May 20th, 2004


Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux...

Let's face it, entries have not been particularly regular over the last few weeks. Things have all been thrown out of whack (italicised because I'm not really sure what that means, despite years of usage), alhough I believe that progress is being made. It all started with that drug hunger, or rather that was a pimple upon a larger boil, and it's, or rather I've, been rather lacklustre since. Although there is a very small audience for this journal (it's rather like the final, yet noble, days of music hall at times), it's a quality crowd and I prefer to keep it regular.

Current statistics at LiveJournal claim 1,625,913 active journals and communities. Which is around 349 posts per minute apparently. I'd hate to be the person at Homeland Security sifting through all this for signs of dissent. I wonder if they still go for that Three Days of the Condor thing, where the most innocuous entries in fact mask activation codes for sleeping agents. Think The Manchurian Candidate [That's a link to the forthcoming Jonathan Demme remake, where it's the Gulf War instead of Korea, Denzel instead of Sinatra, Streep instead of Angela Lansbury. Wonder if they'll do the incest scene from the novel this time around... And they've remaking The Stepford Wives?] You see this fourth LMAO, it's position relative to the previous OMG and the :D, well, it's goodnight Manhattan I'm afraid...

There are some subtle, and more obvious, differences between the various forms of online publishing that all get lumped together under the blog label. There's certainly a cachet to owning your own domain name. Similarly, a bit of coding dirt under your fingernails helps. Movable Type, not that tricky to be honest, is preferred to the fairly idiot proof system available over here or elsewhere. I can't pretend I haven't been tempted, but then I think, why give yourself the headache? Stick with the anonymity here on offer. A fair number of blogs seem to be little more than blatant attempts at self-advancement in the world, whilst others are already elevated, or seek elevation, into the higher reaches where they can generate actual revenue and income. My personal distinction is that blogs on the whole are angled toward some take on the world and you go there because you know x or y will be covering these issues, whereas the inclusion of the word journal in this site's title accents the personal or diffuse nature of the writing. For me, anyway. I've written this before. I'm sticking with relative anonymity and the chance to write of the personal without it being off-topic. I wonder what social historians will make of this 1,625,913 in a hundred years. Hey, that's my chance for academic tenure, piss off!

So, isn't the weather nice currently here in the UK? I walked down Stamford Hill on Monday night, returning DVDs and hiring others. It's summer, I thought, I should be feeling wonderful, except I didn't. My thoughts have been persistently returning to a single area of concern recently - my romantic isolation. With a weary tone of sarcasm, I ambled along, trying to establish some sort of algebraic equation defining the state of things. Algebra was never my strong point, topology was the only thing I ever excelled at, but the idea of the equation was to define the ever declining opportunities for meeting potential lovers. Of course, it also needed to describe my own declining potentiality as well as a number of other variables. I could see the line of this equation in my mind's eye and it was getting ever closer to zero on the axis. It would never get there. Maybe your focus just shifts upon the graph. Life continues, you zoom in a little closer, that looks better. Zoom in again. You're kidding yourself with this scalability. In 1987, say, that was reading "32.5" and now it's ".325". Rest assured, this didn't launch me into considering suicide, but I conceded that it's never hard to see why some people fall by the wayside. Life has made you a crusty keloid armadillo of habit (that's the sort of bad writing I wouldn't dare attempt in ink). How is anything going to break through that skin? And in a world which has excluded the divine from almost every corner, it's not as if you believe that miracles occur. Stand by the bus stop and look around. What you see in London is lonely people all around the place. People just about occupying time and space. This never gets discussed. The candidates for the forthcoming Mayoral elections don't address loneliness. But, Ken, what about l'absence? Maybe it's natural wastage of the larger organism. Horrific.

Although I haven't been posting much, I have been reading a fair amount around the web. In this frankly depressed state of late, I can see that my social life really doesn't match up to the cereal box pictures. So I read journals of people going out and doing things, look at their photographs, see how they are engaged in the world. Whereas my days recently have been almost without content or incident and over(t)ly concerned with isolation and the navel. I do hope that I am now coming out of that well. For a while, please.

And, obviously, I need to start thinking what on earth I am going to wear to see Rufus Wainwright. Some gigs you can just put on a western shirt and boots. Not so this one. I've never had much luck with the idea of retail therapy, but I shall be visiting a range of emporia today with this gig and the forthcoming summer in mind. To be honest, what I'd like most is a full head of hair. On Monday, I rented Summer Things (Embrassez Qui Vous Voudrez). Nothing spectacular, but it did have Jacques Dutronc. He'd look pretty old, I thought, if he didn't have that hair on him. He also looked like he was wearing eyeliner throughout. The film also included Lou Doillon, Jane Birkin's daughter, who looked even more colt-like than Jane did at that age [or rather this age] [Those links seems to have gone a bit FHM!] Get some pork chops down you love!

Back sooner, rather than later. Ah, the sun is out once more...