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Sarmoung
Elsewhere Radio Orchestrar / Flickr December 2008
 
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October 6th, 2003
Monday, October 6th, 2003 12:37 pm

Sarmoung has been stunned to notice that someone has actually visited it and left a message, so many thanks to curious_monkey for somehow stumbling across us. Why do I feel like 'we' this morning? Hopefully the banal visual nature of the journal will dissuade further visitors. I jest! I would like to work out how to upload photos quickly and conveniently. Why the heck can't I just drag and drop them? HTML, no matter how simple it is, isn't the same as a simple and intuitive interface. Unless I start suffering from insomnia and a surfeit of enthusiasm, I can't imagine there will be much change.

Wynd contacted me recently with an invitation to join Friendster. I obliged, but it required filling in more fields about favourite books, music, personal descriptions, etc. It's hard to guage what to put into these fields as most of Wynd's circle of friends are bona fide artists and weirdos. My persona on Friendster seems a lot darker than the one here on LJ and I can imagine that my profile will only attract sociopaths. Unlike this place, the inadequacy of the approach isn't balanced by the ability to crap on about stuff without interruption. Friendster is a dating/friendship service where you establish virtual networks of new friends. For a charming socialite like Wynd, I can imagine this would work fine, but, as I realised once I had entered this information, I was 16 again and standing in a party looking moody and pissed off. Fortunately Wynd's presence in Tampa currently should mean that no one will actually send a message saying "I see you like Throbbing Gristle and the work of Lautreamont, let's party!" as no one will invite me across the Atlantic just to stand around in their appartment looking moody. In this way, Friendster quite accurately mimics the real world: people who walk into parties and get to know everyone and have the time of their life, all the way to people like myself who will wonder whether it's polite just to go home and read a book. The whole thing made me realise that nothing much has changed over twenty years and parties, virtual or real, still fill me with fear. Not to mention that Wynd's friends all look sexy and attractive and his own photos are all taken from his modelling portfolio! I've used the same half-hidden photo as on this site. I feel 16, a very old 16.

One of the few friends that Wynd has on the site who I have met is Chloe, who was living in London for some time. I can remember going out one evening with her and Robert and ending up with her and another in Pharmacy, a bar/restaurant in Notting Hill, partly set up by Damien Hirst. Although I like Chloe, I never seemed to get on with her particularly, probably because I wanted to: good friend of Wynd's, interesting background, very smart, very attractive. Her friend annoyed me as he was a overly simpering camp type who seemed to have no identifiable personality. Looking around myself in the bar, I realise now that I had started to lose interest with contemporary London. Chloe has since relocated to Berlin, which is a suitable bohemian destination. As I walked up Campden Hill yesterday, I saw that Pharmacy has closed down. I was reminded of that evening. The place had great medical toilets: elbow operated taps, deep sinks, spacious toilets with plenty of flat steel surfaces. Basically designed for coke taking.

It still didn't feel like autumn. The conditions were all correct: sunshine, cold air, leaves. But there was no smell of autumn. If I went to Hampstead Heath, I'm sure I would encounter that smell and maybe then it would become autumn and something would change.

Sitting on a bus earlier that day, a woman was talking on the phone to her lover. No, she wasn't coming back tomorrow, not after all his abuse and violent behaviour. Hang up. There's a suitcase by her feet. He rings back. No, I will not. She looked on the edge of collapse. I wanted to say something, but what? Good luck? Maybe she will go back, the joy of reconciliation, a fresh start and then back to that point again. Maybe this was her bus journey after that final point of never going back. Once you've been continually abused by your lover, things change. Irrevocably? I don't know. Scar tissue. Phantom limbs. A fear that never quite leaves. The party finally over.

Current Mood: Hungover

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