Bless me, my frieds, for I have been busy, and it's been much too long since my latest confession. I have been wondering how to pick up the slack, and between trying to have a life AND the Monolith, I note that there really are not enough hours in a day.I'm trying to find an abode that would save me spending weeks and weeks on public transport each day - and as I'm going to see one this evening, I must ask all to wish me luck... This is very very necessary at this point in time. I need more independence, and private quarters to have a more normal life/relationship/sleep schedule/whatnot.
You've received an invitation for a visiotest on 10/09. Dr Blanco expects you in the sick room at the time mentioned on your invitation.
Please note that this visit is mandatory.
Best regards,
Madeleine Rommel
Company Nurse
"Dr Blanco expects you in the sick room"??? Rommel?? Mandatory Visiotest? I'm starting to think I work at some sort of odd human test factory or a secret army recruitment centre. Plus, when I was little, my favourite book had this very frightening vampire character in it, and in the real world he used an alias... Dr Blanco.
On top of it all, I have a hangover because the Team had some drinkies last night - an experience which only strengthened my belief that I was lucky enough to land in the bestest team in the whole Monolith. I think I'll slip into the store for some crisps. According to my coach, "they ARE watching", but I need some comfort food right about now...
With just one slip of a finger, or due to a stiff keyboard, or just because one's fingers are more accustomed to typing 'home' than 'holiday', one can arrive at the sort of nouveau-word that perfectly describes my long weekend.
Homiday [n.]
A short or long sojourn spent detached from everyday humdrum, but without leaving one's city of residence. Usually a homiday occurs at a hotel, but in some rare occasions it has been proved possible to arrange at one's own domicile, although this requires outside elements such as friends visiting from abroad. The quality of a homiday is determined by a complicated algorithm, which takes into account, among other things, the level of detachment (whether the domicile was visited, telephone answered, any usual bars frequented, friends met), the distortion of time-space continuum (how long the homiday felt as opposed to how long it was in reality), frequency and quality of intimacy (be it carnal pleasure or long conversations, or comparing scars, or confessing traumas), and level of indifference to money spent.
I created a test that determines homiday quality (naturally, a more accurate and scientific investigation should be left for professionals and these sorts of surveys are merely cursory), and came to a fairly high figure, which only corroborated what I already knew - my homiday kicked ass and I don't even care that I didn't get much sleep - I am otherwise rejuvenated and relaxed so it doesn't matter (not to mention that today I ventured to the 8th floor of the monolith and found a place called Quiet Room - a room with a view, furnished with huge, soft, blue, uterine sofas, that people go to take naps on. I spent my lunch hour sleeping today and it felt fantastic!). Here's the test.
1. How many times during the homiday did you visit your domicile?
(a) Once (3pts)
(b) Two to three times (1pt)
(c) What domicile?? (5pts)
(d) More than thrice (-3 points)
2. If you subtract the number of days your homiday lasted, from the number of days it felt like it lasted, what is the figure you get?
(a) Half (1pt)
(b) Three (3pts)
(c) A negative value (-3 pts)
(d) Like, a year (5pts)
3. When your phone rang during the homiday, did you pick up
(a) Every time (-3pts)
(b) Phone, schmone - I'm on homiday! (5pts)
(c) Only when it was my mother/boss/dogsitter, and I didn't speak long (1pt)
(d) I kept an eye on who was calling and would only have picked up if I thought it was an emergency (3pts)
4. Two points for each of the following instances of intimacy:
- Comparing scars
- Showering together or skinny-dipping
- Unexpected acts of kindness
- Sex in the morning
- Someone watching someone sleep
- Stories from childhood
- Teaching something or being taught something
- (insert one if you think you have one that has to be on the list)
5. How many of your usual friends did you see during your homiday (homiday partners do not count)?
(a) One (3pts)
(b) Oh puh-lease, I wasn't even answering the phone! (5pts)
(c) More than three (-3 points)
(d) Two to three (1pt)
6. Usual bars/clubs/restaurants/hangouts?
(a) Not a single one - we even drove around looking for a nice restaurant, as if we were abroad! (5pts)
(b) One quick look into a usual hangout, but that's it (3pts)
(c) I staged the homiday entirely in the usual bar (-3pts)
(d) Went to a few, yes
7. Did you care what the hotel room/dinner/drinks/etc cost?
(a) Yeah. Sure. Of course! That's why we didn't get dessert at the resto! (-3pts)
(b) I could have cared less but a whole lot more too) (1pt)
(c) Didn't even cross my mind (5pts)
(d) Well, since it wasn't the Waldorf Astoria, I could afford not to think about it (3pts)
FYI, I scored 38, which means that my homiday was a very good one. And it was so very unplanned as well. Yay homiday!
Too tired to think. Over and out.
Yes, it has been pointed out to me on a number of occasions recently, that I've been neglecting the blog. The problem is threefold.
One. With the things that I want to write about (Mojo, class action suits and takeovers, all sorts of secrets) I'm dangerously teetering along the boundaries of ethics and common decency (not to mention sense), so I end up thinking up these long rants about how the general public in this city don't know how to live amongst other humans (as if they had only just been excavated from their humble, provincial existences and plopped smack in the middle of an urban landscape they don't understand), and then I catch myself right at the cusp of a great sentence, but of course I don't have a pen and I think I'll write it in later but by then of course all I remember is how every day around 9am and 6pm, I become a true misanthrope in the dirty tunnels under this city, and all my words have abandoned me.
Two. Things being the way they are (i.e. better) with certain people - there has been a shift in dynamic, I think - I tend to want to spend time with these certain people whenever I'm not sealed up in the monolith, which of course means that when I do not see him these 'people', I like to see other friends, but I also sort of like to sleep sometimes, which brings me to the point that right now I am losing sleep and getting fairly anxious about it, because the monollith is too much for me when I am sleep-deprived, and that makes me scratchy, and that affects the dynamic between me and certain people, which in turn is annoying for my other friends to have to hear about when I see them.
Three. The monolith, although atavistically boring and eventless of late, is not an environment conducive to writing a shopping list, let alone something even remotely coherent. Hence this breathless rant (remember that phrase, Prophet Bird?) from the bottom of my bed as I try to get to sweet sweet sleep ay-es-ay-pee. Therefore, the hours that I spend there pressing the refresh button and hoping for something to happen - a ridiculously tangled report or some detective work, for instance - instead of being able to just take an hour to write, I have to be unconcentrated and at least try not to look like I'm skiving, in the eyes of all the people who keep walking past behind me and peeking at my screen.
So, there you have it - my hat trick of excuses (or rather, reasons). Having said that, I did manage to write a little email today to the Bird himself. Perhaps I shouldn't call it writing, but more like a cough, or an uncontrolled eruption. That little splutter included a passage I rather liked, however, so I thought I'd share it, even though it makes me wonder if I'm somehow sullying the sacred Bird Letters inspiration. It materialised because I tried to crystallise a mood that has taken over and I think will stay hovering around me like a halo. I think I will learn this by heart and just reply with it whenever someone asks me how I am - in other words, I suppose this is the latest news:
A series of observations has been distracting me from the world recently. It's been interesting. Interested in humanity again, somehow, and feeling a thousand strands of concentrated curiosity beaming right out of my eyes to the world. Like tentacles, made of glass that only a heartbeat ago was molten. Like spidery eyelashes you can see through, but the view is distorted and sometimes upside down.
Over and out.
Holy crap, I swear, there are two guys hanging off the massive, enormous monolith of an office building next door, and they are washing it. They are *washing* that building, not washing windows, not painting. Granted, it makes some sort of sense, as the building is covered with aluminium or some such thing (and yes, I know I just called it a monolith, just indulge me), but... Wow. I wonder who pays for that.
Jeeeeezus. I've been coming to this office for three weeks now and I'm getting extremely sick of not having anything DESPITE the fact that I spend these wasted hours each day doing these people's dirty work.
It's official... I start at Big Financial Thing tomorrow.
So... Those of you who are here can look forward to finally getting some rounds. Wa-Hey!!!
I've also decided to have a party soon. The weather is glorious right now, and I'm hoping it will keep getting warmer through April - maybe I can even have my birthday party in the garden. Now, that would kick ass. It will be Mayday Brussels style (and I'll make everyone bring a funny hat to ensure the right atmosphere).
WOW.
My hands are still trembling as I write this. Had a movie moment but not the good kind.
I went to Mojo's caf tonight because I was actually really feeling terrible, and in the light of day and shaky hangover, I reflected upon things that happened and things that didn't and came to the conclusion that I had actually behaved quite badly, and that I'd really hurt his feelings. So I went to settle things. Tough conversation, but all ended well...
So, he was driving me home a moment ago, and we took an unusual route because we didn't want to run into cops. We drove down Montoyer and hung a left to get back to Belliard, and saw a whole bunch of cop cars in the distance, heading towards us. But they were far, so we turned to the road and stopped at a red light. Suddenly there's another bunch of cars - lights flashing just like the others we'd just seen, coming from town. They started to sound the sirens, and suddenly ALL the cop cars we had seen, were driving into Belliard at breakneck speeds. I was already terrified at the speed that they drove around us at, into the tunnel. I turned around to look at this endless stream of vehicles that must have been doing 160. Then something very freaky happened. One of them coming from the side street got right in the way of one that was coming straight at us. The guy turned the wheel to avoid a collision, and all hell broke loose... It's hard to describe, but there were cars out of control all over. I saw one spinning totally erratically as the guy tried to regain control, and the whole time this lump of metal is headed right towards Mojo's car. I saw this in slow motion and had one of those weird panic thought processes about how badly we'd be hurt - and really there was no time to react, it all happened in a couple of seconds and Mojo only turned around at that moment, as he heard the screeching. I don't know how, but no one actually collided with anyone, and the car suddenly came to a halt a couple of metres from our bumper. I was still half expecting someone to hit us, but they all just turned back to the right direction and continued the chase. We stayed put until they had all gone, staring in disbelief and trying to catch our breath.
I could say a lot of things about Belgian cops, but they're definitely skilled drivers. I can't believe thay managed to avoid a massive accident. Glad it was Belliard, which has like six lanes or something. a smaller street and we'd all be dead.
I'm interested to know what the hell happened in this town that all the coppers in Brussels would speed to the scene. I guess I'll find out in the news tomorrow. I can't even think of where they might have been headed. Woluwe??? Puh-lease.
I got a migraine tonight, so I don't think I'll sleep very well. Not to mention my heart is still racing like mad.
Oooooooh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
I spent most of Saturday night hanging out at the caf. At 4am we all went to Mirano, which was kind of a little bit more fun than I expected. In some ways I'm amazed that I was still there at that time, seeing as what happened earlier in the evening was enough to make me want to run far, far away. I got to the caf around 11 and Mojo (formerly known as The Aramaean) was having dinner. There were some chicks sitting with the usual suspects at the usual table, so he pulled up a chair for me, and as I sat down... He introduced me to them as - - - GASP! - - - his 'girlfriend'.
Oh dear god. I'm glad I was sitting down. I scanned the room and everyone looked like this was old news. Granted (and to his defence), most of his friends and family have been referring to me as his girlfriend for a while, but HEY - how about agreeing upon this first? Gawd, I absolutely point blank refuse to be someone's girlfriend. And now I'm the only one who knows this. Aaaargh!!!
Anning, as the relationship-dodger of the decade (thank you for passing me the crown, I am trying to wear it well but apparently failing miserably), is there any advice you can give me? How the fuck do I backtrack on this a little? I don't want to be cruel but I really don't want to 'end up' either. Getting rid of the guy is not an option because I actually do want him in my life - I just want to relax this classification a notch or two. Or ten. Thousand. I need to be on my own.
As a complete surprise, dear ole Kenny String sent me a message yesterday. He and Dom were in Brussels on business and we met up for a coaffee. You will never guess where KS suggested I meet them. Yup, indeed - the house of crepes and whiskey, Mr Mojo's place. I only sat with them for a little while, but it was really nice to see those guys again, it had been over a year. Unfortunately, my hangover rendered me slightly boring, but Ken kept us entertained with some funny stories about Brussels. I uploaded this old photo in nostalgic celebration, it's from 2005, we were chilling at Lost&Found after they played Ankkarock, and we'd been to Janne's country house for a smoke sauna and some drinking&swimming. Oh, happy days...
Ooh, and I am absolutely dying to go to Auckland. But that's the Mind-Melder Prophet's fault. Yesterday I received word that his brethren has been informed of my stalking attempts. Apparently, the kinfolk 'seemed to know who [I was]'. Too bad I am no longer in that country. Oh well. But o prophet, you are lost and the signal is getting weak. Do poppoe back, won't you? Wherever your feet land on the cold cold ground, I will plant an orchard, a garden of words, and sprinkle them into the winds - just try to be somewhere where they will hit you and warm up your skinny shoulders this autumn. Then tell me you'll be here in October.
*THIS WEEK'S ANNOUNCEMENTS*
There have been some name changes this week.
- As you've noticed, The Aramean shall henceforth be known as Mojo.
- Along with his long-awaited diplomatic status, K-Fed found himself upgraded, and shall henceforth be referred to as K-Gorilla.
- AK did the only respectable thing and registered to be able to comment (I applaud you!), and shall most defo henceforth be known by his Vox name, Ron Mexico.
What a sweeeeeet ass weekend I had. Saw some hot, groovy rock shows. Got to hang with just the right people to take my mind off all the bullshit of last week... I arrived in Cambridge on Friday and my stress just started to melt away. Slowly... I wish I'd had film for my slr - I would love to have taken some photos of this bizarre venue... It was like this huge concrete agglomeration full of bad neon light, there were some gaudy rides in the centre of it all - a carousel that looked like something out of a Xtina Aguilera video - and bowling alleys, cineplexes, all that stuff. It doesn't sound like a particularly weird place, but it really was - industrial, empty, it completely lacked any touch of a human element, and there weren't even enough lights... And the entrance to venue itself was just a door in the concrete, no sign or anything, though it was supposed to be a theatre and rock club... I got inside, and everything was quiet. Creepy place! After endless sets of doors I finally found the room, and immediately bumped into Darlin DC. The weekend had begun...
I didn't see much of Cambridge, but what I did see I didn't particularly like. Of course by now it was getting dark and I wasn'"t seeing the nicer sides of town, but still. There was some element of life or warmth missing... I've been stranded in a few places in my life, and some towns lend themselves to that quite well. I would not like to get stranded in Cambridge. Portsmouth, I could get by in no problem. I didn't like it as much as Brighton, but I do love a resort town off-season. DC and I walked around - took the scenic route - in a town of suspiciously few cash points and suspiciously many chippies. I saw a hovercraft. I took a couple of fun photos of the reluctant DC. Later in the evening, just as I was getting real excited about the pics I was going to take of the boyz, my slr died. Must have been the batteries, though that makes little sense, seeing as they weren't very old. Of course the battery pack I have does not fit on this camera but the other Pentax which was at hime, so... There went my set of portraits.... A damper on the evening, and yet one more fucking thing that went wrong. But the rock and darlin Davis and the all-round sweetness of those fellas really counteracted the blues. I even got a lift back to London, though I had anticipated making my own way both nights.
Ok, so... When you've had a week that falls into the sexdrugsrocknroll category, and you've been travelling and need to go back home, you - well, at least I - generally tend to just throw shit into the bag and spend about 2 minutes on the whole packing thing. This is how I dealt with it as I was leaving London. I had no need to keep it organised, so I just did the shove-and-zip. These are the situations, where you aren't really thinking about how you'll feel when you get to the station and they open it up and start unfurling it all in a public place.
I don't know if it was my travel tripod, or the Polaroid cam, or what it was, but they literally emptied my bag at Waterloo. I swear, the poor guy had to sift through all my dirty panties, which were conveniently sprinkled all over the contents, not even in a plastic bag. So the poor customs official (who was pretty hot and totally apologetic and embarrassed) would come across them randomly as he tried to check through my stuff. He was very cute, though - as he moved them from my bag to the plastic trays, he always hid the dirty underpants from plain sight. Not the bras though. Hmm. Still - UGHHH. They even swabbed the inside of the empty bag for drugs and explosives. Really now. I almost asked the bitch who ordered the search, whether they imagined I was going to blow up the train with my undergarments. She had seen the x-ray adn there was really no need to do all that shit after they saw what the unfamiliar-looking object in my bag was. I chose to keep shtum, however... I've heard enough horror stories about people who make such comments to the uniformed (or should I say, the 'uninformed'). Instead, I settled for seething in silence and going red in the face as every single passenger checking in ogled at my personal effects as they lay spread out over the countertops, right there where people had to walk by to get to passport control.
My emergency passport looks like it was made by my niece at crafts hour in preschool. It's sort of cute, though. They would only give me a 3-month one, though it was completely within their power to just give me a friggin year. I think consuls have to go through some sort of separate class in assholism before they're allowed to work anywhere. The employees at the embassy were perfectly accommodating and friendly (one of them actually was in my year at university, hah) but the slag herself was just snooty and mean, and had absolutely no sympathy or desire to help. So I'm paying £90 only to have to pay another £60 a couple months down the line. Nice. It was an effort for her to even instruct me on which turn I should take to start trekking towards Victoria, so I could get the bus to Waterloo.
Sweet mother of god, that was a shitty day. I had not had much sleep, and had had way too much fun on the last EODM night (wink wink), so I was quite lightheaded and woozy... By the time I'd lugged all my stuff to Belgravia, it started to feel a bit harsh to have to walk to Victoria, only to take a bus that might not get me there on time... I'm not one to panic, but I was becoming quite aware of how slowly I was moving. It was really warm. I had to keep stopping to swig water. My bags weighed way more than I'd remembered. I checked what was left after paying for the stupid papers. Not enough. I stopped a cab to check how much it would be and the Santa-looking driver looked at my bags and said it would be around £6. I grimaced an kept walking. I was actually in pain and a bit worried and really fucking tired of everything going wrong, so I decided to resort to a tactic... I flagged down a cab and, sounding about as exhausted as I felt and looking very worried, said 'Umm... I've got about £4.50, how close to Waterloo Station can I get with that?'. The nice driver looked at my bags and said 'Oh come come now, I'll take ya there'. The meter actually said £7.60 when we were there. I poured out the contents of my little wallet thing to him and he actually offered not to take it (by this time he knew about the passport etc). I gave him all the money I had left. About £4.72...
I figured the Aramaean might be a bit worried, so I headed over as soon as I'd fed myself. (God, am I really gonna keep calling him that? Ok ok, henceforth he will be referred to as Mojo.) Anyway, I always go out when I get back from travels, It helps me find my bearings in my environment. To my surprise, the news about the theft had reached the house of crepes before I did, so he was not particularly anxious anymore. He had been, though, before finding out what happened. We sat about with the 'family' a little and left to have a drink at the Cock. It was full of gross men who ogled me and there was this drunk middle-aged woman who likes to come to the caf to yell at Mojo, and the drinks were way too weak... So we headed back, knowing everyone had left at the same time as us.
We slow danced alone in the cafe. The chairs on the tables, we didn't even turn on the lights... We poured each other stiff jack&cokes and giggled over being DJNazis with the ipod. Sounds like stuff you do with a boyfriend, right? Jeez, I am on such thin ice. Later, when he was driving me home, I noticed he was about to fall asleep at the wheel. So I drove, and in the interest of him not killing himself in the tunnels, I let him stay over. Now my freshly-made bed has the scent of a man. And EWW, before you say it Annina, I actually mean cologne. I think I was asleep before I finished saying 'good night'. Which is good - I'd had enough people touching my panties that day.
Tomorrow I'll write about food. I don't do enough of that.
