Last night I took HD and Atsuko to see English singer-songwriter Caroline Martin play at a venue I've never been to before called Egypt Cottage. Aside from the three of us, the whole place was populated by lesbians. Now how is it I could have listened so intently to Caroline Martin's bewitching songs and never realised that she's a big ole dyke? And I thought I had fairly reliable gaydar...
What's even stranger, though, is that, when I listen to music, I have a tendency to imagine fictional characters based around the words in the songs, and who usually bear no relation to the artiste - and I retrospectively remembered that, when listening to Caroline Martin, I had imagined a lovestruck lesbian... The mind: we none of us know how it works...
This delightful revelation was equalled only by Caroline's support act, a solo artist called Bela who plays her electric cello through a sequencer such that her skronks and barks, her scrapes and drawls become looped into her own rhythm track. Hypnotic...
Today I went to see my boss about my having been offered another job. I was wanting to do a WelnTaod: 'Yes I'm aware of how much I rock, now please give me some more money', but got only vague promises that she would 'support' me in my application for promotion and 'look at' my workload.
Somewhat pissed off by this inadequate response, I went for some retail therapy and bought this month's two CDs (I am restricting myself to 2 a month to try and curb the exponential - not to say silly - growth of my record collection), which were American Music Club's Love Songs for Patriots and Ed Harcourt's Strangers.
I also bought a copy of Kafka's The Trial and a huge winter parka.
The parka, I guess, is a sign that I have, really, made up my mind and will be staying in the chilly climes of Northern Europe rather than moving to the mediterranean splendor of South Australia. My process of grieving has begun, but the big parka provides comfort: now I look like klaire.
I am grateful to my three sage Piscean advisors who have most subtly, soulfully and selflessly steered me to this decision. Let's hear it for Murray, HD and... 730A_trixel_fem!
What's even stranger, though, is that, when I listen to music, I have a tendency to imagine fictional characters based around the words in the songs, and who usually bear no relation to the artiste - and I retrospectively remembered that, when listening to Caroline Martin, I had imagined a lovestruck lesbian... The mind: we none of us know how it works...
This delightful revelation was equalled only by Caroline's support act, a solo artist called Bela who plays her electric cello through a sequencer such that her skronks and barks, her scrapes and drawls become looped into her own rhythm track. Hypnotic...
Today I went to see my boss about my having been offered another job. I was wanting to do a WelnTaod: 'Yes I'm aware of how much I rock, now please give me some more money', but got only vague promises that she would 'support' me in my application for promotion and 'look at' my workload.
Somewhat pissed off by this inadequate response, I went for some retail therapy and bought this month's two CDs (I am restricting myself to 2 a month to try and curb the exponential - not to say silly - growth of my record collection), which were American Music Club's Love Songs for Patriots and Ed Harcourt's Strangers.
I also bought a copy of Kafka's The Trial and a huge winter parka.
The parka, I guess, is a sign that I have, really, made up my mind and will be staying in the chilly climes of Northern Europe rather than moving to the mediterranean splendor of South Australia. My process of grieving has begun, but the big parka provides comfort: now I look like klaire.
I am grateful to my three sage Piscean advisors who have most subtly, soulfully and selflessly steered me to this decision. Let's hear it for Murray, HD and... 730A_trixel_fem!
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~cheers