Daniel's hearing is perfect. More than. It's gone from slightly less than par to Daredevil keen. Am now terrifiied that I've exposed him to some terrible mutagen that will balance the advantages gained from his new super senses with unsightly extra appendages or an abaiding love of soccer.
The Kat has found out I'm blogging again (thanks Fi!) - everybody look casual.
I resorted to getting Daredevil out on VHS. Much posturing, some lovely imagery, plotline...existed but was purposefully ignored. The players faffed as players will - pointlessly facing off against each others' egos rather than addressing the machinations unfolding about them - but somewhere a GM was running the plotline in his personal downtime and the ramifications kinda fell into place without the heroes needing to contribute. Was odd. Dodgy CGI, but I really don't care about such things; which is why I shall not be bothering making an effort to see Hulk. God I hate the Hulk. In every incarnation, though this one seems the worst of all. Damn CGI. Damn it all to hell. It gives life to that which was never meant to live sometimes. It is the most Promethean crime of all time.
(Movie aside: Please baby Jesus, regem angelorum, make Leage of Extraordinary Gentlemen not suck.)
A friend has decided to start phoning me at home suring the day to ask me "what I am doing?" Correction - what am I doing to be productive as and of that moment? He thinks it's terribly direct and efficient way of getting me out of my funk of despair and making me create somehow. He'll have a long wait. My ideas are cold and stillborn; slugs of flesh where they should be spirit. And unquickened I am become unwilling. I am in need of a miracle, a revolution. I'm not writing at all now, and it's a bit like a drawn out heart attack.
Daniel is thriving all the while. He walks now at 10 and a half months. Falls quite a lot too. I dread that he hurts himself in any major way as I'll never be able to make medics believe one child could be so bruised without my help - not with a bank of damning evidence like this blog to increase the level of suspicion. And I can hardly blame the cats, whom he is most often chasing down with homicidal affection when the majority of his stumbles occur. He's off to an audiologist tomorrow; he's failed three hearing tests in his right ear for high pitch tones. Something called a gromit has been threatened: plastic tubes inserted into the inner ear somewhere. I refuse to understand since I can't stomach the idea of having him anaesthetised, and ignorance breeds obstinance and intractability. I shall have my bridge and none shall pass.
I'm off to Donegal for the long weekend come Thursday; me and the mini-me, Katrina having to wait 'til the weekend proper as she is working. My mother and father's 30th wedding anniversary. I'm the only one who cares, it seems. I tell a lie, the Kat cares too, but then she's had to fork out for the gifts. We sign our life insurance policies into Daniel's trust fund Thursday morning just before he and I head off - am suddenly aware of how valuable I am dead to a woman with a working knowledge of the post mortem examination. How much do I wish that I'd spent less on this anniversary now?
Whine, whine, whine. My journey of expression and growth is going well, don't you think?
People keep these damn things to whine in - that's what the internet is for. Born of a military communications network designed to share fiery pain with one's enemies, it seems it's lost none of it's core philosophy in civilian translation.
Daniel's crying.
Moments later, he's stopped. One of the beats of my heart these days; painfully arrhythmic. The question is whether, as these sporadic beats get less and less regular, the heart will start beating for itself again instead of him or stop altogether.
In a text-book case of Typical, the universe saw fit to punish me for the measliest thought crime ever committed last night.
Logged off here to go Tut! and Tsk! at Daredevil, opened the DVD box from Xtravision and lo and behold! 2 DVDs! Little understanding that it was a two disc set, even though this was printed on the front, methinks "Aha! They've given me two of 'em by mistakes miladdos! What if only one of them made it back to the store? Eh? Eh?" So, obviously, neither of them would read on my DVD player. Fucking universe! I mean, it wouldn't have even worked anyway, coz the assistant would check to see that they were both there when I returned it, coz she'd have the wit to check the box like it tells her to on the front! Or it could have had me nick the second CD, the one without the film on it for full on wages if sin irony. But no; I whom the fates most despise gets me whole movie taken off me. It should at least have had the decency to wait and see if I actually committed the crime first! I may have had an eleventh hour pang of remorse and seen the error of my ways and decided to follow the path of righteousness and found Jesus and formed a circle and destroyed it with love an all that.
Take comfort, Marcus Cole; it's general hostility and unfairness remains fixed and resolute.
The Kat's away.
The mouse is online which, given the kind of geek the mouse is, is as close to recreation as we'll get.
I've just stopped on to check my mail and ... do this, apparently. Am about to watch Daredevil on the Kat's urging of "pick something you couldn't watch if I was there." Makes it sound like like some kinda alternate porno. Actually, since I'm only really watching it for Kevin Smith's cameo I guess it kinda is.
I read all of the collected issues of Mike Carey's Lucifer over the weekend. I highly recommend it. It's like reading Gaiman without ever having to wait for him to get to the point. Also, while Carey is in truth as much of a navel searching lover of occult conceit as Gaiman, he never allows his esoteric researches clutter or derail his plotline like they did in Sandman and certain other NG comic scripts (The Last Temptation, for example). So, double plus double plus good: find, read, loosen belt and belch appreciatively.
Why does "Haunted" (Sky1, Thursdays, 9pm) suck so much? I'm trying to stick with it but it's doing very fucking little towards finding its stride. Or a plot thicker than tissue paper. Or any character consistency. I hate the bad TV months.
Barry White died.
Nobody seemed to notice. My friend Dave had to tell me.
(Incidentally, Dave meet Gar. In the next life you'll be sat back to back - like Gump and Bubba only smarter - on a cloud, keeping each other awake with finding more books in common than there are recipes for shrimp.)
People come and people go, he clichéd, soft-shoed even in the heaviest footfall. Here's to his first, his last and his everything.
It's abominably late and hot and my son can be heard whimpering in his sleep above me. I write under the stairs, where all the bad boys end up (clearly it's movie reference night). Daniel has ear-ache and he's had a long day. With a long night to follow no doubt, as the whimpers get sharper and the sleep shallower. I wait below; as I wait all day these days, waiting to see what he's going to need of me next. It's a routine that makes one feel as shallow as a fitful sleep: as a dream sleep. As an imaginary man.
I found my blog again. And here it is. And so am I.
I haven't been anywhere. I tell a lie.
We went to Mexico. I drank in never-ending jungle from the top of Chichen Itza and shared saltwater with an infant dolphin. I suffered too much sun and not enough Katrina with only a week to fit it all in. And then time, after its fashion, contracted to take the time away quickly and then expanded to make the memories remote. Usual programming since then pretty much.
Eamon, who is now a puppy that lives in Daniel's bed, lent me Camus' The Plague to read. It sort of sits adjacent to a long list of books I'm trying to get through at the moment - it should be last but I keep slipping a bit of it in each time I sit at this damnable machine. I couldn't imagine reading it at all when he first produced it, but I'll be damned if the child didn't push a button with his infernal text. The image of the old man who lures the street cats with shreds of paper dropped from his window to the ground below, just so he can spit on them with vile glee, is a particular favourite.
I am currently writing the summers of my childhood. It's going quite well thank you. There are trees and fields and bullying cousins and a whole section of the early 1950's that occured for the first time in the mid 80's that I honestly lived through. Seriously, ask me sometime; Enid Blyton may be my creator. Needless to say the devil is there too. I'll nurse my obsessions, you nurse yours.
My life is that of the man who knew if he took one more sick day from work, his boss would chuck him out on his ear, but the sun was low and the air was sticky and the only oasis of cool was in his own house, because he never opened the curtains and dark'll do that for ya if you tend it well enough. So he phoned in fired and opened the curtains a crack, to sit by the front window and smoke and peer through the venetians and appreciate, from the safety of the indoor arena, that it was a damn fine day out there.
Interpret as you see fit. Was I a man who dreamt he was a blog or a dream who blogged he was a man?
Life, in passing:
Danny discovered a couple of days ago that he can say dada, so he chooses to do so all day. He and the Kat celebrated their first Mother's day together with his first trip to the zoo. Small species of monkey rock. I now weigh 14st 11 and have had to buy all new clothes. A dear friend who slipped into the neverwhere outside of 'life with the baby' reappeared by chance in the street. He's been ill, emotionally, and we never even checked up on him. He was one of a number of mates we affectionately referred to as our 'kids'. We're very heartsore and sorry about this. He comes to dinner tomorrow so we can start to make amends. Look to't, gentle reader, where seats lie empty round your table that once were taken.
Life, in passing, is all about regaining ground with a vengence before it's passed.
The written words are stacking slowly but sure, line on line, row on row. Thank the fates for the insightful Mr. Honan - if it were easy everybody would be doing it.
Heaven's empty now
So's Hell, it's said
Devils stalk where Angels fear to tread
Angels bide while
Devils hide in well lit places
Devils still have Angels' faces
