dee - viscerate.com

GIRL
Diana Evans
called Dee
since May 25th, 1980
terrorising inner-city Melbourne
consuming flat whites
producing words, hers and other people's
contact dee [at] viscerate [dot] com

SITE
viscerate.com
consisting of personal reflections
photography by Amy Q
archives here

Friday, April 20, 2001

New obsession developed. Ultimate X-Men's Cyke after reading Min's great fic "Chocolate Milk". Ooooh.

Sorry, just thinking about her dark, edgy Scott makes me shiver.

This is getting dangerously close to the crush I developed on Ammar ibn Khairan after reading "Lions of Al Rassan" for the first time. I grew out of that when I realised that Ammar just wasn't enough. It had to be both Ammar and Rodrigo. Together, they are Captain Fantasy-Man.

Yes, now I am getting silly.

Hmm... also reminds me of the time I spent fifteen minutes watching Disney's "Aladdin" for about the fifth time thinking: "Gee, that Aladdin's really cute." And then: "Oh for Christ's sake, Dee. This is a bloody cartoon."

The thing is, see, yeah, Ultimate Scotty is cute and all, but it's his character that I find eminently whimper-worthy. I've grown up. Or something. What I do know is that I have to get the comics yesterday.

7:22 PM - link to this - (0) comments

Wha? Only after I go through all the agony of trying to figure out which email I used so that I can get my username sent to me so that I can get my password sent to me... only then does Blogger realise that yes, I am actually signed in already, thank you very much.

*sigh*

Last night I was playing a strategy game on a map of London with little buses and tanks as my pieces. (Oh yeah, this was another one of those weird dreams, by the way.) Certain key strategic buildings were the base points to conquer. Inside one building (and this was all happening concurrently), I was in a ballet. New and innovative, but incorporating the feel of conservative dance. I conquered the theatre with a double-decker red bus with no roof (you know, the ones the tourists love and I can't see the point of 'cause what if it rains?) and the two threads of my dream came together like a well-structed storyline. The performance swelled to its climax, borne on the breathless anticipation of the audience. I was just being dragged around the stage by some amazingly famous and talented Russian dancer (Russia again!) when the alarm went off.

I was so deep it literally took me half a minute to emerge. It was like coming up from the deep. Murky green water parting in front of me as ahead, the light gets brighter, and then I break the surface with a gasp and a long moment of disorientation.

7:53 AM - link to this - (0) comments

Thursday, April 19, 2001

There is nothing quite as sexy as a man walking like he means it.

Right. That's the sentence I had to write. Now let me try and explain it. A loose posture. A rolling gait. Yeah, a certain sway to the hips, but not like women do it. More subtle. Long strides. Rhythm. It's not self-conscious. It's not something that's done to look good. It's just what happens. He's concentrating on where he's going. How he gets there isn't important.

But it makes my head turn every single time I see it.

7:57 PM - link to this - (0) comments

I don't get enough random email. See, one of the things I like most about the internet is that you can talk, immediately, to someone you have never met. Never even seen. Never had the smallest, slightest contact with them or anyone they know.

Yeah, it's possible. But it never happens. Right?

I got two random emails this week. One talked about Gibson's Molly (my role model - does that scare anyone?) and my writing and other things. It was a wonderful email. Simply random contact from someone with whom I would never have otherwise interacted. The other was related to internet/domain business. Less inspirational, but also special, in its own way.

Of course, I might whinge about not getting any random emails, but I don't send any either. I suppose it's a two-way street. So this is what I'm going to do. This week, I'm going to try and send out at least five random emails. Just out of the blue. Find a page, find an address, send an email. Discussing anything. Everything.

Hey, why don't you do it too?

7:03 PM - link to this - (0) comments

Wednesday, April 18, 2001

Well, I did have another dream last night, but then I was woken up by a strange noise. Sounded vaguely like... someone trying to scratch through the wall of my room. Except it was on the side of my room upon the other side of which wall there is nothing. Or maybe through the ceiling. But I'm on the top floor.

Very bizarre.

And it drove the dream right out of my head. I know I had one. I know it was odd enough to rate a mention in my ongoing saga of bizarre subconsciousness, but it's gone now. How sad.

Meanwhile, our chapter of Starcraft players was reconvened last night, after a delay incurred by the fact that my Brood Wars CD had died a horrible, painful, lingering death. We haven't played in ages, however, and it was more really by luck than good management that we were able to win. Either that, or we're just Starcraft gods. The boys would probably go with the latter. I'll go with the former. I don't have anything to prove.

Today I have off. This is an unprecedented opportunity to get some work on my essays done. However, I shall probably just waste it. Stupid me.

7:23 AM - link to this - (0) comments

Tuesday, April 17, 2001

I went and listed myself at the Koechel project, because it's a good idea and this thing is now sufficiently journal-esque to qualify. I was shocked and horrified to find that Faith No More was not on the list of artists already. Faith No bloody More. I kid you not. What the hell are people thinking? Plus the fact that of the available music categories, only Rock/Pop didn't make me want to hide under the table, and it still doesn't come within damn cooee of my musical tastes. This is a travesty. My final selections: Metallica, Rammstein, David Bowie, Letters to Cleo and Faith No More. The last two were suggestions.

I now go to work, shaking my head at the state of the world I live in. Honestly.

7:24 AM - link to this - (0) comments

This is turning into a dream journal. I don't remember ever having had this many dreams at any period of my life. Maybe it's the desperate need for sleep that does it.

Not Russia. Somewhere else. Somewhere European. A city of cafes and architecture and slow-moving culture. I was marking the essay of a college student who I can stand, but only barely. Gj was there; she needed to talk to me. She would meet me at the end of pier H in an hour? I realised after she left, taking something with her, that in a little more than an hour I had to return this essay. Confusion.

Somewhere else, in the same dream, Ralph Fiennes (Onegin-hangover?) remembered the gentle delinquence of his youth.

It was a novel, unravelling in my head. Complex and structured and layered. Not weird, except by reference. And by it's very being.

7:11 AM - link to this - (0) comments

Monday, April 16, 2001

This time I was in Russia. I knew it with the certainty that only dreams give you, when there's nothing to suggest that it is actually the case, but you know it is just because it is. Russia was much like any other city, or a conglomeration of lots. It was cold, and the shops were large and almost empty. Not in that spare, yuppie-expensive shoppe sort of way, but in that non-consumer, little to sell way. I was on exchange? Maybe. I don't remember anything more.

Except that having this dream made me think of Onegin all morning, and the hopeless romanticism of Liv Tyler and Ralph Fiennes, and how beautifully the whole tapestry was rendered. Can I hope to plumb such depths of emotional turmoil and tragedy? (Some would call it angst. Even me. But not when it's as delicate as the Russians can produce.) Should I?

1:46 PM - link to this - (0) comments

Now I find out what that exclamation mark is doing in the Yahoo trademark name. Porn? Yahoo! (Couldn't have said it better myself.)

7:29 AM - link to this - (0) comments

Sunday, April 15, 2001

I am so tired that there is a monster of a headache building behind my eyes. It crouches, toad-like, filling the cavity in my head left by my shrinking brain. I am asleep on my feet. Two telephone conversations held with minimal involvement. I will have to apologise to both my mother and A at a later date. When I have once again regained coherence.

Too fatigued to live, too apathetic to die.

Found today, in the course of cleaning: a small packet containing four pills. Capsules, the sort you can open with ease to let the powder inside out. Bright, shiny red. The label listed contents in chemicals names, meaningless syllables. I wondered what they were. Whether they should be experimented with. But then I figured that if the college's numero uno drug fiend was throwing them out, they couldn't be any good to start with.

I'm too tired to deal with people who think Being John Malkovich was the weirdest movie ever and just so brilliant. Too tired to try and find the words to explain why it is mundane, lacking. Good, but not that good, kiddo. Lost Highway, City of Lost Children, Brazil. Now you're cooking with accelerator.

Did I spell that right? Any of it? Oh who cares. I'm going to pass out now.

8:22 PM - link to this - (0) comments

Some minutes blurred altogether, and then there are moments of clarity. Leaning against a wall in a toilet with a flickering light. Cement cold behind my head and how impossible is it to find a comfortable resting position with your hair in a ponytail. Looking at myself in the mirror. Feeling like I was in an arthouse movie. Lighting effects. Silence. Significance. Soundtrack: "Everything Dies" - Type O Negative. Except I only know the words and tune for the chorus, and a little of the first verse.

"You look stuffed." All the succinct tact of college.

"I am stuffed."

10:14 AM - link to this - (0) comments