mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

of carparks and kings

It's not often, but not as uncommon as one might suspect, to find old Dirty Dick, Richard III, in the news. I must admit, I've been following the posthumous adventures of the fellow with a keen interest, ever since my visit to the Richard III museum in York, where keen but interesting folk regaled me on all matters RIII, but they were kind, I was lonely, they wanted to talk, I was happy to listen, and so, ever since, every mention has attracted my attention, and well, the return of the king - who would have expected that!

History, live. Archaelogists, Richard apologists, rejoicing. Arguments over where to re-bury him, the war of the roses stirring up again. Fabulous stuff. My history buffy self has been well satisfied.

Alas, the rest of me is having a very bad time of it indeed, personally and professionally, and it seems like they send the cops round every time I just try to crack open a book. Seriously, they see a light go on in my room, they call the cops. The neighbours have such an insane hate on for me it was only exhaustion that stopped me boarding a plane last night. I didn't care where I went, so long as it wasn't here. Solutions? Suggestions?

What did I do? Nothing. Nothing at all. I go to work. I go home. Sometimes I go out. And yet they still keeping parking in my driveway anyway. That's what makes me boil over. Well, that and the daily, serious, persecution. I was so terrified I went to three hotels last night, all booked up, alas, because I dreaded to go home, shaking with fear then finally slunk home after dark, and went to bed, in the dark, because I'm now too scared to turn on a light. It is misery. It is, as legally defined, torture.

I never wanted to feel hunted again in my life, and now I do. I cannot bear it. One day I will tell you how I was hunted, and dragged roughly out of my hiding spots by an arm or a leg, when I was five, and how that sick feeling has never, ever really left me. Perhaps you will understand then how the return of that sick feeling has completely destroyed me. Oh, and having to pretend that everything is okay, peachy keen, network fallen over, no problem. Deadlines? sure thing. Don't forget that. To feel that dread, once more. Please, no.

So, I prefer to read about kings in carparks, and grumble over the Thunderbirds remake, cheer on social reforms in the UK.

Friday: This week has been one complete disaster after another. Really bad. Most of them of my doing as I bring this upon myself, apparently, so I'm told, by being too awful to bear.

After four seperate interviews, the police haven't been round again (never mind all the drug wars or shootings, lets get her) even though I went and bought some new nightwear as they kept dragging me out of bed at midnight - for reals.

They say it's the only time I'm home. Well, no surprise I'm just coming home to shower and change. I can't sleep, or even watch telly or read in peace, so I stay back late at work, I buy tickets to anything going (draining of the bank account but cheaper than a hotel). So next they'll be on at me about the state of the house, again. Well, if I'm not allowed to stop there in peace, clearly no work is getting done (though I did sweep the floors yesterday).

My stuff? No way. Never. Of course not.

Yesterday was absolutely awful, the worst things ever happened, I was screamed at for over an hour (I swear, there must be a shadow of me on the back wall, so fierce was the blast), and then I finished off the day being punched at the station. It wasn't like he just walked into me head on or admidships, no distracted texter this, but a surly scruffy fellow who barrelled towards me diagonally at full ramming speed. In the seconds I had I must have turned on instinct because my shoulder took the worst of it, he had his fist powering his elbow for a king hit, just because I was a fucking ugly bitch, or so he said.

Indeed, sir, yes, I agree. Even though I was wearing my favourite dress (the cute 50s number with the bow belt), it was a bit tight across the midriff post December feasting, alas. My fault entirely, as I offended the sensibilitiees of the greater public. Hurts, though, even though I can take a punch (as evidenced in my instinctive turn to block it). It's all red and sore today, like, really bad. This is my life.

Still, I've booked myself up six ways to Sunday, so at least this whole nightmare will be educational and culturally enriching (because I'm still so aware of my education holes, as Ms Palmer is want to call them, and I fret over not being able to speak Latin or quote Kipling, as the Herald ridiculed this morning). I'll be poor, and running out of clean clothes, but at least I'll be hard to find (though I don't seem to be doing a very good job of blending into the crowd at all, oh dear).

See, even when beaten down, I'm still trying to better myself. I don't know why people hate me so. I really don't (because if I did I'd stop it, or stop me, whichever worked). Even that friend I made last year has decided the quality of her life would be immeasureably improved by moving interstate and settling herself out the 10,000km exclusion zone that seems to apply. Sigh.

It came from the back of the wardrobe

Wednesday: I don't know where this dress came from, other than it was just there. I can't remember buying it or ever wearing but, but clearly it was bought, and worn at least once. Given its dowdy Victorian lines, I'm thinking I probably bought it for a funeral. Don't care, it'll do for the office, as my career is well past saving. Funereal fashion is the way to go, methinks.

You'll have to forgive the swiss cheese brain, re the wardrobe amnesia re wardrobe archaeology. The old meningitis ate up the 90s and most of the 80s and 70s, too. Like I only know I've been to America before 2010 because I put together such detailed travel diaries, with photos, postcards and ticket stubs as proof. Thanks, past me.

Speaking of past me being an excellent fellow, conscientious and generous to a fault, I must thank my past self for having the magnificent and timely foresight to book the ticket to La Soiree last Friday. Gosh, yes. The very ticket indeed.

Sodding awful week, as you know. So I ended up in City Extra, drowning my sorrows over cider and an indifferently microwaved seafood crepe, starter size. I'd even asked to be moved into the darkest corner, beside the cupboards, I was so fragile.

Anyway, into La Soiree, where the bowels of the Opera House had been, well, at least an attempt had been made to make it look like a speigeltent, but really, the effect was more school disco, n'est-ce pas? And they were playing Sousa, which I still loathe and despise from all those forced marches they used to send us on at school (these days the teachers would be arrested, back then it was called education).

There was only one spare seat for a single lady, but it was right up the front, but the folks to my right were so kind and welcoming and made an effort to get me chatting, so bless you. Made me feel human again. And then the show began.

Golly and gosh. A mash up of circus, sideshow, burlesque and vaudeville, there were leather clad jugglers juggling to Queen, an angry, angry hoola hoop twirling young Missy (from LA, natch, check out the attitude) the Great Frodo, who squeezed himself through two tennis rackets, acrobats who danced, climbed chairs and one chap who did a whole Gene Kelly, Singing in the Rain pole dancing routine with a lamp post. It was amazing, and he left his hat on (the cast of Magic Mike should hang their heads in shame and go work at McDonalds). Similiar thoughts occured when Bath Boy did his routine, the erotic potentional of rubber ducks now fully realised. Yowsers.

That was amazing. And wonderful. And sitting atop a stack of cans, each one smaller than the last, the Great Frodo, legs tucked up behind his head, told us to go and live our dreams. Inspiring words indeed.

Such a wonderful night, and there's nothing like walking out to that sparkling harbour at night after a really good show.

Saturday, and I was off to another philosophy course, this one entitled 'Nietzsche and Dostoevsky Course: Human, All Too Human?'. I've always been scared of Nietzsche, always name dropped like I'm supposed to know, like I'm supposed to have had a decent education (never taught Latin, blah, blah, blah). So, in the interests of educating myself, off I trotted.

I need not have been quite so frightened. It was my favourite tutor, who is always willing to explain high falutin' concepts by referencing scenes from The Avengers or Django Unchained, so I get it, a bit, monocultural doofus that I am. And the folks in class are always nice, so well read and travelled, and very forthright and full of fascinating facts, experiences or points of view. Some might find the robust discussions and wandering miles off the track annoying, even I do, sometimes, but mostly I love it (to the point where I find other classes too dull to bear these days).

So, more people in chains, but Platonic chains, ahem, and I think I almost behaved myself for once. I mean, I might have scared off the chap who very foolishly asked me about what I did for a crust (red rag to one unhappy cow), but at least, with all the talk of climbing mountains, I din't burst into song (even though I thought about it).

Heh. Mildly dissapointed that our Raskolnikov of choice was Peter Lorre and not the John Simm version. Ah, well. At least I feel I now have the most rude and basic grasp of old Nietzsche, his daddy issues, etc.

Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted
more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he
had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.

And if only fate would have sent him repentance--burning repentance that
would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the
awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would
have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life.
But he did not repent of his crime.

At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity, as he
had raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison.

- Crime and Punishment.

Nope. Not seeing any references that remind me of Caffrey there.

Rest of week has been blah, but at least no one has punched me (so far). You should see my bruise now. I think maybe that's why the folks were so kind on Friday night, me there, single, and badly bruised. Not as interesting as all that, but at least I'm on track to die being burned as a witch like I always knew I would be.

Still, I like this dress. It's almost Amish, for the most part, aside from the wicked and sinful black buttons, but then it ends with some rather fancy cream lace on the hem. That I like. It's like my misery, misery, misery, fuck you dress. Perfection.

Speaking of misery, did you see they done went and cancelled The Hour? You can tell how much I love a show by it being cancelled.

I was going to make a snitty comment about Supernatural being renewed, but I know I'll miss it like crazy when it's gone, and this whole Not-Watchers thread is of greater interest to me than the whole Christian mythos which has hogged the serious so horribly (surely there are other gods and demons to play with, aside from that extraordinarily groovy and Gaiman-esque motel episode). Anyways, promising, and Dean not letting go of the daddy issues any time soon. Heh. Nietzsche in Supernatural? Where would you even start?

The Wombles at 40 – why we need them more than ever

Sesame Street: Birdwalk Empire

'Largest' Scottish ancient artworks revealed

Dinosaur deaths: meteorite did do it

Relax! You'll Be More Productive

Scientists identify remains as those of King Richard III,0,7667709.story

Richard III: skeleton is the king

Face of Richard III, England's 'king in the car park', revealed

Will the real Richard III stand up?

Why are beards back? Face fuzz makes a big comeback

The price you pay for being an Aussie

Macklemore thrilled as Same Love strikes a chord

Gay marriage vote passes in UK

Sesame Street visits 'Upside Downton Abbey'

Roxy Music's Roaring Twenties

Waiting for Blanchett: STC buckles under box office rush

Dear Telstra, leave my interwebs alone

South Pacific actor John Kerr dies aged 81

Why obese people don't lose weight

Mutant cane toads invade Gladstone

Pope resignation: Who speaks Latin these days?

The Half-Decent Oreo Tweet That Dazzled a Nation

Amaz-ing: Philippe Dubost's fake Amazon page sets new bar for online resumes.

England and Ireland from space: Amazing satellite picture of cloudless England and Ireland.

ITV and Avatar studios confirm Thunderbirds remake

Thunderbirds Are Go! (Again): Cult TV show is set to return as ITV commissions 26 episodes in new revamped series

The Thunderbirds in pictures

Jeremy Renner's Gary Webb Biopic 'Kill the Messenger' Sells Out

Tim DeKay discusses Peter and Neal's trust issues

'White Collar's' Tim DeKay talks Neal's lies and directing Diahann Carroll

Tim DeKay Directs "Empire City"


'White Collar' Episode 4.13 Preview: Tim DeKay Directs 'Empire City'

Matt Bomer Makes Fans Swoon at Super Bowl

'White Collar': Neal Has An Epiphany, Realizes Where Ellen's Key Is Leading Him

Matt Bomer in "8"

Matt Bomer Excites 'Fifty Shades' Fans with Cover on 'Da Man Magazine'

'White Collar's' Tim DeKay talks Neal's lies and directing Diahann Carroll

Matt Bomer Q&A

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Matt Bomer

White Collar, Season 4 - Shoot the Moon Promo

TV Week

17-23 July 2010

TV Week

18-24 December 2010



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Who Weekly

11 February 2013


10 March 2008

TV Week

8-14 March 2008



Sumer 2010


August 2009

Vanity Fair


March 2013


Tags: alessandro nivola, alexander skarsgard, jensen ackles, jeremy renner, josh brolin, literature, magazine scans, matthew bomer, philosophy, supernatural, theatre, true blood, white collar

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