Ribbit

-Look what I got for my birthday! she chirps.
It looks like the upper half of a dead toad, to which is sewn a piece of string.
Wait.
It is the upper half of a dead toad, big as my hand, dried and turned into a purse.
-Wow. Who got you this, then?
-A friend of my parents’. She’s from the Philippines.
-Is it a good luck thing? Was it wrapped? How did you react when you got it? I blurt out.
Yeah, it was wrapped, and I screamed, she giggles.
I ponder for a second.
-No matter what you do, don’t kiss it, it might turn into a prince.
-So, that’ would be cool, wouldn’t it?
-Don’t think so. He’d still be missing his lower half, wouldn’t he?

Blogpeople, let's have some music

It's the quitting smoking song
All the smokers cough along
If I can do it so can you
Just chew some gum and say fuck you!

It's the quitting smoking song
All the smokers cough along
If I can quit you can quit
Have fun and break some shit!

[Ok, people, click on song, then scroll down and click 'free' and wait a whole 10 seconds. Then enter the little code thing. Don't give up.
Then cough along.]

Cognitive surrender, or the comforting nature of pop music

1. See, earlier, I was sitting on that incredibly uncomfortable sofa I bought because it’s the only one that would fit into that 1.20m gap; just sitting and moping a bit because, because, I won’t go into it, but moping I was, and J was engaged in his Coffee Making Experience (20 minutes) whilst going through yesterday’s acquisition: a Roughtrade compilation of obscure bands, and all I wanted to do was to hear, not to listen to it, just to hear it, the Bangles’
a hazy shade of winter. I know, it’s a cover.

2. One day, I was 14, I saw a girl dressed like I wasn’t, and a little something exploded in me; I thought: right, this is it, no more anonymous denim, or random perms, or thoughtless striped sweatshirts, and the next day I bought black fishnets and boots, don’t laugh, blogpeople. It was a real start for experimentation, sartorial risk-taking, and obscure goth bands.

3. Pop? I would say with scorn. I don’t listen to pop. Pop is for those who don’t know better, pop is regressive, pop is sugar candy, it will rot your teeth. There is no mystique to pop, pop is SAFE. Look at me! I’m right there on the edge, me, and I read goth fanzines, and Lautréamont; at night I burn the edges of the lyrical letters I write to my goth friends, parchment-like, with red wax seals, and I make myself long velvet skirts I’ll trip over. I have kept a Cindy Lauper album, because the girl can dress, though.

4. Everything was new when composing my character. Nothing was pointless, too remote, too futile. There was such a thing as infinity. I felt fire in me, and some talent, too, and yearning.

5. I’m trying hard to avoid the word ‘exciting.’ Can you tell?

6. And now I can’t stay up at night anymore, and even Roughtrade compilations are too obscure and cutting edge, and often, I want to listen to pop music, safe, undemanding pop music, be wrapped in its cotton wool of cognitive surrender.
Sometimes, I also wear denim; I don’t write lyrical letters anymore. I read detective novels.

I’m lazy; but more than anything I think I’m scared.

I need to make a little something explode in me.

Today was not for farniente, today was busy, blogfolks.

In fact, I have serious questions.

1.Why is it always when I am up to my elbows in cat litter (cleaning, people, cleaning) that my face starts to itch uncontrollably?

2.Why do car drivers roll down their window before lighting up? Is it because they like fresh air, or because they don’t want to breathe in their on second hand smoke?

3. Should I book myself on that intensive summer course in Granada, Andalusia, considering the fact that Spanish people never sleep, whilst I can’t function on fewer than 8 hours’ sleep, and that Andalusians don’t pronounce their consonants properly?

4. How come my sudden, acute bouts of deep despair seem to be cured by any of the following realisations, and could I bottle them up and sell them?
1. Who cares, in 80 years’ time I’ll be dead anyway
2. there is some leftover cake!
3. I should do that bum-clenching pilates thing, that’ll teach me to be miserable. Aha!

5. Where should my SLF and I go for our summer holiday this year?

Lady of leisure

1. Mostly, I have been retrieving the cat down from the curtain rail at regular intervals. Pancho the 6 month old cat was spayed on Friday, and since then we are meant to curb her level of activity. But oh no; she’s never been so hyper, climbing up and jumping down like a monkey on crack.

2. On Sunday night, my SLF and I had a date; I took her to see Margaret Cho at her Majesty’s theatre. Before the performance we sat in the foyer detailing the audience: the Korean contingent; the young gay boys contingent; the gay boy with his mom; the lesbian contingent in their (surely?) clown outfits; the cast of Little Britain; the older gay man who disappeared into the toilet with the gay boy with his mom, but this time without his mom, are you following? Maybe that was his idea of a Mother’s day present; in any case, his jumper was surely his mom’s idea. The trendy lesbian contingent with the scornful expression. Us two. Then we filed into the theatre excitedly, and the show was good, and I do fancy Margaret Cho. She’s sharp, she’s beautiful, and she doesn’t shout too much.

3. Thank you for stopping by. Any ideas of what to cook for dinner tonight would be welcome.

Linguists, yes.

1. The English language, people of blogland, is crazy. Down, up, back, out, in. In which other language would we say that we ‘chop down’ a tree, then ‘chop it up’?
I rest my case.

2. I find that the use of the Spanish subjunctive is best reinforced through listening to pop music, singing along and flailing my arms wildly, preferably whilst cooking. ‘Why are you singing ‘adios libido’? Our sex life isn’t that bad.’ my SLF asked last night. I wasn’t, it’s just that ‘A Dios le pido’ was confusing her somewhat. Hey, I’m not saying good-bye to it, for spring is in my pants.

3. Feel free to sing along:

Que mis ojos se despierten con la luz de tu mirada yo
a Dios le pido
Que mi madre no se muera y que mi padre me recuerde
a Dios le pido
Que te quedes a mi lado y que mas nunca te me vayas mi vida
a Dios le pido
Que mi alma no descanse cuando de amarte se trate mi cielo
a Dios le pido

4. Yay !

Primavera. It’s not just a pizza.

1. Blogpeople, it’s Spring, isn’t it. This morning the sun was so glorious! I opened the back door for Pancho the kitten to sniff the air and venture a paw outside. Then we retreated in because of the hailstones.

2. Flowers! I don’t have any, because the daffodil bulbs that were lovingly planted were immediately unearthed by foxes and gobbled up. So if you spot a fox with daffodils sprouting out of its ass, do send it to me. We need to have a word.

3. My mother phoned! I can understand 75% of what she says. Her head is bandaged, she’s black and blue, she hasn’t had proper food since Tuesday; but she was about to go out and plant tomatoes.