Journal Entries
HITCHING A RIDE OFF PLANET HOOTOO
Posted Apr 11, 2006
This is my last journal entry on h2g2.
There comes a time in every relationship when you have to go your separate ways. All those little idiosyncracies which once seemed so endearing eventually become a pain in the profanity filter. I first noticed there was trouble in paradise when I found myself looking with an appreciative eye at other blog sites. Then--and I know it was wrong of me, but it just kind of happened--I began to commune with one on a regular basis. It started with a lurk, and now...
Sure, I've had dalliances in the past, but this time it seems--I was going to say serious, but really I mean something lighter, freer, less uptight than dear old Hootoo.
It's been a wheeze, but it's time to move on.
With love and fond memories,
Snailrind.
P.S. Thanks for all the fish.
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Latest reply: Apr 11, 2006
A CRETIAN PANTGREECE
Posted Mar 18, 2006
A sduty was dnoe smoe yares ago taht semeed to inticade taht pepole can ealisy raed txet in wihch the mlidde ltteres are jubmeld up; the thoery is taht the lerttes in the mdidle dno't mrttaer as lnog as the strat and end ltteres are in the rghit palces. Wlel, waht a laod of banoley! Let me domenstarte.
Trehe was tihs sdtuy cirared out by a bcnuh of ioidt stsictneis who wtnead to get foaums by pitrenndeg taht hamnus can usedranntd any old grisibbeh tath's weitrtn dwon. Utetr breadsladdh. Let me drastemonte.
Annoye getfid eugonh mhgit eelnvaulty uglntane tihs parpaargh, but waht pantgreece wlil fnid it itemleamidy chimpenbilroese? Cretian stincteiss wolud issint eerynove can. Anuncone yuor repetsvice sceesceuss on a pcroastd palsee.
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Latest reply: Mar 18, 2006
SOON OH SOON THE LIGHT...
Posted Mar 16, 2006
...Pass within and soothe the endless night 
[Lyrics: Yes]
So Philosopher Friend, having disappeared off the face of the Earth for four months, eluding all my attempts to track him down, appeared on our doorstep the other day. He was thin as a rake, but everything else about him was overgrown, and he looked as though he had been sleeping in a hedge; but he said he'd been staying with friends in a Snowdonian lakeside village--one I know to be inhabited by the rich avant-garde, and the rich insane--a place where the heroin flows like sugar and masterpieces are made and lives are ruined. Not that Philosopher Friend had partaken of the heroin: alcohol is his poison. He hugged me tightly. I could have wrapped my arms around him twice. He returned my sorely-missed copy of The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook (2005), and pulled a pack of CDs from the depths of his anorak: 'The Ultimate YES'.
"Have a listen to this," he said, so I put it on. Loved it. Very much my sort of thing. Considering my background, I'm amazed I've gone so long without ever hearing them. They reminded me very much of something, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
"Would you like to hear my funeral music?" he asked.
"Yes, go on."
He put on Disc 2, skipped forward and played me 'Soon'. A soft and uplifting song, it made me think of yellow sunlight falling through church windows; of dancing dust-motes and the echoes of empty buildings.
"Have you told anyone you want this played at your funeral?" I asked.
He shot me a sad little look.
"No," he admitted.
Next morning, he left the CDs in my care and set off on his long walk to the next night's bed.
Soon oh soon the light
Pass within and soothe the endless night
And wait here for you
Our reason to be here...
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Latest reply: Mar 16, 2006
GETTING BUSTED
Posted Mar 13, 2006
American Writer Friend, who is also a sculptor, has been working on Gothly's bust. I suppose I ought to be jealous, but so far I find it rather exciting. 
Besides, she's hinted that, after she's Done Gothly, she might Do me.
It came about, as these things so often come about, one afternoon over a cup of tea. AWF had been regaling us with some anecdote about, I don't know, Frieda Kahlo or something, when she broke off mid-flow and said to Gothly, "you know, you've got a really interesting head. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Um...," said Gothly, "not as such, no."
"Well, you have," she declared. "A really interesting head."
"Thanks?" ventured Gothly.
"Can I do your bust?"
"Huh?"
"You've got a superb head. It needs to be sculpted."
"Uh, yeah, okay." 
Some days later, AWF descended on Gothly with callipers and cameras and, well, to cut a long story short, we got to see the Head last week. We dropped by the studio to take her out for lunch, because all three of us were suffering from that special numbness that can be induced by too much thinking about Swing / drama / busts. (Mainly busts, I admit: http://www.theregister.co.uk/2006/03/10/bounceometer/) And there it was. The size of my Apple iMac, a ceramic-red replica of Gothly's head, that looked as though at any moment it would draw breath and launch into a diatribe about heuristics.
"I haven't finished it yet," said AWF defensively. "It needs painting. And the nose is wrong. I've had a lot of trouble with the nose: it's so... delicate."
"What you're trying to say is I've got a honking great hooter," stated Gothly, fishing rather obviously for compliments.
"Yes, that's right," said AWF.
Gothly ate lunch in silence, while AWF and I sat opposite, using Gothly's face as a living diagram, pointing out various dimples and creases to each other as we discussed its likeness to the bust. There were more creases than dimples by the time we stopped, but AWF was satisfied that she knew what changes to make once she got back to the studio.
"I'm going to cut the bottom half of the face off and do it again," she said.
All that careful work, and she was just going to trash it! I couldn't believe it. After we'd dropped her off, I observed, "it must take real ruthlessness to be able to do that."
"She's an Artist," replied Gothly. "It's what they do. You do exactly the same thing with your writing."
I hadn't considered that.
Now, normally, I'd put a link here, to a photograph of the Head-in-Progress—but, for obvious reasons, I can't. 
So you'll just have to play with the interactive bounceometer on the link above. It should keep you out of trouble for a while.
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Latest reply: Mar 13, 2006
F Y CN RD THS Y MST B WLSH
Posted Mar 1, 2006
It's Saint David's Day today, and the first day of spring. Concerts and national language campaigns are carrying on across Wales...
http://groups.google.com/group/rec.org.sca/msg/a7df4f7a13cc6c60
...and everyone who's organised enough to get it together (not I) has pinned a leek or daffodil to their lapel in honour of our patron saint and our national day. My American Writer Friend started wearing her leek about a week ago, which I assume is because she's American and therefore more tuned into Welsh culture than your average Taff. The daffodils in our flowerbeds have been blooming all week, and by yesterday, the miniature ones were perfect for plucking and would probably have looked good stuck on my left boob. Today, they are buried under a couple of inches of snow.
The local schools closed today because of the hazardous roads. You know that episode in the Simpsons where Bart's looking through the window and seeing all the kids having fun in the snow? Well, that's what it looked like outside our window this morning. Children in hats and mittens, all red-cheeked and bright-eyed, were laughing and flinging snowballs at each other, or skidding around on the icy patches. Our neighbour's border collie was dashing after the snowballs and failing to find them when they landed, causing it to circle around and bark in an increasingly excited manner. It finally caught one and chomped it in two, looked stunned, and stood there for some minutes trying to lick its own tongue. The woman who owns the flashy sportscar a few doors down had her video camera out; she was taking panning shots of the rooftops as though it doesn't snow here every spring. Away from the action, a disgruntled rook was stalking across a patch of virgin snow, its leg sinking up to the hip every few steps.
Gothly ventured out for a walk and nearly got run over by a tiny tobogganist who was racing its friends down one of the side roads, at the top of which stood a cluster of mums clutching mugs of hot chocolate.
"You youngsters of today don't know you're born!
" shouted Gothly at the receding backs. "In my day we had to make do with playstations!"
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Latest reply: Mar 1, 2006
Snailrind
Researcher U516766
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