down your room being wide-eyed and loopy and hyper-aware of the quality of the light. Bizarrely, I seem to be sleeping better in places that aren't my bed. I woke up a lot but did actually sleep when I was in Leeds, [livejournal.com profile] chiasmata put me up on Thursday and I slept, and tonight I dropped in on [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong after OULES and dozed off whilst sprawled full-length on her floor. I think I might seriously try sleeping in the window seat again, but perhaps not on a night when it is six degrees below zero.

(A brief digression on that point: holy cow, it is cold. It was a couple of degrees chillier in the north, but it's still very cold here. Worth it, for the three or four days of perfectly cloudless, clear winter days, which are my favourite type of weather and I should stop moaning.)

Anyway, yes. It remains true that lack of sleep is making a wee bit of a nutcase of me. I was on [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong's floor, as previously mentioned, staring at my bare wrists and noting that I never know what time it is any more, like so: "My watch has stopped. Also I'm not wearing it."

Yep. I'm very bright, me.

Cue laughter, because, oh, dear, I am not made of win at the moment. I have spent the last few days fighting off an utterly black mood - why should I get out of bed? why? no, really, why? - mostly successfully, by being very busy. Friday night was Queer Cabaret, and it was marvellous. The bar was filled with beautiful people of every gender, and there were pink wigs and glitter and luridly-coloured cocktails.

(Also, it was four degrees below zero and this is what I had chosen the coldest night of the winter so far to go out in:

huh )

Yes. But freezing to death aside, it was a wonderful evening. There were two "professional" queer acts, neither of which I liked particularly, but I actually went for Girlesque, and they were worth every penny. They sang and danced and were gloriously louche and genderqueer and talented and beautiful. [livejournal.com profile] sebastienne's beyond-lovely version of Cole Porter's "You're The Top", redone with a distinctly sadomasochistic flavour, was probably my favourite part. And this is entirely apart from the fact that I was immortalised in the line: "... you're the harsh slave-owner / you're Laura to my Iona..."

Every new person I met for the rest of the evening said, "Oh, you're the girl in the song!" I love it really.

On Saturday morning, at eight in the morning, [livejournal.com profile] chiasmata appeared with a lot of coffee and informed me we were going to Leeds. And we did, indeed, go all the way up the M1 to Leeds and visit [livejournal.com profile] biascut and [livejournal.com profile] glitzfrau, who are delightful and were very good to us. We didn't do very much beyond eat, giggle, read the Saturday Guardian and watch Mean Girls, and it was a lovely relaxing couple of days. It was nice to be back in the north, however briefly. I might've been tempted to actually go home as well - Leeds is, I believe, east of Formby Point and not too far a drive - but my parents are away. They're in Bangalore doing interesting and exciting things and undoubtedly getting into trouble of some description. They're with my favourite uncle, all three of them are skiving off any lectures they ought to be giving in Delhi, and last time this was the case, I was flying home out of Delhi. I'd said my goodbyes outside, got through security control and just settled in to wait for my flight when my mum and uncle appeared looking very cheerful. You're not allowed to be in here, I complained.

Sure we are, they said. We're government officials of India.

"Since when?" I yelled.

"Since," my mum said, holding up some expertly forged dated paperwork, "er, since this morning?"

...I digress. But they're having fun without me and have probably got into lots of trouble by now.

We came back to Oxford late this afternoon and made it home without any hassle, despite traffic accidents on the motorway and a general aura of sleepiness. The weather was almost ludicrously beautiful all the way down, with a glorious, sticky-Neapolitan confection of a sunset - pink and yellow stripes! - and I was thinking, in that half-witted very sleepy sort of way, that a lot of my thought processes lately have been framed in metaphors of travel and movement and distance. I noticed the landscape changing from rolling Oxfordshire fields to the more industrial north; I noticed the curving lines of streetlights looking strange and starry against the sky; I noticed changing signposts and people's accents and all the things that are different when you go anywhere. Which is all not very profound, but it makes me think that the next six months of my life, after June and Finals, will not be spent here. Not here, not in one place. I want to travel - I want to keep on moving and keep noticing and keep writing - and this will be the first time I've ever been free to just start moving and not stop. And part of it is undoubtedly a straightforward response to urgh, Finals, but it's true: it's time for something different.

OULES is going well. At some point this week, we are going to acquire the Sack of Troy from eBay. I meant to come home, but stayed and drank peppermint tea and did nothing but stare at the ceiling and love my friends and now I'm going to try and sleep.
raven: (misc - mortimer)
(Numbered for ease of perusal, or indeed to spare me from offering any connections between them.)

1. Merton is top of the Norrington. This may account for why I look out across the road at the windows level with mine and see people studious and sitting down hard at work.

"In the meantime, what do we do?" I went on, sitting on the kitchen table fairly early this morning. "We download TV off the internet and throw mouldy bread at the freshers."

Maria was making a paper aeroplane at the time; she got it perfectly balanced between wingspan and general pointiness, I scrawled "HMS Bounty" in blunt pencil beneath one wing, and she launched it gracefully into a clear blue sky. The three of us hung out of our third-floor window and watched it arc beautifully up and out and down, through the sparkling air, down down down...

...straight into a cyclist.


(Balliol is, as we speak, fourth in the Norrington Table. I'm not sure what conclusions to draw from this.)

2. Nothing like a clear sparkling day, though. I went up the Cowley Road revelling in the sunshine, and noticed that there is an Indian restaurant about halfway up called "Dil Dhunia". I am unsure whether this means "heart of the world" or "heart of the coriander". Both seem equally likely.

3. Nothing like a long lazy afternoon, either. I was supposed to be working. I managed to read an article by Samuel Scheffler that I've been meaning to read for two years - a critique of the basic-structure objection to Rawlsian egalitarianism; it bothers me slightly because it ought to be manhandled into an unmessy feminist argument, but I can't see how to do it - but other than that, I drank peppermint tea and talked to [livejournal.com profile] chiasmata most of the day. I was hit by a wave of sleepiness around about half seven, just in time to go to OULES.

4. OULES. Yes. We ran the flashback scene today, which I remember writing "unstageable" next to in the margin for the first few drafts, up to the mountain-in-Kashmir draft (so called because I did, indeed, leave the last extant copy up a mountain in Kashmir) and yet, we never did much about that. And it seems to have been a workable approach, because it went far better than expected. Once again, the cast are made of uber-talented love, and one would think I'd be sick of the script by now, but I'm really not. It's wonderful fun.

Afterwards, [livejournal.com profile] foulds and I were walking home and idly dissecting the rehearsal when he noted that we seemed to have stepped into a nineteen-twenties gangster film. The fog is thick tonight, clinging to the gargoyles and the architecture, and the lights were blurring beautifully through it all the way. I love Oxford in that mood - the night-time mood when the familiar looks strange - and it was an interesting backdrop to an interesting day.

5. I got in about half ten, wondered why I felt funny, noted dispassionately that I hadn't eaten in almost fourteen hours, and settled in with a bowl of pasta, with Maria and James, watching The Undiscovered Country.

I think we got about an hour in before I put my head in my hands and said, "It's a fucking Cold War allegory, isn't it?"

Well, it is! And I possibly enjoyed it even more for this fact. I like the notes of whom you can trust and who you can't, why a Neutral Zone is familiar and peace isn't, and how the original crew of the Enterprise really do belong to a different, more paranoid world. I even liked the knock on the head by bloody Francis Fukuyama. It was great fun. And after that we ended up eating peanut butter out of the jar and watching "Trials and Tribble-ations", which is made of love, particularly Dax, whom I have always thought is made of love despite seeing minimal amounts of Deep Space Nine compared to the others.

And now it's four am. I should go to bed, considering I have a lecture to go to in five hours.
raven: Tenth Doctor and Martha hugging (doctor who - hug)
Oh, OULES. I have so much love for it right now. Having reached version 15.0 on the script, we are finally rehearsing the Aeneid. The cast are ridiculously wonderful, portraying, among other things, the deathless romance of a dairy product and a kitchen implement with utmost grace. Aeneas and Dido are so utterly charming that they fill me with joy. It helps that OULES this term has no concept of gender, and both Aeneas and Dido are women and all their scenes together are awkward and sweet and made of love.

In the background of today's rehearsal, we had a handy classicist-drawn map showing all the places of the Mediterranean-as-was: Phoenicia, Carthage, Crete, and Troy (marked DECEASED). Also Neasden, for some reason now in Libya.

Euryalus and Nisus, in the meantime, bicker like an old married couple. (Gender, we mock thee: Euryalus is being played by a woman, who takes a somewhat dominant role over Nisus.) "Bicker!" I said, when being directorial. "Fight, like an old married couple. Like we do."

"We don't fight!" [livejournal.com profile] foulds said.

"Yes, we do!"

"No, we don't!"

"You always do this - you never let me talk!"

Maria looked rather like all her Christmases had come at once. It made me happy. We ran through about half the play in total, random scenes depending on who was around, and I know the script ridiculously well - well enough to recite long portions of it from memory - and it was marvellous to hear it fresh, coming to life. I suppose if my life had to become a television show, I'm perfectly happy for it to be Slings & Arrows. When I'm haunted by the ghost of my dead co-director, I shall stop asking if it's time to go crazy and just go ahead and do it.

I got back home from the rehearsal, sat down on the kitchen table with my mug of spiced apple tea, and my flatmates all congregated unexpectedly and handed me a note. It said: happy birthday. Your presents are in Tuktoyaktuk.

Okay, I said, and went to the world map on the wall. There was a note for me there, which it took me a moment to puzzle out. There was another note in the salt cellar. Another in the apple teabags, another in the freezer, another one slipped between the petals of a rose. Yet another in Maria's copy of Going Postal, another stuck to Claire's door. This one directed me to a highly ceremonial object, in case you forget where you live.

I went downstairs to the staircase board, where the note stuck to my name said: happy birthday! did you know, your presents were on the kitchen table all the time?

"Bastards," I said, deliberately loud enough to carry, and went traipsing back up to find a stack of wrapped gifts had appeared miraculously on the kitchen table. Oh, I love them. I am now the proud owner of the 2008 Doctor Who annual, a £25 book token (wrapped!), a large bag of sweets, a pair of caffeine earrings (!!! love!) and The Voyage Home and The Undiscovered Country.

I sat and felt very happy. And then, looking at the Star Trek DVDs, "How did you know which ones to get?"

"We didn't!" Claire said a little hysterically. "We stood in HMV and rang James, and he talked about even and odd numbers!"

I sat back on the table, let people play with the gifts and finished off the tea feeling very much loved by the whole world. James was holding the earrings; he looked at me and said, with feeling, "Geeks are people too!"

Yes. Yes, we are.

And now, an early night. It has been, against all probability, a lovely day.
raven: (hp - tonks puff)
In forty-five minutes from now, I will be twenty-one years old. Hurrah.

Although I've technically had my birthday party already, and am feeling distinctly crazy and not very much in the rampant celebration mood, I would nevertheless love to see you all. Can I suggest, then, that you all drop in as and when you like? Say from 3pm onwards, because I need to fetch my cousin from the station before that, and then I will chuck everyone out at dinnertime, but that's a good few hours of tea coffee-drinking and gentle social interaction. It can be what is referred to in a certain type of novel as an "open house", or something slightly less pretentious. Anyway! I would like a lot to see people. Come come come.

Hurrah for sleep-deprivation, too. After sitting in my room feeling crazy for much of the day, I finally went out for a nice drink with [livejournal.com profile] lilka, and then went over to see [livejournal.com profile] foulds, talk about directing stuff (the Aeneid is now on version 15.0) and confess that I've begun to hallucinate shadows at the edge of my vision. We're good friends and good co-directors and we work very well together, and I do not want him to be hit by a pig truck.

Actually, you know what I want for my birthday? Other than seeing people and a cake, which my parents are apparently sending me? (They also sent me the world's most gloriously tacky birthday card - it lights up! - on the grounds that I'd love it, and they were right.) I want five-things fic. For [livejournal.com profile] lizziwig's birthday yesterday, I wrote "five gifts members of SG-1 gave each other over the course of ten years on the Stargate Program(me)" in her birthday card, which was lots and lots of fun. I want, I don't know, five things Geoffrey Tennant did when he got out of the asylum and five things Lily Evans did in her last year alive and five conversations Mal and River have had and five things Rodney thinks the Ancients should have invented but didn't because they had no concept of pop culture and five things Fraser did when he saw a beach for the first time and five reasons why Spock and McCoy love each other really and five times Teddy Lupin was genderqueer. Etc.

..etc. etc. Hope to see lots of shiny people tomorrow.
raven: Karen Gillan as Amy Pond, wearing green and red and looking up (Default)
Today, I did not sleep and did not sleep, and saw sunrise from the wrong side, and did not sleep, and woke up with a start at 2.20pm to find someone had stolen my toothpaste.

Now it's 2.20am and I'm writing Nisus/Euryalus and eating cinnamon-flavoured gobstoppers. Here, have my writing-Nisus/Euryalus-at-2.20am-and-eating-gobstoppers playlist.

Ryan Adams - Cracks in a Photograph
ladies in a corner want to borrow my smokes / as if returning them would do any good

I love this. It's slow, it's melancholy - it comes off an album called "The Suicide Handbook", for heaven's sake - and I've been using it as a lullaby lately, over and over until it leads me into sleep. It's basically the musical equivalent of a baseball bat to the head.

Emilie Autumn - Swallow
I will swallow / if it will help my sea level go down

I'm going through a bit of an Emilie Autumn phase, it must be admitted. And this is hypnotic and samey and I have no idea why I've had it stuck on repeat for two days, but I have. It's got a certain something.

Emilie Autumn - Opheliac
studies show intelligent girls are more depressed

I shouldn't like this nearly as much as I should. It's screechy, it's like Jack Off Jill (but better), it's full of woe and angst and shouty shouty pain, and I looooove it.

Train - Drops of Jupiter
can you imagine no first dance freeze-dried romance five-house phone conversation the best soy latte that you ever had and me?

It's cheesy! It's overblown! Everything else they ever did was shite! But it's marvellous regardless, and I just typed that lyric out from memory, woe is me.

Texas - In Demand
wrote my name in silver sands

Sharleen Spiteri and Alan Rickman dancing around a petrol station. Made of love.

Snow Patrol - Hands Open
I want to hear you laugh like you really mean it / collapse into me tired with joy

I've uploaded this about five times before, but I still love it. It's cheery, for a given value of cheery.

Emilie Autumn - Juliet
the consequence is hanging there / the sky will fall but I don't care

I did mention the Emilie Autumn phase. This one is very different from the others, off "Enchant", and I love it but I love it particularly at about 4.47 when for some reason it turns into what sounds like Greensleeves.

Sarah McLachlan - River
but it don't snow here / it stays pretty green

I have a confession: I like music with sleigh bells in all year round. You can all disown me now.

Riiiight. Now I try to go to bed.
raven: (firefly - kaylee)
Last Thursday was [livejournal.com profile] sdwolfpup's More Joy Day. I missed it, because I am idiotic - I noted all the joy on LJ, especially [livejournal.com profile] jenlev's lovely roastery story - and thought to myself, I meant to do something for that. Specifically, I meant to send out chocolate by pigeon post. But I forgot to get any, see above where I am idiotic, so I figured I should send text-based joy instead. I pidged poetry, webcomics and fic to people - writing fic small enough to fit in a brown envelope was a fun challenge - and sat back and felt the reverberations of the joy.

Because there is lots of joy in the world at the moment. I am hugely, enormously sleep-deprived at the moment, which is not a thing of joy - the low point came at half seven this morning, when I was riding out waves of insomniac nausea and thinking hard about asking someone who loves me to hit me on the head with a frying pan - which apart from other messy symptoms, makes me very easily frazzled and hypersensitive to everything. The fact I am still functional and happy is a testament to how much joy there actually is in the world.

Which is probably a good thing to have realised, as I am now a week short of having been in the world for twenty-one years. This is a horrifying thought, naturally - twenty-one is, well, it's a proper grown-up age, I can now drink in America and, er, run for Parliament if I so desire - but I do get the fun of a birthday to make up for it, so. Last night, counter-intuitively, was my birthday party - mine, along with [livejournal.com profile] mundi_gaudium, [livejournal.com profile] sebastienne, [livejournal.com profile] deepbluemermaid and [livejournal.com profile] lizziwig - at [livejournal.com profile] pridehouse, and it was candlelit and thronged and lovely. The theme was "the nineties", but as everyone was keen to point out, not the nineteen-nineties - more like the n-ninties, I think. Anyway, there were people dressed as Aristophanes and Domitia and Socrates (well, Claire was walking around with a bottle filled with Fairy liquid and labelled "HEMLOCK") and as robot prostitutes from the 23rd century and numerous other beautiful things.

I went as the Green Fairy. I am not keen on absinthe - every time I drink it bad things hapen, and besides, it tastes far too much like aniseed for my liking - but the costume was pretty fun. Green skirt, green tights, green eyeshadow, pretty-fairy-ish top from Pat, glittery eyeliner and wings and shoes with roses on the buckles. And after a night of drinking wine and eating beautiful home-made cake and dancing around under fairy lights, I was quite happy curled up in a corner at half three in the morning feeling, Dionysian-fashion, loved by everyone and a part of everything.

I didn't sleep, but you can't have everything. (Although I am sleeping a little when exhausted, I keep waking up again every half an hour; there's a strange fragility about lying exactly between sleep and consciousness in a room that's buffetted by howling winds. Perhaps I'll sleep better when the wind changes, or at least when the weather stops being so utterly awful.) Instead, I rolled out of bed again at lunchtime and ran down to see [livejournal.com profile] anotherusedpage, who is awesome, and we spent three hours talking about, er, fandom, and female-defined space, and OTW, and language as power, and the philosophy of Star Trek.

Yes, unashamedly. I am twenty-one years old and this is my world, welcome to it.

(Actually, while I'm talking about that, something of note. I was rewatching the TOS episode "Mirror, Mirror" - love, so much love, evil Spock, evil Spock has a GOATEE, heee - which I have seen an embarrassing number of times over the years. But. This time around, I noticed something I really, really should have spotted before. Near the end, mirror!Spock is being dealt with by McCoy - who has, I think, just hit him on the head with a vase, see above re: embarrassing number of times I have seen this - and then he wakes up. And stands up, walks menacingly across the room and pushes McCoy up against the wall into a forced mind-meld.

Which, forgive me if I'm wrong, has a very specific meaning in the Star Trek universe, right? It's rape. Mirror!Spock, who is then described as a "man of integrity" in both universes, is clearly not - because, well. Rape. And it's actually played as rape, as well. Which is very interesting, and an actually dark note in an episode which has enough ridiculous bits to keep me rewatching it for years. It made me think, anyway. There must be fic written about it, I'm sure.)

Yes, well. Meanwhile, back in my real world, [livejournal.com profile] foulds and I are also casting our Aeneid - amidst much good-natured agreement about cheese and cheesegraters and their relevance to the script - and I'm suddenly far too busy for someone whose Finals are this year. (No, not Virgil's Aeneid. Ours.)

Okay, now I think I shall go to bed and lie awake until morning. In the meantime, I meant to do this for More Joy Day, but better late than never. Request drabbles! Give me (at least one of) fandom, characters, plot, quote, prompt, whatever. I shall do my best, and wish you all more joy.


Jan. 9th, 2008 03:30 pm
raven: (tww - noel)
That would be "Hilary" with one L, regardless of recent events. I'm avoiding doing any work, so have a few notes:

-For those living under a rock, Hillary Clinton won the New Hampshire primary. I am happy about this. I am actually also happy about McCain winning, too, in a way. I seem to have two ways of thinking about the Republican contest: I'm torn between wanting it to be McCain, whose McCain-Feingold campaign finance reforms impressed me as being thoroughly sensible and/or un-Republican, and wanting it to be Huckabee, who can probably be relied on more than the others to fuck it up in November.

-Oh, look, Ron Paul is a horrible man. (Re: Ron Paul, I am a geek, a fangirl, I spend my life online. I'm also not stupid. In other words, it baffles me how he, a conservative Republican from Texas, seems to want to appeal to my demographic.)

-This xkcd is still the story of my life, though.

-Via the BBC, what Hillary Clinton's victory means for Britain.

In other news, I should rent myself out as Lifesize Goth Barbie and go to Intrusion more often. Last night at [livejournal.com profile] pridehouse, [livejournal.com profile] sebastienne and others got me glittered, eyelinered, backcombed and into a corset. This done, I went with about twelve people and gaily Intruded. I've never quite seen the appeal of corsetry, being lacking in, er, curves, and I'm not sure I do now, but it was delightful fun nevertheless. I wanted to be a goth when I was fourteen. Now I can dress how I like, and I don't want to be one any more. Life is such a tragedy. Oddly enough, the smell last night - alcohol, leather, sweat and apple dry ice, all mixed together - was wonderfully evocative. I remember why I wanted to be a goth, at least.

(Nowadays, alas, the term makes me want to make jokes about the fall of the Roman Empire.)

Right. Back to the work I am avoiding doing. Because I am a PPEist, and have been doing two essays a week for nearly two years, I get a pay-off - a Hilary term devoted only to core paper revision. This is a level of self-direction new even to me - I am incapable of doing anything now without the pressure of a two-day deadline. All I want to do is read political blogs and fanfiction, and write slow dreamy TOS fic into a notepad window. At the end of the week, the auditions for the Aeneid begin and [livejournal.com profile] foulds and I will have to start casting and doing other things that working with real people. I am looking forward to this.

Work. Yes. The most exciting thing in my life at this moment is the prospect of lying around with my flatmates watching A Bit of Fry and Laurie, and noting Pat's reaction to the fact that Hugh Laurie is not, indeed, American.

Yes, yes, work, I can has subjective ethics revision nao, whoop.

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