Log in

Tue, Jul. 28th, 2015, 01:55 pm
The Routine.

So this is what my life is like now, being a stay at home mum:

I get up around eight, with great reluctance and much gentle prodding from The Man. I am not a morning person. I have never been a morning person. The stars shall never align such that I am a morning person. Thus is has been, thus it shall be. The suffering is alleviated by the pot of coffee always waiting for me, a sound self defence strategy pioneered by Bren but perfected by the Man. I drink coffee and eat a food while The Man and Boyface watch some sort of educational cartoon on the Youtube, usually something mind boggling like Max the Glow Train or this Indian shapes song. The Man has usually given Boyface his breakfast, but sometimes we'll share mine.

The Man leaves for work, and we may or may not get Boyface to come to the front door to say goodbye. Often he just waves from the playmat while driving a truck. Driving a Truck takes up like, 60% of Boyface's day. He fucken loves trucks.

At some point in the morning I get the dishes done and slap on a load of washing. I've also started growing vegies and herbs inside, so at some point they all get watered and go on the front step for a bit of sun. I might get some other housework done if Mugface is amenable to the idea, but Mummy absolutely must play with him every now and then, so we play. We draw, kick the ball around the house, maybe go outside in the morning if the weather is nice and play on the swings or in the sandpit. He's got a bit of mania for digging weeds out of the lawn, so we do that, and he loves composting, the little weirdo, so we do a lot of that too, one weed at a time into the compost bin. At some point I have to cram a snack into his face so he doesn't melt down. Sometimes this is literally a insert-into-face moment, as he'd rather starve to death than put down a truck for two motherfucking minutes to eat a banana. Sometimes he has a modicom of sense and actually feeds himself his snack, which is about right because he's two, for godsake. Today it was a banana and a bit of Nutella and peanut butter on toast.

By noon a nap has to happen or woe shall befall us. He gets a warm milk, gets to pick one small truck, and Mugface, his Best Plushy Biffydog and I all pile onto his bed for a snoozie. Today he flaked after about five minutes of cuddles. I generally just sit next to him cruising about on the Tumblr, because we're trying to transition him to going to sleep in his bed by himself, just going easy with it for now, so he gets body contact but not a lot of interaction.

He sleeps for maybe two hours, sometimes more. He put in a three and a half hour nap yesterday, which suggests he's got some growing coming on. Anyway, messy or dangerous housework gets done while he's in bed. Today I unclogged the bathroom sink, took out the garbage, and put on a load of washing (as I couldn't sneak out to do it in the morning). I also have my lunch and take a moeskie to poke around online. Have a cuppa, take a mo. This is my full time job, so I get a lunchbreak.

Once he's up he gets his lunch. It's porridge. It's always porridge. He finds food really, really boring and porridge is quick to eat and Mummy has to feed it to him so he can play with a truck while he eats. I've taken to offering him other things, but he's got enough language to be very clear. Yesterday I presented him with a cheese and avocado sandwich, and was very gently told "no sammich, Mummy. No, no. Porridge. Mummy do it." while he slid the sandwich as far away from him as he could manage. If I'm lucky I can bribe him to eat some sort of tasty fruit and he will eat that without assistance, but it's got to be good fruit, and he doesn't always have the patience for it. Luckily strawberries are coming back into season and he's bonkers for those.

After lunch The Man generally gets home, but we tend to spend most of the day outside after lunch. He sleeps better with a lot of running around, so we either play in the garden or go for walks around the neighbourhood. The Man and random sundry people of the house generally join in. I think we might go for a walk to the main road near us and watch trucks for a bit after lunch today. Trucks, man. Motherfucking trucks. Maybe go get a biscuit from one of the multitude of cafes around here, because by then I will need more caffeine.

At sunset we come inside and I get dinner moving. Boyface plays with Bren and The Man while dinner is being done. We're into The Sprint now. Cook dinner, feed Boyface (who as has been mentioned, is so over a food. All done dinner? Enough dinner Mummy? NO ONE PEA AND ONE PASTA SHELL IS NOT ENOUGH DINNER. Rinse, repeat for an hour) and get him bathed and into bed. We take turns doing the bedtime tuck in, and after he's down the dishes get done if one of the other housemates hasn't done them already, and the floors are swept and washed. We have a wet-dry floor sweeping bedealio that takes like, twenty minutes tops, and we have clean floors and the Boy doesn't wind up covered in a fine layer of filth from playing at floor level all day.

Then the rest of the night is mine. By about 8pm.

It's a long arse day. It'd gotten better as the Boy has gotten older and can entertain himself more. His trucks keep him occupied so I can get shit done during the day now - for a while there even though he was going to be at 7pm I'd be at it till 9 because I just could get nothing done during the day. Now, I even get reading done. I can't use my lappie while he's awake unless I'm happy with him sitting on my lap watching vids in one window while I do my thing in the other, which is sub par for a kid who needs to run like five hundred kms a day to sleep properly, but at least I can read and sew and even draw or paint a bit these days. And my garden! Man, I could not grow jack while he was small - just didn't get enough free hands during the day. I can't really let him help, mind you, as anything green must immediately be "weeded" and chucked in the compost, but we're making progress on the front.

He's been out for two and a half hours now, so that will do for now.

Sun, Jul. 19th, 2015, 05:22 pm
Void if Removed

There's not much going on here, but I've started getting whispers of dissent from other parts of the web - Metafilter, Tumblr, FB - where people who have never had an account on LJ bemoan the lack of long form outlet, with room for comments, and good support for images, and less intrusive ads...that kind of thing. Mostly on Tumblr and in relation to Tumblr, actually. It's an appalling platform for any sort of conversation, and I regularly see the horrible fruit of lively discussion, three or four times, in reverse order. It's just not a place well suited to it.
I did dick around a bit over at ello, but was not impressed with the minimal everything. And it's kind of boring. And there's no-one there. Same story at g+, although that has the added problem that the interface and functionality changed every ten minutes. It's hard to develop a proficiency with a platform if things are different every time you go to use them.

At any rate, it's led to a sort of round-about suggestion that maybe ole LJ maybe overdue a revival. It is, after all, as vintage as a Mason jar and as retro as a fixie, so there's surely an audience for it. And it's always had a good set of tools for locking out the rabble, and it demands long-form content, thought and a lack of one-click interactions. You can't just like the thing, you have to leave an actual comment. You can't just click "share", so whatever you put on a post has to be worth the extra bit of effort.

So I am going to endeavor to produce the odd long post here and save FB for quick junk. Haven't decided if I'm going to lock things yet but for now we'll just stay vague and leave it open.

Mon, Jul. 13th, 2015, 01:34 pm

Anyone about here these days?

Sun, Dec. 23rd, 2012, 09:30 pm
Oh Gavle Goat, Your Toasty Hooves Delight Me.

I don't honour a lot of Christmas traditions. Most of them seem terribly forced, especially those imported to Australia from more northerly climes.

But I do have one tradition I am fond of.

The Gavlegoat and its near inevitable incineration.

Scandinavians will often celebrate Christmas by decorating their homes with wee straw goats, know as Julbocken. In the town of Gavle, Sweden, erects a colossal straw goat in the town square as part of this tradition.

What a majestic fucking creature.

It's a delight to the senses

Oh and look, this was this year's goat.

I in no way feel anything less than completely safe.

And then, given the right conditions, someone will set fire to it. This is this year's goat, a-burning, back on the 13th of December when it went up.

Noooo, it are my yuletide.

This happens a lot.

They've tried fireproofing, ice, military regiments, web surveillance, heavy police presence, the works. They still burn. This year's had been hosed down moments after it was erected, and it would in all likelihood been a big block of ice by the time the arsonists got to it. But they still got to it, and burn it did.

In 2005, it was torched by a couple of scamps dressed as Santa and a gingerbread man. And in 2001 a chap from Ohio burned it down, claiming in court that he believed that he was taking part in a totally legal goat burning holiday tradition.

There's evidence to suggest the guys who torched it this year commemorated the event with matching tattoos:

Sure, whack that photo on the toobs, no way that's coming back to haunt us

In all, only 41% of the Gavle Goats make it to the New Year.

I can't say completely why it so pleases me. Part of it is distinctly pagan, the sacrifice of a large animal, in effigy, to salute the returning sun. Another part suggests it's a finely balanced pageant, the forces of chaos vs. the forces of order rallying around a central figure to do battle.

But mostly it's a very large thing on fire. Lots of fire.

Thu, Oct. 25th, 2012, 08:41 pm
Fiction: Scabs

She remembers smoke and the taste of ash, she remembers hot liquid bones and the empty night sky, she remembers screaming and nothing more. Then there is only cold water, the pain in her bones, the scalds on her shoulders. One where it entered, and the other where it rests.

Someone is thundering on the bathroom door, but she can't really make out the words.

This is the bathroom in her house, that much is certain. It's familiar. She knows the curves of the tub, that the cold tap needs a little work to force it open. It's darker in here than it ought to be. She can see the cruft typical of share-house bathrooms - dead razors, expired shampoos, the one lone empty bottle of which no-one will claim ownership long enough to discard - and it seems that little time has passed. Territorial markings, spoor. It seems much the same as she remembers it.

There's a candle on the rim of the bath, sooty and damp.

The voice at the door is insistent. The skin on her shoulder is burning, even under the rush of icy water, and she sees the flicker of a tail curl around her ribcage, sear its way over her breast. Her whole body is a tangle of muscle pain, unfamiliar aches, her skin itches, her fingers and toes are curled into painful knots.

The voice has given up, and is retreating. The light is creeping in. Dawn? Maybe the voice was complaining about the noise, she remembers noise -

scream like the sky being torn apart, shatter of glass, howl of twisting metal, triumph!

- but it's quiet now. The faint suggestion of birdsong, somewhere far away.

She turns off the water and slithers out of the tub. The floor creaks and bows beneath her as she moves, a small woman on floor-boards that have been sodden for decades. The palms of her hands are raw, her nails ragged and torn. She salvages what is possibly the last clean towel from the rail, wraps it over her protesting skin. A grey towel. One of Michael's, an old flatmate. He doesn't live here any more, so he can't take a stab at her about the blood.

She palms the candle.

Wet footprints to her room. Small, a part of a porch that was part of a laundry that was part of a stairwell back before the wars. Tiny windows painted shut a generation past, milky with dirt and fragile as eggshell. Old house. They cannot even say that its bones are good anymore. She feels it moving, subtly, under her feet, shifting gently in response to the settling soil and the moving air. The quiet hours of the morning are punctuated with its sighs and the rattle of leaves and wildlife on the tin of the roof. It will be wretchedly hot in here by noon.

She has a mean little bed, a narrow little cupboard, a straight-backed chair and a tiny ancient desk, covered in clothes, makeup, sheet music, books, makeup, dust, leaves and hair. Debris. Her bed is a nest of coats and blankets and sheets and flat brown pillows in floral cases so faded they are a uniform shade of yellow.

She drops the towel on the back of the chair, clears a spot on the tabletop. Books in a pile on the floor, everything else brushed to the edges. A palisade of cotton and paper. There's nothing to be done for the greasy smears of makeup on the tabletop. The candle in the centre. Her skin is already dry, her hair beginning to steam.

They'd gone out, gone out to drink and dance. They'd gone to a party in a paddock, piled into a van that belonged to a friend of a friend, someone she vaguely knew. Driven hours out of town. There were bands there was beer, brewed on the property by people she knew. Some sort of coming-of-age, a twenty first birthday.

The world is quiet and slumbering and she perches on the edge of the chair, runs her finger on the dirty rim of the candle. She has no idea who it belongs to, if they even still live here. The wax is beaded with water, the wick is damp. She feels the thing on her skin moving, coiling in her lap like a cat, seething, its wings unfurling on her thighs.

She'd taken something experimental that one of her housemate's boyfriend's uncle's best friend had cooked up, a little pill red as sunset and emblazoned with wings. Something perky. She never liked the sodden feeling of being truly drunk, and this was going to be a long night. They were so far from the city lights that the sky was dusted with more stars than she'd ever seen, a townie with no real connection to the countryside. She'd stared for too long, till her neck hurt and someone she knew pressed a paper cup of punch into her hand and towed her away to the music. Too loud, too grating, too many people, and she beat a retreat out past the circle of the light, into the trees, a grotto of eucalpyt, sharp and fragrant.

She pinches the wick, squeezing out the moisture.

It was a big property - a great flat spread of scrub-land peppered with trees. There was a small copse, dark, quiet, away from the thunder of the band and the press of unfamiliar human flesh. It had to be quiet. She found they'd lit a fire there, in a old oil drum surrounded by scavenged car seats, somewhere comfortable, calm. Not alone - one figure, too close, hands gripping the metal rim of the drum, knuckles white in the firelight. Shouldn't he be burning, she thought, why isn't he burning?

Just the smallest wisp of steam.

Just the smallest wisp of steam, the pop and crackle of old branches in flames, and she reached out to push him away, surely he's just too drunk for this, too high to know, and she saw something black on his skin, and he does not even make a sound, just rests his hand thankfully on her back, and something boils out of his flesh, tears its way from shoulder to shoulder, opens her skin to the sky -


Just a little mote of light, behind its sooty glass.

- thousand thousand stars, the wide empty sky, and broad columns of smoke, hot and buoyant and fragrant with blood -

She remembers claws, wings, scales. She remembers transformation. The thing on her skin - her avatar, her focus, her new little primal switch, her dragon - is calm. Sated.

She folds herself onto her bed and sleeps.

The candle burns down, but doesn't go out.

Wed, May. 30th, 2012, 02:38 am
"When it Develops Distinguishing Features, then We'll Give it a Better Nickname."

Right, so, who wants to be on the blobfilter? Being pregnant is turning out to be a much bigger pain in the arse than I had thought, and I would like to be able to whinge comfortably and without fear of boring too many of you.

So: Blobfilter is OPT IN. Please comment if you want the gory details. This does not mean that the main journal will be free of preggo talk; rather, it will only be full of particularly interesting or important preggo talk. Me whinging about gas or asking for bra advice will be behind the filter. Please comment below if you want in on BlobFilter.

Sun, May. 6th, 2012, 03:31 am
Razor Blades and Titrates of Silver

Ah, another placeholder post.

Life proceeds. There are, as always, projects in the works. Some are bigger, or may grow to be, than others. Only time will tell. Situation normal. Thank the heavens I am patient by nature. My workings must be labyrinthine, the time it takes for things to proceed from one end to the other.

Work has been...tenuous. We usually experience a dip in trade late March, early April, but the dip this year was so sharp and sudden and on the heels of an overall unimpressive period for all retail that it almost killed us. The dull patch is normally about three weeks, and we have in the past just soldiered on. This year it was six. I've been balancing our budget on a hair, trimming fat we didn't have and generally trying to keep the staff calm and the boss calmer. I think we're through the worst of it, but after the general sense of malaise at PornCon this year, we're going to need to pare down and sharpen up. I may finally have convinced the boss that all that floor space dedicated to DVDs is wasted, which may help getting the profit per square metre ratio back up...

This is a bit tedious, I suppose, to people who aren't me, but I do rather enjoy tinkering with the tiny numbers. I'm good at it. I'm good at all the little manipulative things you can do with a space to squeeze the most out of my customers. Merchandising to lead the eye. Music to calm the mind on the stereo, so people are less stressed and able to order their thoughts more effectively. Laying out the floor for smoothness and plausible deniability. Seriously. I moved the prostate toys to sit with the vibrating rings and sales spiked - shamed out het boys were more comfortable standing in front of the shelf if they could tell the pretty girls working there they needed a ring so they could MASCULINELY bone their TOTALLY FEMALE girlfriend, giving said pretty girls enough time to convince them that actually, we don't give a damn. Strategically placing the lube and cleaner so no one finished their session with a yeast infection and friction burn. Little things. Bright cheerful balloons outside my door adds two or three hundred dollars to my take. The right fragrance in the air fresheners improves our conversion. A set of dark framed glasses and my sales average jumps. It's fascinating.

And the best part is that if I do my job right, people will also get the most Bang out of their visit. This would be fun if I were selling computer parts or second hand books, but since I'm selling permission to climax it's even better. And the quality of toys has spiked in the last few years too, so there is very little overpriced garbage out there now. It really is a simple Os-Per-Dollar ratio, multiplied by skill.

Anyway. It's getting better. I'm still concerned about the overall state of the industry, and PornCon back on the 14th didn't help that. Web retailers are doing okay, brick and mortar not so much, porn poorly indeed. It's good to see a ray of sunshine in the clouds.

I have a slightly elderly short story wallowing around in purgatory. Very much in puratory, it's got demons in and all. I've taken to curling up with the wee netbook in the living room under a big pile of blankies of an evening, and lap top keyboards drive me to distraction. The touchpad on this little toy also has some odd gestural thinger going on that I still haven't worked out yet. At any rate I have great plans to rig up some sort of swing table thinger and bring in the wireless keyboard and mouse to my little toasty nest, for to make some serious writings over the winter, so fingers crossed I manage it soon or I may have my face eaten off by a restless succubus.

Metaphorically speaking.

Fri, Mar. 9th, 2012, 04:16 pm
Seven Questions

So this is from missingkeys:
This seems to be a meme where people give you seven topics and you ramble about them. Sounds fab! Comment and I too can give you seven prompts to ramble about.

1. Where you want to be in ten years.
Good lord. I have no idea. Not selling porn for a living, that much is for sure. I want to be writing more, that much is certain. It's sort of tricked off to a total stop in the last few years and that pains me greatly.

2. Goths.
We're a funny bunch. Pretentious as hell, cliquey to a fault but I've never been in a group of people that have made me feel safer. Safer to be weird, kinky and smart, and all the other little oddities that the mainstream tends to dismiss. A little drama, a little of the morbid, an absence of spray tans and nose jobs.

3. Religion.
If it harms none, do as thou wilt. That's about it.

I do think pretty much all world religions have something good to give - Asatru from to Zoroastrianism. I'd also argue that any religion can be bent to serve local cultural mores. Look to the differences between North African Islam and Indonesian Islam, or between French Catholicism and the Hatian forms. Sometimes it lends itself to good things, other times to bad.

4. 2002.
I do not even what. What was I doing? I was twenty, I was drunk a lot, I was at uni on the north coast and trying to maintain a social life that did not revolve around surfing. I spent an awful lot of time on the train. It was the last year I lived in res on campus too, and they were interesting days. We had a standard open door policy on our unit and had all manner of people pass through out doors. I introduced some friends to V:tM, may I be forgiven for it. I also ran a couple of home-brew systems.

5. Cat macros.
They were better before the cute infected them. Bring back in your THING doing your THING level drama, kthbai.

6. Queensland sun.
It will give you cancer. Seriously. I kind of hate it a lot right now, because I have the flu and have been running fevers and chills for a few days and the last thing I need is sun. I use this awesome Banana Boat Black Label Ultra Gothomatic sun-creen that preserves my toadbelly complexion without making my skin fall off. Once upon a time it came in an orange bottle, but they spotted their target market and ran with it, I think. Orange is for their sports cream now.

7. A funny work anecdote.
There's funny ha-ha and there's funny sad. The trio of twenty somethings who were convinced that anything going into the vagina would be forever lost, and who had never heard of cervices, or the very flaming young chap who bought himself a stack of top shelf manlove movies but popped a bargain bin het flick on the very top, a tactic that would have been splendid if we sold movies by weight.

Hmm, my favorite though is a local dealer in "cottage industry pharmaceuticals", a Yorkshireman fondly referred to as "Pinky" for his distinctive wardrobe. Five foot five and pink pinstripe trousers, pink polo, natty pink fedora, like Mattel trying to do a Gangster Barbie. Who announces his presence in the store with a cheery "'Allo love." and then beelining to the anal toys for the biggest things he can find. He's a treasure, actually, and one of my favourite regulars. Two Pinky stories:

1)From time to time stupid suppliers send us stock via surface mail, and it then sits on our doorstep till we open, except we don't have a doorstep and our entry is in the carpark and cars drive past all the time. Anyhoo Pinky is passing by when he spots a group of teenage boys from the local boys school debating whether or not they should nick it and lo! Pinky's off after them and tackles the lads, rescuing our package. Since we aren't open for a bit he chucks it in the back of his car and makes a note to drop by later with it.

Unfortunately, being a short man in a pink suit with a car covered in anarchist collective, legalise marijuana and gay man love stickers will get you pulled over by the cops, and as a chap with a known record for dealing it's awkward to explain that the three dozen boxes of male enhancement pills in your back seat are just herbal supplements, not secretly eccys or anything officer. THERE'S NOT MINE, REALLY, THEY'RE FOR A FRIEND.

2) Rather a bit later he came in for a visit with an extinguished spliff on his lip. Cool as you please. He ambled up to the counter and delicately rested it on the edge while having a slow, spaced chat with me about his weekend and how he's off to see the Surrealist Exhibition with a mate. He left his change and the spliff behind.

"Hey, Pinky, you're going to need that if you're off to see the Surrealists."
"Oh, ta love. They're a bit crap anyway."

He's a favourite.

Sat, Jan. 7th, 2012, 04:41 am
And I Will Be Here in the Morning, And I Will Be Hear for All After.

If you close your eyes you can hear it.

That rumble, deep in the jaw, almost below the threshold of hearing.

That hum. Static. The sound of a radio tuned to a dead station. Grey light. Clear water. Baseline. Like gravity, ignored. A tremor you have trained yourself to forget.

The first thing you ever hear. The last thing you ever hear.

You know it. You cannot be ignorant of it. Down in the base of you, at your core, and when questioned one does not even know where to begin.

The protean knowledge. The only knowledge. The last, first, and only known thing.

All else is a mirage. The light on the eye. The whisper of the air on your skin. The sparkle of light. The taste of your own mouth. All of it. Illusion. The symphony of synapse and the rhythm of thought. Mediated. Meditated. Taught and learned.

The hum of the blood in your veins. The only thing. The first thing. The last thing.


Wed, Sep. 28th, 2011, 03:21 am
Nothing is Special.

I will go down to the water, where the old gods sleep.

There will be the endless hush of the ocean, its eternal heavy caress the thunder of the sands, and I will wait. I will wait for the stars to start. I will wait for the night to come, and the scuttling things that live beneath the dunes will whir about me as they sift the filth from the ghost of the surf.

I will pray, as I have always prayed, in that place where the sky is the sea is the land, that liminal place where everything and nothing is washed clean.

I will take you there in my mind with me, the hidden passager, pressed into the hollows of my flesh, under the skin, where only I can feel you, and I will unpack you and stretch you out like a shadow on the sand, and let the salt water revive you.

We will hold the tiny bones of the world.

Sat, Sep. 24th, 2011, 02:40 pm
Cultural Awareness is Everyone's Job

Via drjon

Only edited for clarity. Have hightlighted my own little trials:

Originally posted by lord_caramac at post
Problems only goths have:

* Trying to get blacks that match after they fade in the wash (damn blue/black and brown/black)

* Trying to convince the drunk frat boy who is hitting on you that really are a guy.

* Big hair, small cars. (Which goes right along with big hats and big skirts). (Ed: Got wedged in the car going to Bloodlust due to big hair and spikey tiara and corset.)

* Airport metal detectors..."Hang on, just let me unbuckle my boots.." * The "Shoes, then corset" dilemma. Bonus round! Which one of my eighty bangles, bracelets, cuffs or rings is responsible once I'm barefoot and coatless at the detector.

* Having your little sister nick your make-up. (Ed: Living out of home: Still cheaper than replacing your clothes and makeup in a home with many, many sisters.)

* Living with a slightly homophobic father.

* Going to a school which nicknames you "that gay devilworshipping freak that dyed his hair purple" (Persistant high school rumour was I there under a mental health scholarship due to chronic schizophrenia).

* Getting your jewlery tangled in your clothes/hair (or, even worse, getting them tangled in the clothes/hair of someone else). Double points if it gets hooked in their facial piercings.

* People ask "what's so funny and what perscription are you on?"

* When your pointytoe shoes/boots get caught in the holes in the hem of your skirt.

* Wearing a black turtleneck when it's 90 degrees outside. Ed: Oh, Queensland.

* Accidently removing someone's nose with your spikey bracelet while dancing to Nemisis.

* Getting people to look you in the eyes when you talk to them. Ed: See also: corset, boobs.

* Getting your slave bracelet caught in your fishnets.

* Unconsciously staring, and having people try to look you in the eye to get your attention -- which doesn't always work.

* People declaring that your eyes are yellow, when, in fact, they are green.

* Having to reach for the salt with one hand while holding back your sleeve with the other so it doesn't drag in the gravy.

* Trying to find your posessions in an all black room.

* Finding your coat in the pile on the bed after a party.

* Trying to get the hair-dye stains out of your towels / sink / floors / doors / ceilings / carpets / pets / furniture.

* Being asked to defend your entire existence in 30 seconds or less.

* Finding a detergent to get those blacks blacker. Ed: Psst! Radiant Blackwash ftw.

* Thoroughly embarrassing yourself by finding that fog makes you so bouncy you have to sing along to your walkman, before you realise that fog also means that you can't see the people nearby.

* Having little kids tug on their parent's arm and say, "Look, Mommy, isn't she pretty? I want to look like her!" while the parents grab the child and leg it.

* Trying to wash dishes with those flowy sleeves.

* Having someone try to pick you up, just so they can tell their friends they've had sex with you.

* Going out in the winter and having all the metal stuff you are wearing freeze against your exposed skin. Ed: The flipside to suffering a tropical summer in blacks is tropical winters, or the lack thereof.

* Returing home the next day after clubbing, on a train full of buisnessmen.

* Getting your skirt caught on:

o ...the buckles of your boots when you are walking up stairs

o ...part of the seat-adjustment-thingamie in the car

o ...your heels while walking.

o ...the outside of the door of your car while you're driving, and you don't notice til you get where you were going, only to find when you get there that a portion of your outfit is now caked with roadslime.

* Lending your eyeliner to a friend and finding out later that he's returned it without mentioning that he completely emptied the enitre brand new tube.

* Trying to buy mundane clothes to go job hunting in and not being able to bring yourself to buy anything with enough colour.

* The salt stains on the hems of skirts in winter.

* Not being able to climb really small stairs because the pointy toes on your pixie boots stick out past your toes enough that you can't get your actual toes on the steps.

* Trying to stand up, and getting the hooks on your left boot caught in the fishnets on your right leg. And managing to look graceful while extricating yourself.

* Dancing in a corset.

* Attempting to explain goth to someone who has no familiarity with any reference you manage to come up with.

* Driving in a rather large cloak.

* Getting other peoples black eyeliner smudges on your face from greeting hugs at the club.

* Having to wash black lipstick off of your neck.

* Wearing 24 rings and getting them all stuck in various bits of lace and fishnet (not all of it yours).

* Having to rush out of bed the moment you wake up just so you can get to the bank / store / whatever before it closes.

* Convincing someone that you are straight even though you are wearing a skirt and makeup.

* Convincing your sister to let you use her makeup because you are too broke/cheap to buy your own.

* Trying to find women's clothes that fit you without it looking too obvious that that is what you are trying to do

* Wearing that ultra-cool pewter cross you just bought to the club spinning around and knocking yourelf silly...then trying to cover your dizziness and nonchalantly checking your forehead for blood while still dancing.

* Finding that your freshly washed black t-shirt is covered in bits of lint, which while undetectable by the naked eye, show up very well under UV, thereby making you appear to have terminal dandruff.

* Waking up at with the most painful hangover ever. Walking to the little store to get asprin, thinking "Damn even my feet hurt like hell". Then relaizing that your wearing someone else's Doc's.

* After using your black eyeliner pencil as a lipliner and getting lipstick on it, coming back and fixing your eyeliner w/ the same pencil, thus creating a big black oily smudge where a nice angled black line should be.

* Trying to find food you can eat without messing up your lipstick. French fries are good for that.

* Having to tell your clothes apart by fabric only, basically: "Bring me that black shirt." "Uh, which black shirt?"

* Trying to get seated so that the eye that you did just right will be the one facing outward.

* Wanting to go and play out in the rain but fearing it'll ruin your hair.

* Being unable to decide which rings look best over the black lace gloves. (Ed: Or with the velvet ones. Or with the satin ones. Or the fishnet ones. And co-ordinating the lot with your outfit.)

* Fearing your sharply filed nails will ruin your mesh shirt!

* Realizing your next cat better have black fur, as it's getting trying ripping off the fur from all of your clothes with scotch tape.

* Getting a sunburn right through your t-shirt due to the fact that you are very pale from not seeing much daylight (prefer to stay up at night and sleep during day). May I also draw your attention to the peculiar joy that is sunburn through fishnet?

* Trying to ride a bicycle with a long black skirt (or, even worse, a chiffon skirt-preferably one of those"shredded"-style ones)

* Trying to ride a bicycle without reminding the people you pass of Miss Almira Gulch, forcing them to hum the wicked witch theme from The Wizard of Oz.

* Trying to type with your lace gloves on. Or velvet ones. Or satin ones...

* Religion: while everybody still thinks you are a Devil-worshipper despite all your explanations.. especially if you tell them you are Pagan. Or atheist, heavens forfend!

* Other Pagans/Wiccans don't take you seriously because of what you look like.

* In school..how can one draw and draw and draw in one's sketchbook at boring lectures without attracting the teacher's attention with one's jingling bracelets...(It's a very scary situation when you notice suddenly that it's the only sound in the whole classroom and the teach stares at you with a look that will guarantee you not to pass the course..)

* To like some Goth metal bands and not to be confused with the "ordinary" (especially Blackmetal) metal fans, who tend to be about 100 times dumber than the average Goths.

* To keep your white makeup on at gigs, hot summer festivals etc.

* Not noticing that you might have fresh black/dark stains on your clothes untill they mess up everything non-black around you.

* For girls: menstual blood doesn't show that well on black panties, so you might not notice your period's began before it's too late! (Ed: This is a feature, not a bug. I have never ruined my lingerie with blood.)

* Accidently kicking things and having parts fly off because you're wearing steel toes boots. (Ed: Parts fly off? Try literally kicking a hole in the door instead of just dramatically flinging it open.)

* Brushing against walls and having chips fly off because of your spiked bracelet.

* Needing to be specially dodged in group photos with normals so you can all be seen clearly.

* Waking up late for that Sunday gig, and having to finish dressing up at the subway, trying to put on your 20 hole Doc's while runing up the stairs and getting your fishnet/skirt caught on the seat or door.

* Having to avoid potential self-mutiliation after just finishing filing one's nails to a point.

* Freezing your toes in your steelcap shoes in the winter.(Ed: Advantage: Australians.)

* When it's cold, your nose will be red no matter how much make-up you have on.

* Trying to explain to people that the scars up and down your arms are auctually from your cat.

* The extensive hair loss caused from bleaching and re-bleaching hair.

* Trying to find a soap that will remove the purple hair dye stains from your hands and face.

* Flicking trough a magazine or a newspaper with velvet gloves on.

* Trying to tell someone that you admire their footwear without making it sound like a come-on.

Tue, Sep. 20th, 2011, 11:45 am
So When Did This Turn Into a Sewing Blog?

Halloween is a little over a month away. Five weeks? Something like that?

I have not the foggiest idea.

I've only got a handful of things I like the sound of. I really want to do a Jessica Rabbit, but man, I want to do a proper Jessica Rabbit. Really sparkly dress, serious cleavage, purple heels, the lot. But I'm also aware of the stupid amount of money I've spent on what amounts to playing dress up lately, and given the domestic income is a bit rubbish at the moment I may have to take things in a more fiscally creative direction. Also, I haven't finished my engineering degree and I suspect I will need it if I want to built something with a low back and monster cleavage.

Right now I am giving actual thought to being a ghost. I know I kid about it, but this year...definitly not an ironic ghost. Something floaty, very pale. I rather love doing pale halloween costumes, actually. My fallen angel is one of my favourite halloween costumes. If wings were not a monumental pain in the ass to wear I'd consider giving her a rerun. White costumes really do pop in a goth club, and I do love to pop.

Another option is Cleopatra. Came to me in my sleep. Cheap as really, just a matter of getting the makeup and jewelry right. I also briefly considered going as a Bogan, but that's a fairly problematic costume. It really only works in the context of "I am pretending to be an average white Aussie battler in the goth club", and as soon as you remove it from that environment it becomes classist as all hell. Also, I can live without scrubbing fake tan off for weeks.

Sun, Aug. 28th, 2011, 08:45 pm
Godey's Ladies Book: Temptation, or Just a Really Bad Influence?

I have done so much sewing in the last few weeks.

I made a massive petticoat for Vendetta back at the end of July. Serious petticoat. Knee length, about six layers of different tulles and netting, with a satin waistband and a monster collection of ribbony trims and little bows sewn on by hand. I, in all my infinite wisdom, made it from scratch without a pattern, and after the end I wiped by brow and gazed upon it.

"What glory I have wrought!" I thought to myself, "but fuck, I am never sewing something that involved without a pattern again."

Fast forward to the Bloodlust Ball...

Yeah, we all know where this is going...Collapse )

Sat, Aug. 6th, 2011, 03:25 am
The Thirtieth Knife.

Hello there LiveJournal, old buddy.

You've had a shitty year, haven't you? Poor friend. It's been a withering death for you out here in the English speaking world. I'm noticing a little flicker of new life, as if your brief absence really did make the heart grow fonder. I've missed you, I know that much. I have maybe three or four people who post with any regularity. I miss the higher degree of thoughtfulness that one sees in a LiveJournal entry, rather than the 420 characters of Facebook and the 140 of Twitter.

So let us get re-aquainted, a little. I don't think we'll quite be lovers as we were before, but at least let us be friends.

The last few months have been interesting. The Man was finally awarded his Ph. D, and has spent the last eight weeks or so slowly squishing that beautiful brain of his back into his head. It's like living with a different person, sometimes - he seems so much more relaxed and happy about the state of the world than he did this time last year, and it rubs off on me in no small amount. It's a big deal all round - he can start looking for a new job, and by the nature of things this means a relocation and a new job for me, too. I'm looking forward to the change of scenery. I'm hoping to take a few months off once we are settled again, as I have basically worked non-stop for oh, the last five or six years. The first half was my fault, and the second was in order to keep the two of us fed. Casual retail employment is not kind to people who just want to piss off for a month. I've also been demoted, promoted, relocated, shifted sideways and spun about in my workplace since my last major work related post. All in all it's been exhausting, and I'm just done with it. My health is suffering a bit - I've been sick with one thing or another since January, with only a few days here and there of health in between - and I'm mentally drained. We've had one staff crisis after another, and being the manager means you have to cop it when everything hits the fan. Weekends off area rarity and I have to book them weeks in advance, then turn my damn phone off to keep it. The later hours have not been my friend either. When I started we closed at seven through the week and five at the weekends; now I rarely get home before 11. As my pool of friends have gotten older and found sensible jobs and largely stopped such antics as wandering around the carparks of 7-11s at three in the morning dressed as leopards, I find myself increasingly without social contact beyond my flatmates and the internets.

I'm becoming disheartened around the industry, too. Not the Sex Industry part - by and large I've always been pleased with the level of professionalism in my interactions with my colleagues, and with people more deeply down in the trenches, as it were - but by the great wall of sexist, racist bullshit I spend my days bashing against. The way the market shapes the material. The way the bigotry of the general public sculpts the images in pornography to reflect this insane ideal. And when you do find people who want something more authentic, you crash headlong into the restrictions on adult media in this country. The interference of the OFLC, now called the Australian Classification Board, which gets more and more heavy-handed every year. We recently had pretty much all our magazines locked up in customs for two months due to an increasingly broad idea of what a woman under 18 looks like. The much touted "small breast ban" may not be hard legislation, but it has in the last few months resulted in nothing but magazines with titles like Juggz or Over 40 making it past the censors. Gay mags have been particularly targeted, and I haven't had a new issue of any of the all boy publications all year. I am faced with this frustrating situation where I tell customers who ask me where their preferred magazine that ACB has seized it, and a general blether about how stupid it is commences, and just when I think we are seeing eye to eye, I'll say something ridiculous like, "maybe you should rip off a letter to your MP about how stupid this is," and suddenly the look of their faces tell me completely that they'd rather take a band-saw to their crotches that admit to an MP they like a bit of titty mag now and then. It's stupid and dangerous, because it drives people online, and while I know every single girl in a copy of Penthouse is over 18 because the magazine is required to keep a copy of her birth certificate on file in perpetuity, and that she's been paid and paid well, I have no such assurance of some random image from the web. I don't know if she consented, I don't know if she got paid, I don't know if she's 16 and making the most money the quickest way she can think of. I know the Internet is for Porn, but there is a place in this world for a DVD that you know full well has been produced ethically, with consenting players, who are regularly tested for STIs and who receive adequate compensation for their work. But the people I am paid to help are happy to lie back and let it all roll over them rather than be forced to admit that they have sexy thoughts sometimes and like to find pictures that back that up.

It's all through the business. I have women who think so little of their bodies that they will buy the cheapest toy they can find, made out of a rubber that will leak acetone into their bodies, rather than admit that their cunt is a beautiful thing and needs to be treated with the same regard as the rest of their bodies. Who buy something tiny so they don't frighten their boyfriends.

The men who buy pornography for their heterosexual wives, and who with little variation start with lesbian movies, "because it's gentler." Never mind that two girls is not likely to be a strong turn on for a woman heterosexual enough to marry, and then be too shamed out to tell him what she wants to see in a movie, let alone come pick her own porn; somewhere in his head it's less confronting - for him, who deep in his soul can't imagine his little woman wanting to ogle good looking men the way he ogles good looking women. I won't start with the disbelief when I suggest gently that maybe his het wife would like some strapping lads to look at.

I guess what's killing is the general all pervasive attitude that Sex is a Bad Thing. I am so very glad that I spend most of my time in the Valley store, because despite having to shoo heroin dealers out of my car-park and the occasional drunken turd in the driveway it is easily the most body positive of all the chain. I talk to a lot of queer folk, and the whole process of coming out does tend to make one think long and damn hard about sex in general, and while there are a lot of queer people of all stripes who are going to be fucked up about sex it's this odd thing I've noticed where being made to question the dominant narrative about the birds and the bees makes one more prone to questioning the other stuff, too. So I get to talk to queer girls about their strap-ons, and it's a sensible conversation about a tool for a job, not a Dirty Little Secret that I'm contaminating them with. More people buying for themselves, not "for a friend" or for a partner too shamed to come in for themselves. Go to Taringa, say, and it's all coy straight uni students who want vibrators smaller than their boyfriends' cocks so he doesn't get frightened and things to make her come easier so he has to do less work. Pale condom buyers and old men from out Chelmer way who talk to my tits and call me "love" and treat me like an idiot.

It's wearing me down. I'm in about the best place I can be in this business and still there are days when I want to phone in dead. Compound that sex-neg rubbish with the rest of the horror that comes from working retail and it's a lesser miracle that I'm coherent at all. I just need to get. Out.

And then I have to try not to strangle the chirpy folk who assure me that man, I must have a great job, talking about sex all day, wow! Must be fun to work in a place like this.

Anyway. All things in time. One day I will look back in bewilderment at the things I got up to in my twenties, warts and all.

I'm writing sporadically, but it's tough thing to relax enough to hear my muse when there's so much quotidian bullshit to wade through. I have a few well developed little characters niggling at me now, whispering in my ear and demanding attention. This is a great motivator. The Angel has been following me again, a mixed blessing because she's a character who was once described to me as "a being made out of sadness", and her voice is tinged with my own resigned discontent at the way of the world. I identify with her the most when I am most displeased with the universe, and if you've made it this far you'll have picked up I'm rather displeased indeed. But she has interesting friends, and young Judith has been wandering along in her shadow, making interesting shapes in fabric of that particular reality. I'm still working it out somewhat, because it's got a strong Judeo-Christian flavour to it and most of my universes are powerfully and decidedly polytheistic. In the words of the master, it’s one thing saying you’ve got the best god, but saying it’s the only real one is a bit of a cheek. So nutting out how it all works is a delightful distraction, and even as I type this I can feel her shifting disapprovinglyy in her seat back there in the galleries of my mind, half a frown on her face - a sort of pre-Babel 'bish please' moment.

Most will think it's a bit mental to talk of her moving like that, as if she were a real person or a voice in my head. The authors in the room know what I'm talking about.

I've got a couple of good game groups going on, mostly olde skool Vampire: the Masquerade and Warhammer 40K, with the odd bit of GURPS thrown in for variety. I'm still playing Rachael, for all your HoD refugees out there, and she's if anything become more herself. Take that as you will, though she has developed an odd fondness for tiny dogs and big cigars. My 40K characters are at either ends of the spectrum - a sanctioned Imperial Psyker working in the demon-smashing chapter and an exiled Rogue Trader noblewoman fiercely trying to rebuild her father's crumbled empire. They would hate one another's guts if they ever met.

I've been sewing a lot too, and have big plans for the Bloodlust Ball coming up at the end of the month. I just have to find time to do it all. Something red. I think. I have a mountain of scrap from my various projects that I am looking forward to smashing together in pleasing ways.

My thirtieth birthday is in February, roughly the same time the lease runs up here. It's going to be an interesting six months. I'm going to complicate them further by running a club night instead of throwing a thirtieth birthday party. I'm yet to finalize anything but I should really get my arse into gear and book a venue. No clue where yet. My heart wants the Alliance but it's just not on the cards. Probably somewhere suitably divey in the Val I can go to town on. Apparently they're applying for a new liquor license for the downstairs bar at Rockerfellers and I have been pleasingly hammered enough times down there for it to appeal by I'm hardly sold. That's a rough stretch of road these days after 2am or so. I've been consistently impressed by the service at the Trans, though I'd rather it not be "just another goth night at the Trans", likewise St Paul's which is another lovely venue that has become something of the default. I don't know. Really it would be most sensible to go somewhere with a proven record but my recalcitrant desire to be different always kicks in and I wind up wondering what the deposit would be to get Cloudland.

I have to be awake in four and a half hours, so I think that will have to do.

Wed, Apr. 27th, 2011, 12:28 pm
Good Morning!

Thu, Apr. 7th, 2011, 05:29 am

Bedtime. Thanks, internets.

Tue, Feb. 22nd, 2011, 08:36 pm
KFC Spice Experimentations, Now with Graphic Sexual Imagery.

I am so full right now.

My ongoing experimentations with the Gaurdian KFC Spice Blend continue unabated.

Tonight I made a chickpea nugget, containing two cans of minced chickpeas, two eggs, a bit of olive oil, some flour, and a double dose of the MSG free version of the blend. I added enough flour to make it into a dough, then rolled it out and used cookie cutters to make, well, animal shapes. Hippos and crocodiles, elephants and teddy bears. Rolled it out, cut them out and then fried the shit out of them.

Good lord.

Basically, it's the same story. Hot out of the pan, done so the middle is still a little soft, it's like...well, being gently fistfucked by an angel. You can feel your digestive tract begging for mercy, but it just tastes amazingly good that you can't help but take another bite. Brutally strong, hot and overwhelmingly delectable, with a gentle aftertaste from the chickpeas and the lingering teasing of pepper.

Next time I'd halve the salt, and only use a single dose of the spices. The blend is designed as a coating, so you get some contrast between the crust and the chicken, and that's basically how it goes with log. However, mixing the blend in with the chickpeas left no room for mercy. The flavour is just a beating, basically.

Like true KFC, it loses some of its appeal when cold. The nuggets are small enough that they lose heat pretty quickly. Even with mine swaddled in paper towel, to suck off the grease, they still were only warm by the time they hit the plate. Hot out of the pan, finger burning hot, and these are trancendental. Cold, not so much. Still good, mind you. Better than KFC chicken nuggets. But not so good as fresh from the pan.

No pictures, cause we ate the lot. Have a cat.

Fri, Feb. 18th, 2011, 12:16 am
High Octane Nightmare Fuel

Kayabuki, a Japanese restaurant in a city about 100km north of Tokyo, employs two monkeys wearing schoolgirl clothes, life-like wigs and creepy masks that serve as waiters. In 2010, Budget Trouble travel blogger Anna Ikeda recorded a cellphone video showing a monkey waiter delivering hot towels to customers, and according to Ikeda they are much more attentive than their human coworkers.

Thanks, Japan.

(via The Laughing Squid)

Uncanny Valley
High Octane Nightmare Fuel

Mon, Feb. 14th, 2011, 11:57 pm
Flowers, for me?

Thanks, Anonymous! I like the rose!

Thu, Jan. 27th, 2011, 05:52 am
Filbert: Peas and Carrots

They found it in the vegetable garden, between the peas and the carrots. It was mostly asleep, tucked away under the greens. Just beyond, in the pumpkins, a great spinning purple vortex was lazily dissolving into the morning light, like a chocolate button in a mug of hot milk.

The smaller of the two sisters poked the newcomer with the edge of her basket.

"She's got no clothes on, Meg."


"I can see her bum and everything."

Yeah, Resa. That's her bum.Collapse )

20 most recent