It occurs to me that on the fifth of next month, I will have been in Swaziland a year. It would be appropriate to take the opportunity to fire off a self-indulgent analysis of the journey I've made so far but frankly it doesn't seem necessary or relevant at this point. I have absolutely no feeling of watershed, of having arrived or of being in any way significantly more settled than when I arrived. Before you get the wrong idea, please remember that it doesn't really bother me in the slightest and I'm doing very well on it.
Yes, anyway, before I slip into pseudo-philosophical tedium again, I suppose I'd better come up with something to tell you. Yesterday I got steaming drunk after finishing a job, that I estimated would take a month, in three days. I'm not boasting about the speed of my work but admitting to the rampantly inaccurate pessimism of my time estimations. Marlin, who has now moved into the house, and I had a good thrash and as expected today was a total write-off. This is rapidly becoming my kind of week. I'm reading Milan Kundera; a book filled with poets and sensuality and the grit of real life and feverish disregard for conjunctive punctuation. Which is probably no bad thing as it sounds like a horrible disease. Perversely, I had no patience for The Picture of Dorian Gray, which I made a start on over the weekend, similar though it sounds to the above. There's only so much facile quippery that one can stand.. yes, even I.
The battery on my laptop has finally succumbed to my irregular charging habits and has developed the kind of memory span normally associated with anecdotal goldfish. You'll excuse me if I keep breaking off to disconnect the power supply; I have a vain expectation that I can somehow build its capacity back up by running it dead flat over and again. Of course, all I need is a good copy of Battery Amnesia.. but such things are in short supply for ten-year-old laptops, even on the Internet. Occasionally, I am gripped by a desire to get hold of an Inside Macintosh book and learn C or something; to write an instantly out-of-date program that only I can use appeals greatly to my - ahem - "individualitstic" sense of humour. Unfortunately for like-minded souls, it doesn't appeal to my "civilised" income requirements. After all, you can't run a laptop without electricity. Well, not for more than three minutes, anyway.
Okay, okay, sixty goldfish, wired up in series.
Projects I'd love to have the time and facilities to get on with:
|1||Make a Blair Witch-style camcorder movie whose only sound track is Roger Waters' The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking.|
|2||Make a Flash movie of a scrolling anti-war poem (with hints of Valerie Solanos), while Floyd's Great Gig in the Sky plays.|
|3||Make a photo essay of a long car trip. To Cape Town down the South coast perhaps. No Pink Floyd involved, honest. Donations towards petrol gratefully accepted.|
|4||Get the Merc back.|
|5||Get back into the mood for writing; ten thousand words after I rolled out the big guns, my novel has had a loading-mechanism jam.|
|6||Find some stupendously well-paid and easy job I can do from anywhere over the wire, which will finance the above while leaving enough time for me to enjoy them properly.|
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