5 DAYS

So I haven't written on here in so many days and it's really bothering the heck outta me, how my interest is slowly waning with this blog. I find writing for it is becoming too much of an obligation, what with fuckin shit like Fiction Friday and Song of the Week and all that bull crap. Which is why I won't be on here much longer. Plus the pink and my big ole face is starting to get to me, not to mention the fact that I foolishly signed up for a shitty ass ad on my blog. Yeah, it's all highly unfunnable now. I'm going for something more simple the next time around, black and white and the grey areas of my mind, and I wouldn't have to write a god damned thing everyday if I didn't want to. Hear hear. I'll let you know when that's happening of course, because I still love you.

And like...I'm dying to get my hands on the skull-printed trunk that Madonna was carrying around in Desperately Seeking Susan? I CAN'T FIND A PICTURE FOR YOU FOR NOTHING THOUGH?! It's pissing me off. That would've been a great post. Regardless, I am making my own. very. soon.

But in the mean time, I've gotten this classic Blue Oyster Cult song re-stuck in my head. I can't believe it took getting sandwiched between two heavily scented Filipina ladies, squawking on the bus ride home, sitting an hour and a half in traffic, to remember how amazing this song is. So I thought I'd share it with you before I head off to my last day at the VIVA office (yeah, I haven't been posting about that either because there really is nothing worth writing about. It's me gathering my points. ha).

SO, BLUE OYSTER CULT!!!!

Skip ahead to 2:30 for one of my alltime favourite guitar solos. I'm no expert at guitar solos but I know what I like in my rock. And SOMEhow, if I were a guitar genius, that would've been exactly what I would've fingered. I've heard my fair share of epic runs, but the recorded version of that one, my friend, is bliss. Short and sweet.

THE TEN THINGS, PLUS ONE FOR GOOD LUCK

Tea leaves and diet coke. I'm picturing this starvation method or something similar in caloric content in order to fit sexily into some of these particulars. *sigh* life can blow dicks hard sometimes. Anyway, meet Pixie Market and their garb. Oh, and take a good minute to sigh and die over the pink number with the crisscrossing cords, will ya? JESUS H!

WILLING TO GIVE IT UP...

...for her.

DOH!

I can be so goddamned gullible sometimes. Jesus. I wrote about this a while ago, and how beautiful of a find it was for me, these 'lost' tribes. But turns out...Dumbass. But that doesn't bother me so much, as long as they're not a bunch of loin-clothed painted up Apocalypto people. They're real. And they're beautiful.

Also the other day I said I would show you that creepy bus stop guy's poetry website, so...this is it. Definitely not my cup of vanilla black tea. I'm more of a Ginsberg kinda gal. (Read 'Howl'!)

ONE SCOOP IS FOR PUSSIES

So, this is the highlight of my entire work day, which started and ended at like stupid o'clock.

Pistachio Almond ice cream. It seemed a man at the bus station was intrigued by this as well and decided to approach me, sit quietly for 6 minutes, then wait until I stuffed my mouth like a Thanksgiving turkey, hanging perilously from my red plastic spoon with his eyes, it seemed. He was menatally saying "wait for it...wait forrrr ittttt..." until the green sloppy jet was safe and sound in the hangar. ZOOOOOMMM! And then was when he opened his mouth to say something obscure to me like,

"arampashalmasjardeyhai ice cream heeramsita, ya?"
I said something along the same lines, but you can guess why, "shovvy?"
I still never figured out what he said, but he introduced himself to me several times, while laughing and saying how this and that and ice cream was the meaning of happy times. Yeah. Great fun. He stuck out his hand a grand total of three times for me to shake it, which I then counteracted with three shakes of my head and three stifled smiles and three look aways. Maybe more.


"You waiting on the bus?"
"Yes sir." Otherwise I would be sitting in a sweaty crowded bus station enjoying some pistachio ice cream just for the filthy fun of it; waving at the spit globules that flew all around me by dark, dirty, robed men with all manner of sacks in their hands. I wish I had told him that. But then, he probably would not have understood after the words hit four syllables.

"So, which bus? Where are you going?"
I pointed to the one that was loaded up with its 12 women already, which meant that the several BAZILLION seats at the back after the plexiglass partition could only be reserved for men, so I waited, with a sigh...and a scoop, for the next one to almost never come.


"Where do you live?"
"Around. You really think I'm going to tell you that, right? I'm afraid my mother taught me well."
"Ah, it is just friendship talk...just blah blah blah gobble mumble friend mumble jumble I not kidnapper yadda yadda yadda."

Anyway, so it went like this and then he opened his wallet and told me the most pleasant thing that could have burst my seams and had me shitting myself right there and then.

"I'm a writer. I write English poetry."

He then started rifling through his wallet for a badly folded piece of paper the size of a business card, where one of his poems was typed; something about a cup of tea and milk of some other f-word faith, tea leaves of promises and things like that.


"Ummm, that's cute!"
"Yah, like you, yar?"
"Sure, why not?"


He said it was crazy faith since I'm a writer too and that we should stay friends and exchange emails and phone numbers (and here he would not rest even after my 96.375 firm 'NO's') and look out for each other as we're in the same area.
Sorry palos.
Not happening.
In fact, how's bout never.
But I did take the "business card" he offered me, saying he started doing them up when he got a couple stuffs published in Gulf News over here. I took it because, as soon as he said "I have a blog where I share my work, here have my business card and check it out sometime and contact me pls pls pls contact me" I was thinking of YOU; my blog babies. I thought you might, at best, be ticklishly amused by this...'S.H. Ghazi', says his card with a feathery quill icon in one corner.

The catch is...I haven't checked it out yet, and in order for you to come back and visit my blog tomorrow (yes, it has come to this) I am going to withold this amusing information from you until tomorrow. Hopefully you're still interested...or even STARTED off interested at the very least.

BEDTIME! CHEERIO!

GET DOWN WITH THE SICKNESS

SOOOO I just finished catching up with Gnarlitude's blog. Haven't visited the fiesty Jen in quite some time. She posted something about a metal band. I like me my occasional gothic/symphonic/heavy/black metal, so I definitely clicked on the link to watch the documentary on Gaahl, from the black metal band Gorgoroth on VBS TV. And well, she's fuckin' right. Jen is R.I.G.H.T. You really gotta watch this video, man. ALL of it! To the END! Do it. Now.
Because I can't be bothered to get into specifics myself, here's Jen's satisfactory synopsis:

"In what might possibly be the best episodes I’ve yet to see on VBS TV, legendary and amazing photographer Peter Beste and crew headed to Norway to meet up with Gaahl from Gorgoroth on his release after a short stint being locked up for some gnarly shit (you have to watch to find out.) They go to his home which no reporter has ever been to. Traipse around the town he lives in while trying to no avail to get a word from the townspeople on Gaahl, who they are all to frightened of to say anything about. Described as the most hated man in all of Norway, Gaahl is gripping on the screen and once you think they are getting close to him, well, just watch the very end to see just how amazingly creepy dude can get."

I thought I might add this YouTube clip for effect...

...BUT that's not what I think the actual VBS documentary portrays. He raises good points in it; just in a sinister way. I just want to make sure I get it clear that I don't support Satanism. Actually, fuck what you think haha.

I especially like Gaahl's quote (somewhere around part 3 of the VBS docu., after showing us his artwork), something like"It's like a painting; you won't stop until it's finished." However, the context it was dropped in made it uber bone-chillingly creepy. I say undergound TV series with like...a BAZILLION seasons. Pretty. Please. With a bloody lamb's skull on top. Watch it here.

STALKER

If you've been following me all these months, you will know that best-selling British Asian author Hanif Kureishi dominates my current mental bookshelf. I am about to start 'The Body' this evening, once I round up the last couple pages of Kerouac's 'On the Road'. I'm falling so far behind on my summer reading list for my Developing the Novel class next semester. I'm supposed to be going at a one book a week pace but Kerouac's took me two weeks because of my new crazy/busy schedule (new to the office life, folks).

ANYWAY! I WAS TALKING ABOUT HANIF KUREISHI!!!

Geez, as much as I love my tangential train of thought during my writing process, it kills everything else. So, The Guardian is featuring Writer's Rooms and they naturally chose Kureishi's. Here it isss!

Ahhh...beautiful writer jumble and clutter. This may be of waning interest to you but as the daughter of an interior designer, interiors are just as important to me as wearable exteriors. Besides, a writer's work space must give off the right vibrations and must only have inspiring things within its walls. It's a very key part of the process. Anyway, also required of us for the Developing the Novel class, is that we set up and finalise our writing space this summer in preparation for the long months we'll be spending in them for the class, as well as for the rocky road beyond graduation.

Thank God I came across this because I completely forgot that assignment. But either way this proves tricky for me because I live out here in the U.A.E. half the time and then when I head back to England for school, my accommodation arrangements are pretty much non-existent. I change rooms like underwear. It's crazy. My London belongings are scattered all around London at various friends' and families' houses. And I am certainly not looking forward to the treasure hunt when I get back, of retrieving them and finding a place to rest my head.

Back on track now, I'm not sure how I'll be able to organize a proper work space until I move out to the U.S. after school. AND EVEN MORESO, I find I get more on the page by sitting on a bus from start to finish anyway! I'm set, even if I were a bum.