Auntie's Book of Wisdom

2003-10-25T14:49:00.000Z

A couple of things, among them the Guardian's Blog Awards 2003, has made me consider where this blog is going, and I think the answer is 'not very far'. I started it because I wanted to keep a record of writing and art, in particular writing my first novel, but it's drfited to include some personal issues and day to day stuff. Thing is, the personal stuff has to be fairly vague for reasons of privacy (myself as well as other people's) and so it can be quite inaccurate at times. My website, Darkworlds, is just about up and running now, so I can talk about writing there. And let's face it, I haven't the time to make this blog as good as it could be. I have a readership of around three, at a guess, and if any of these people actually want to know how I'm doing, they can get in touch the old fashioned way. So this may well be my last entry. Keep well.

2003-10-24T13:52:00.000Z

After a chat with someone online last night about tattoos and employment prospects, I went into Truro today for a stroll and ended up in the Royal Museum of Cornwall's gift shop. One look at the assistant and I was drooling - she had one of the most fabulous tats I've ever seen, of a couple of characters from The Nightmare Before Christmas. My mother actually asked her about it and the woman was eager to show it off - Lal Hardy did it for her, free hand. The woman later spied Tim Burton in the street and showed him the ink. He liked it so much he took a photograph. Anyway, checking out Lal's website - for such a well respected tattooist, the site is pretty dreadful and doesn't do him justice at all - I found a photo of the woman's arm.

Isn't it gorgeous?

2003-10-21T18:01:00.000Z

I'm back after another week in London, exhausted but happy. Travelling by train seems quite a luxury after driving, although after a break I think I'll be more than happy to get back behind the wheel. While up in London I managed to get a fair bit of work done on chapter 4, as well as spending a wonderful day down in Brighton. It was warm, hot even, and sunny, and T and I sat at a beachside cafe and drank coffee and just grinned and grinned at each other, then ate chips and fresh doughnuts before heading off to the Marlborough and having a couple of pints with the lovely Plums. The perfect day was slightly soured on the way home, due to being stuck at East Croydon station for half an hour. We headed for the Ladies and were met with three young 'uns who presumably thought they were at school - lighting up as if they weren't allowed to smoke elsewhere. Back on the platform, incredibly young women were tottering around in high heels, the man sitting next to me spent the entire time loudly asking everyone in his mobile phone book if they were going to a party in Grove Park, and everyone gave the impression that this was the high point of their lives. Saturday night is the time we can go mad, let our hair down, because Sunday can be spent recovering before we go back to our awful jobs... this kind of thinking has always depressed me, probably because I spent my schooldays with people who were aiming for that kind of thing for their lives, and hated my guts for wanting something else. I may well be getting old, but the air on that station platform seemed to be fairly crackling with the possibility of violence at any moment. It was a long, long wait for the train, despite making friends with the tiniest Yorkshire Terrier I've ever seen.

The trip back this morning was rather good, talked to an elderly woman who was going to the Eden Project for the day and got home with enough energy to saw up and clean the plank I found on Porthmeor Beach last week. I really want to do some more painting, so I should go on an acrylic buying trip again.

2003-10-12T15:43:00.000Z

I dunno about you, but after all that I need some light relief, so here's something fluffy:

2003-10-12T11:31:00.000Z

I don't usually lift other people's stuff to publish here, but Danny Lee's article, on the Channel 4 website, gives a good summing up of the Nazis' persecution of queers:

"Before World War II, radical artistic movements – such as the Dadaists (who were deliberately anti-art and anti-sense) – and political groups such as the Communists flourished in Berlin. The city, famous throughout the world for its relaxed attitude towards sex, was also the centre of Germany's gay community.

In addition, the German capital was the site of the Institute for Sexual Science. This had been founded in 1919 by pioneering sexologist and homosexual reformer Magnus Hirschfeld (1868-1935). His term to describe homosexuals – 'the third sex' – was in common use in the city at the time.

Despite Berlin's vitality, the city was like an isolated ship in a storm-tossed sea, thrown from crisis to crisis. In November 1918, from two Berlin balconies less than a mile apart, the leaders of both the Social Democratic Party and the Spartacists (who later formed the nucleus of the German Communist Party) proclaimed rival German republics.

However, the following January, after a Spartacist uprising, the movement's leaders Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht were tortured and murdered by right-wing army officers with whom the Social Democratic government felt it had to make a deal to ensure its survival. After the election of a National Assembly a few days later, Weimar, a small town outside Berlin, was made the new capital.

The Weimar Republic proved to be notoriously unstable. In the year of its birth, 1919, Adolf Hitler joined the German Workers' Party, one of many small, equally violent, racist groups. They had considerably less appeal for Berliners and other northern Germans than they had in parts of southern Germany, such as Bavaria. Nevertheless they played successfully on anxieties about out-of-control inflation, rising unemployment and feelings of humiliation and frustration left over from the country's defeat in World War I and the massive reparations that it had been compelled to agree to. By offering up the Jews and anyone they considered to be 'deviant' as scapegoats for all that was wrong, these parties began to grow in size. And Hitler and his National Socialists, or Nazis, began to achieve increasing importance.

On 30 January 1933, Germany's president Paul Hindenburg appointed Hitler chancellor. Among other restrictive actions, the Nazis began closing all gay bars and clubs and, in February, opened the first concentration camps. A national boycott of all Jewish businesses and professions was ordered at the beginning of April. And, in May, Hirschfeld's Institute for Sexual Science was closed and, a short time later, all of his books were burned – a fiery end to the first gay rights movement.

In 1936, Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer SS and head of the Gestapo, told the Germans: 'Just as we today have gone back to the ancient Germanic view on the question of marriage mixing different races, so too in our judgment of homosexuality – a symptom of degeneracy which could destroy our race – we must return to the guiding Nordic principle: extermination of degenerates.' But it had taken the Nazis some time to reach such a clear view against homosexuality.

Although the Nazi Party had always been officially anti-gay, in its early years many groups who opposed these Fascists lampooned them as homosexual. Hitler's 15-year friendship with the chief of staff of the SA (Sturmabteilung – storm troopers or 'Brown Shirts'), Ernst R?hm – who was publicly known to be gay after he appeared in court on homosexuality charges in 1925 – lent credence to this propaganda. Despite the gossip about his sexuality, R?hm was central to the Nazis' rise to power, transforming the Brown Shirts from a few embittered ex-soldiers in the early 1920s into the three-million-strong vehicle for Nazi terror that the storm troopers became in the early 1930s.

The Nazis' initial ambivalence towards gays evaporated quickly when, in 1934, R?hm and 300 others were charged with conspiring to overthrow Hitler, who ordered their execution without trial. Following this purge – the 'Night of the Long Knives' – Rohm's homosexuality was cited as another reason for his murder.

With the SA chief out of the way, Nazi attacks on the gay community escalated rapidly, and in 1935, the Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honour was passed. This amended the existing Paragraph 175 of the Reich Penal Code:

An unnatural sex act committed between persons of male sex or by humans with animals is punishable by imprisonment; the loss of civil rights might also be imposed.

However, whereas previously the only punishable offence had been anal intercourse, the new Paragraph 175a ushered in 10 new possible 'acts' between men as crimes worthy of punishment, including kissing, embracing and having homosexual fantasies. Despite this, many anti-Nazis still attacked the Fascists as homosexual, and in revenge, the Nazis became increasingly vicious, later exporting their persecution of gays to the countries they occupied.

Nazis did not refer to gays as Unter Menschen (sub-human) in the way they did Jews. Homosexuals were regarded as diseased and in need of treatment. As a result, thousands were subjected to torture, often ending in death, in an attempt to deter them from being gay. Nevertheless, the 'diseased' tag did not protect gays from incarceration.

When homosexuals first began arriving in prisons and concentration camps, they were marked out with 'Paragraph 175' written on their backs. As hundreds of inmates turned into thousands, this badge was changed to a pink triangle, in the same way that the label Juden ('Jew') was changed to a yellow Star of David. Pink triangles were also used for sex offenders such as paedophiles, further associating gays with 'perverts'.

Since Nazis regarded women as mere vessels for bearing children, lesbianism was never a major issue. Gay women were never attacked in the same way that gay men were persecuted. Homosexual men were seen as a threat to the state and likely to reduce the potential for waging war and purifying the Germanic race.

Nazis were by no means alone in their persecution of gays. The infamous Paragraph 175 had been added to the Reich Penal Code as long ago as 1871, more than 60 years before Hitler took power. It was just one more development in a long line of legislation around the world aimed at punishing homosexuals.

In England, for example, the persecution of gays also has a long history – as long ago as 1290, there were laws punishing homosexual acts with death. During the period of Nazi persecution, the oppression of gays across the Channel was also accelerating. According to Sex, Death and Punishment (1990) – a study by Richard Davenport-Hines – in 1938 in Britain, there were 134 prosecutions for sodomy and bestiality, 822 for attempted sodomy and indecent assaults and 320 for gross indecency. In 1952, there were 670, 3,087 and 1,686, respectively. Through a law known as 'the blackmailer's charter', homosexual acts between consenting adults remained illegal in England until 1967. Even today, schools are restricted in what they can teach about homosexuality and there is no legal recognition of gay couples.

In Germany, homosexual acts remained criminalised until the late 1960s, and gays convicted under the Nazis were not pardoned until 1998. Unlike other victims of the Nazis, none of them has received compensation for what they went through.

The number of gay men who died at the hands of Hitler's Reich has never been fully established. It is not clear how many people lived in the gay community before or after World War II, and since many who were executed received no trial, there is only patchy evidence of how many were imprisoned or sent to their deaths.

Nevertheless, researchers estimate that some 50,000 men were convicted for committing homosexual acts, and that 15,000 gays died in Auschwitz alone, often as a result of being worked to death. At present, according to the historian Rictor Norton, the estimates for the total number of gay men who were killed by the Nazis range from 10,000 (undoubtedly too low) to 430,000 (probably too high)."

All this is linked to the two part drama 'Hitler: The Rise of Evil', which I thought was actually very good. Robert Carlyle as Hitler seemed to have the real feeling of the man (as far as I know) rather than the cartoon figure that Hitler himself appears as in some old footage of speeches and rallies. The sense of claustrophobia and things getting out of control as the Nazis crept into power was powerful. And very interesting to note that Hitler's talk of 'foreign invaders' 'terrorists' and 'you're either with us or against us' was amazingly reminiscent of the Blair/Bush double act. Click here for links to sites with more info on queer persecution by the Nazis.

2003-10-09T21:03:00.000Z

The moon is full and so powerful tonight that the estuary is lit up even when it's behind clouds. It's all happening outside my window and I'm going to gaze at it for a while longer when I've posted this.

I used to hate the moon. All I could see was an angry face glaring at me. I'd hide from it - under the window, in the wardrobe, anywhere I thought it wouldn't see me. But now I really love it; the 'face' on it seems friendly, like it's looking over me. The fact that those I love most can see it too helps me feel connected to them, although it makes me remember that I'm far away from my favourite people. Ah, solitude can be bittersweet! I have the house to myself - for the first time in a year, I'm completely alone for a few days. It's euphoric and a little bit scary. I should be having a wild party, or at least someone over for a drink and my wonderful (ahem) cooking, but it's worked out at just me and the cats. But it's not a quiet life - at one point tonight, I was going from one end of the house to the other, stroking Jezebel in the kitchen and Teddy in the front room. Luckily they eventually made it to the same room, otherwise I'd be exhausted by now.

My sister wants me to go and see The House of 1000 Corpses tomorrow, with people like this man in it

And then come home to my little village. Alone. At just after midnight. Yes, that seems like a brilliant idea.

2003-10-07T14:55:00.000Z

A wild day, weather-wise, so far: woke up to mist over the estuary and knew I had to start writing, so I fed the cats and got myself to the local Tesco cafe. Coffee for 65p and an astounding view of Carbis Bay, even through the driving rain and low cloud. It woke me up enough to move along to Zennor and take the footpath (past a horse that seemed to think I was the most interesting thing in the world - nice to see such beasts without police on their backs, running at me) to the headland. The wind was howling around me, looking at the grassland on the next cliff it seemed as if invisible fingers were stroking it, and the sea looked powerful and intense. It was one of those moments. You know what I mean.

Before coming back, I went into the village museum and found a huge selection of books on local folklore. Please, give me another life so I can read this stuff... a storm appeared as I left the shop so I got home drenched, but a change of clothes and some hot food sorted that out and I got back to writing again.

On days like today I wonder if I'm worthy of such a carefree existence/should at least be feeling guilty, so I posted on a messageboard about lifestyle and politics and managed to mess up the meaning so that it read like I'm living the life of Riley and don't give a fuck about the world at large (in reality I'm living the life of Riley but I do a give a fuck). Anyway, what response I got gave me a bit of a prod and so I've bookmarked Indymedia and listed it in the left (appropriately enough) hand column. It actually looks really good and covers local, national and international issues, which is just what I was after.

2003-10-06T17:05:00.000Z

Decided to go off at a tangent, art wise, and sent a couple of photographs to The Horse Hospital, a wonderful gallery/art space in Bloomsbury, central London. It did use to be a horse hospital, I think, hence the cobbles on the floor. I've only been there once, to see paintings by Stephen Stapleton and David Tibet (Current 93/Nurse With Wound dudes). It goes for underground art, and I think the problem I'm going to have with what I do is that it's not very commercial - actually, I thought it was, but apparently clouds and boats are still what people want down here. Anyway, it's worth a go. I haven't really done much else today, I'm still wrecked from a mighty drive over the weekend: nearly 600 miles in 24 hours. Love knows no milometer, of course, and even Lewisham can look glorious when you're in the right mood. I drove back in the early hours of Sunday morning, awed by two owls swooping over the car and the sun rising behind me as I crossed Dartmoor, went straight to the market to meet A. We drank huge amounts of coffee, ate nothing, and went walking on Godrevy beach, trying to find me some new driftwood to work on. By the time I dropped her off, I was shaking from the caffeine overdose, but it was fun. I stayed awake long enough to watch most of Channel 4's overview of the Hutton Inquiry. What really gets me about the whole affair is not the fact that a government appears to have acted appallingly, but that it has been caught doing it. And the daily reports in the media are apparently fairly watered down: if I get the time, I really would like to read the actual transcripts.

2003-10-01T12:35:00.000Z

Out in the real world, both Gordon Brown and Tony Blair apparently deliver rousing speeches at the Labour conference. I saw clips of both. Brown sounded more like old Labour - values, social justice, you remember? - but perhaps anyone seems preferable to Blair, who's given his backing to ID cards, a scheme I will naturally not be participating in. Easy for me, though - I doubt I'd ever be asked to show mine - but the principle of not complying is important. A big 'fuck you!' to the Government as well, then!

2003-10-01T12:20:00.000Z

Knowing what a cheapskate I am, T sent me photocopies of the publicity for the anthology from Diva magazine. They're really talking it up - I'd buy it if I wasn't in it and getting a copy for free. It looks as if there are around 30 contributors, the stories are horror based, but it could be more 'slipstream'/genre crossing than that. Which goes to show that women do write something other than chicklit. So why is the (British at least) horror/SF small press so devoid of female writers? The Third Alternative had a special issue ready, full of short stories by women, which mysteriously failed to appear. No explanation was given as to why it was pulled. Meanwhile, I'm often shocked at the rubbish that men get published on a regular basis. That old cliche of women having to be twice as good to be taken half as seriously is a real truth. I hope Necrologue is full of quality fiction; it won't change the world, but it'll be a big 'fuck you!' to the so-called alternative press.

2003-09-29T19:04:00.000Z

Wow, my confidence in my art paid off big-time: the Yew Tree Gallery is 'intrigued' by my stuff and wants to see more, either with the owner coming to my studio or me taking some pieces to the gallery. Wow, again. Since the nearest I have to a studio is a smallish conservatory with a tiny table and cats wherever you try to walk, I think I'll go to the gallery. Fine by me. To get an exhibition at that place would be wonderful. I sent the same photos to a second gallery, the Roundhouse/Capstan, in Sennon. They couldn't open the files but want to see some stuff anyway. I've set outto make my life the way it is, but I still feel very lucky - I did some writing today (finished the rewrite of Chapter 2, began on Chapter 3), some painting, and then walked over the causeway to St Michael's Mount and had coffee, sitting in the sun and looking at miles of Cornish coastline. I also spoke to my two favourite people in the whole world, and then heard from the galleries.

I only saw the last half hour of The Deal last night. It looked pretty good, actually, but I was watching some all too rare heavy drama on BBC 1. Lots of violent geezers on later in The Long Good Friday, which I haven't seen for years. Good, old fashioned gangsters, who only went after their own kind etc etc, salt of the earth... great film, though.

2003-09-28T18:09:00.000Z

It must be autumn: I went to a football match today. Hayle Women FC kicked Holman's arses 3 - 0. What I really mean is that it was a very good match and by some miracle the team I went to support actually won. Nice to see a lot of lesbians around, too. A good space to be in. I got up at 07.00 hrs this morning and did some writing, a little research on the net and then realised Chapter 2 of the novel is shaping up really nicely now. I didn't think I liked it that much, but it's understated in a good way, I think. By 10.00 hrs I was sharing my breakfast with Jezzie the cat - still going strong thankfully - then doing some painting and ringing the delightful T to see how her day was going (she didn't know; it had only just started. Not all of us are up at dawn). I got back from the game and rang T again, trying to get the full story from the text she'd sent me: "My gf is in Diva!!!". I must get this month's issue - there's so much on the anthology in it that I shouldn't miss it. From what I've heard, the reviews are positive. I'm feeling good, well on track, and very creative.

I'm tempted to watch The Deal tonight, a Stephen Frears film on Channel 4 about the conception of New Labour. From the website blurb: The Deal explores how the partnership between Tony Blair and Gordon Brown embodies the contradictions inherent in the modern Labour Party. By uniting, the pair were to make their party electable for the first time in a generation, only to face one further reality: only one of them could lead it.

It'll either be great or terrible.

2003-09-27T19:02:00.000Z

It's about pushing your Self as far as you can go, and then a bit further.

From one of Fakir Musafar's online columns:

Body Play is a process and kind of "magic" that courts unusual feelings and states of awareness, which in the end result in elevated consciousness. That is, we know something we didn't know before our "Body Play". In practice, Body Play is aimed at increasing "body awareness" and making clear the boundaries between "body" and "spirit". It makes one acutely aware of one or more body parts. For example, if you pierce an ear (or whatever) you are more aware that it (or the whatever) exists. When you compress the torso with a tight corset, you are constantly aware you have a waist. When that body state feels normal, the bodymod is repeated until you are again aware of that body part (the ear piercing is made larger or the corset is made tighter). Finally, no matter how extreme you apply the "change of body state", that change soon feels natural and you are empowered through the process of taking control and making the change. In body modification, the Spirit and Body dance together in a rhythmic balance.

Now do you get the point?

2003-09-26T19:59:00.000Z

Two things about today:

- sent some photos of artwork to a local gallery (the

2003-09-25T18:48:00.000Z

Driving at night is wierd. After two weeks in London, I'd forgotten how dark proper night time is, and several hours' of just me, a few yards of road ahead in the headlights, and whatever music I'm playing in the car, puts me into a strange place. The lights catch movement at the side of the road, usually it's impossible to tell what it is that's there, you can't look too hard at 80 mph. Leaves bounce around on the road, the wind catches them and for a second they look like little animals. Home at 4 a.m., I had some tea and said hello to the cats, one of which vomited all over her bed at the excitement. After some writers block (a whole day or two) I relaxed and stopped thinking about re-writing the whole book, or the whole chapter, just looked at it a paragraph at a time. As a result, the bits I'm adding are much more detailed. Thanks, T, for the advice.

2003-09-09T17:44:00.000Z

I found two slates on Saturday morning and set myself the task of having two finished paintings by the time I left for London (19.00 hrs today) and this morning I completed the second one. Both are in really good, earthy raw colours, acrylic and enamel, the first looks like it tells a story (perhaps I'll have to write one to go alongside it), the second can look like an African shield with abstract designs around it, if you're innocent enough: it's really a cunt surrounded by menstrual blood. The rest of today has been a write-off, I've slept through most of it and until around an hour ago was sure that I couldn't make the drive to London, but some food and a hot shower has woken me up. Got a good selection of tapes and so I'm ready to go. The main reason for the trip is, of course, to see T, but I want to see David Blaine doing his thing while I'm there, too. It's funny/annoying to hear claims that no one's ever done this kind of thing before. People have been pushing their bodies and minds since the dawn of time, it's just that most of them don't run around seeking publicity for it, it's much too personal for that. There may be trickery involved (what's in the water?) but all credit to Blaine for bringing this kind of stuff to people's attention. Of course, it's too much for some - the reports I read today of folk yelling abuse and throwing food at the perspex box he's in pissed me off royally, but didn't surprise me. Is it just the English who can't bear for someone to be a bit different? Or are they terrified that he might actually succeed and survive the 44 days in isolation? Is that too much to have to take on? Or should he be like a decent Englishman and heroically fail?

2003-09-08T08:29:00.000Z

I rarely do the 'What blahblahblah are you?' quizzes, but I had to find out which incarnation of Dr Who I was: Peter Davidson, Colin Baker or Sylvester McCoy, and life would simply have been over for me. I turned out to be the main man: Tom Baker.

There's a spring in my step this morning, I can tell you.

2003-09-06T21:18:00.000Z

Ah, art - I never thought I could get so into art. I drove to Penryn this morning and found - way, way off the beaten track - Tim Shaw, a sculptor who, from the look of the Open Studios booklet, did interesting, imaginative bronze figures. I looked around his house and garden, stepping over his sweet little dog that was lying uncomfortably on the floor, having just eaten a whole Aero bar, and gushed at him (Tim, not the dog) about how great his stuff was. He then took me to his workshop, just around the corner, and when I went in I found probably the most amazing piece of art I've ever seen; a huge, incredibly intricate and intense sculpture that looked like a hybrid of Giger and Clive Barker's most imaginitive work, only completely different. His website doesn't do his work justice, but it gives a decent overview of his stuff. He's been working on the big 'Middleworld' piece for several years now. I asked him how much it would cost to buy it. He reckoned around £150,000. Wow.

2003-09-05T21:27:00.000Z

Feeling lonesome tonight, but consoled myself by finding the original theme to The Moomins and playing it over and over again.

2003-09-05T14:36:00.000Z

Last night I got another really good view of Mars. It knocks me out to see something like this. Perhaps it's seeing that this little planet of ours is not the only one. Hard to describe it better, I'll try and find a way...

Bargains have been finding me, at boot sales and charity shops - German pottery has all but disappeared, in its place I'm finding cheap, gorgeous Cornish ceramics. This morning in Penzance, a beautiful Tarot deck, based on a set from 1736, practically jumped into my hands in the Cancer Research shop. 78 wonderful woodcuts for £1.

Drool.

The 2nd/3rd (I can't actually quite remember which) redraft of the book is going well - I added another 1600-odd words to Chapter 1 yesterday. Being able/necessary to expand on stuff that you have to keep quite brief in a a short story takes quite a bit of getting used to, it's pushing my imagination further and further which is very good for me and hopefully, of course, for the book. I wonder how easy it will be to do a shortie after this, though?

The other major news is that I have a possible buyer for one of my driftwood pieces, although since she lives in Amsterdam, the postage is going to cost more than I'll probably charge her for it. And Sue the Artist had the BBC filming her work earlier this week. It was supposed to be broadcast on Tuesday, but it still hasn't appeared, mostly due to the ballooning farce and the selfishly timed death of Terry "Crap" Frost. She must be tearing her hair out.

2003-09-03T08:33:00.000Z

Bah! The ballooning shenanigan has been postponed until next year. Apparently due to a valve problem, but perhaps the two pilots decided that going into space sitting in a gondola was a bit of a mad idea after all. Sissy boys.

It looks like I'm heading off to Perranporth in mid-October for Lowender Peran, the Festival of the Celts. Lots of singing and storytelling and Celtic music plus beer, naturally. I'm only going for one night but I'm hoping to learn a lot, if only what the best Cornish ale is.

Most puke-inducing story of the day: Jessica Lynch, the - ahem - POW who was 'rescued' in the Iraq war in a huge public song and dance, is writing her story in a $1 million book deal. No real surprise there, and quotes like this are a fair warning of what's to come: "I feel I owe [the folk who've written to me] this story, which will be about more than a girl going off to war and fighting alongside her fellow soldiers. It will be a story about growing up in America."

Yes, we need another one of those.

2003-09-01T15:31:00.000Z

Good news - Jezebel the cat made it through her x-ray (apparently the shots were hilarious) and has come home and eaten everything in sight. The old codger is living on borrowed time, but she's happy enough, so I'll bless each day she's here. As one should do anyway.

I drove through St Ives earlier and, apart from the tourists/emmats still insisting on wandering on the roads, I saw the Triton, the ship that's going to be the base for the ballooning altitude record attempt that's going ahead first thing tomorrow, in St Ives Bay, coming in to pick up Colin Prescot, one of the balloonists.

2003-09-01T10:42:00.000Z

Greetings to Senua, a 1,600 year old British Goddess statue, unearthed in Hertfordshire last year. She might have links to an earlier Celtic goddess, and was certainly important to someone, who chucked the statue and lots of gold into a shrine for her. Am rather excited by this, although the prospect of seeing the statue at the slightly haughty British Museum isn't majorly inspiring.

2003-08-31T14:52:00.000Z

I'm having an arty kind of a weekend. Took A along to Porth, on the edge of Newquay, to see Sue The Artist's contribution to Open Studios 2003, the South West's art fest where you can nose around studios and see who's doing what. The event's been so badly publicised that when I finally got hold of a booklet for it, I found a load of stuff that I won't possibly get the chance to see. The local rags are so full of Terry Frost and Barbara Hepworth - neither of whom really need any more publicity ever, that more unknown talent gets dismissed. Sue's stuff is wonderful, all based on geology and maps and contours... drool. Upstairs at her gallery I finally got to see Sue The Photographer's stuff. I was unworthy to be in either of their prescence, but they both sat down for a coffee before I showed A the delights of Little Chef at Chiverton Cross services. Fresh coffee with as many refills as you can drink for £1.99. Try and stop me!

This morning I was up early, and happier than I can say to have the sickly cat claw my leg to hurry me up with her breakfast, then I went to the boot sale and came back with a glorious piece of local pottery, a big and very heavy plate thing, gray with black squiggles on. £2. Bargain. Excited by my good luck, I drove to St Just this afternoon to see Rory Te'Tigo's sculptures

("I want people to see the fantastic side of life... I make furniture for dreams") but his place was closed and there was a pile of junk in the front garden (no, not a sculpture - the one in the pic was next to it) and a cat that looked as if no one had disturbed it's slumber for a century or more. So I came home again. Not a wasted trip, though, as on the way back I found a couple of places that I'd like to photograph.

2003-08-30T18:26:00.000Z

Of course, all I really need to deal with death (one of my cats is unlikely to last the weekend) is a nice cup of tea and a sit down. The answer to all life's problems.

2003-08-29T13:43:00.000Z

D's father died two hours ago. I'm out of my depth here; how can I possibly help him? He rang me from the hospital and told me and all I could say was "How do you feel?". He replied that it was the most stupid question he'd ever heard. Quite. I'll try and sort my head out a bit for when he calls me later.

The gig last night was rather wonderful. I wrote a short review and e-mailed it to my local newspaper - some freelance work would be very useful - but here's the actual notes I made last night, scribbled on the back of a gig list for the band:

8.30: Astonished at finding a free parking place on Penzance Promenade, I'm here early. A pint of Flowers is sitting beside me to try and cover up the wierdness of being on my own in a pub/gig with no one else around but the band. The 'stage' is a tiny area. Soft toy monkey head are stuck to the mike stands, a violin stands in its case. Wish I'd got here half an hour later - I've killed precisely 6 minutes writing this.
8.45: Why didn't I bring a book or my camera to fiddle with? The three sips of beer I've had have gone straight to my head. Much too old for this lark. Am sitting so close to the stage I'm practically on it. No shadowy corners to hide in.
That's killed another 30 seconds.
9.00: Someone's brought their dog in, which is letting me stroke it, thus reducing the embarrassment factor. Band showing no signs of going onstage. Bugger.
9.10: Two of the band are looking at the back of the PA and mucking about with their stuff. Phew!

As I say, the gig was great, and I walked back to the car breathing in the sea air. If the review gets published in The Cornishman then I'll type it up here.

2003-08-27T12:19:00.000Z

Back in Cornwall after a week in London. Too much has happened to write about here, some parts were surreal (clamping the brakes on in the car to avoid a gerbil in the New Cross Road, battling a spider to rescue T's cat after he fell out of a second floor window) most of it was great, but yesterday was more sad than I can say. I have to be a good Auntie and as strong as I can possibly be for a dear, dear friend. Wish me luck. But for strength and inspiration was the misty West Country dawn waiting for me as I drove home this morning and tonight I'm hoping to get a good view of Mars, which I haven't seen since I was a child, aeons ago. I'm too tired to work on the book today, so I've started another new painting. And I'm going to a gig tomorrow night - finally I get to catch up with 3 Daft Monkeys in a spit and sawdust pub in Penzance.

2003-08-18T08:36:00.000Z

Big Brother has arrived in the local petrol station. I just filled up, went to pay by Switch and was handed a card explaining that I would need to provide a thumbprint "for my own benefit - in case my card is stolen". What complete and utter bollocks, quite frankly. I told the woman I'd never heard of such a thing and was promptly treated with great suspicion. She demanded some other form of ID. All I had was my library card. I'm amused and pissed off about this - the principle is that you're guilty until you prove yourself innocent. So I've bashed off an e-query to Liberty to see if what they think. The worrying thing is that local shops might be starting this too. So what do we do now? Ignoring the fact that I only buy clothes once in a blue moon, the thought of having to get cash out and carry it around for shopping is going to be a pain in the arse - and dodgy in some areas - for everyone.

I've just been having a look around to see if there's more info on this, and I found a reference to it in last December's Guardian, where customers who couldn't pay were being asked for thumbprints in a petrol station in West Sussex.

Just when you thought you were safe from The Office - there seems to be an awful lot of 'Brent-a-likes' around. Found a lot of pics on the BBC website, but they're all done by men and as you can see, it's a perfect new look for drag kings:

2003-08-17T14:24:00.000Z

And more history for you. In celebration of finishing the first draft of the book, I took a walk along part of the Great Flat Lode Trail this morning. It's a path that links old tin mines in the Kerrier District, near Camborne. I walked a short section and found all sorts of old industrial buildings, with plenty of information on how the mines worked. Biggest impression was made by a photograph of a labourer shovelling piles of arsenic, with just a handkerchief covering his face.

2003-08-15T16:18:00.000Z

On top of a hill, looking over miles of Cornish coastline and countryside, all the stuff I learned in history about changes in farming come wonderfully to life. Enclosure - the theft of the land from the people! Listening to Blyth Power again, I am.

I've worked hard all week on the book - another 1000-odd words this morning - and the end of the book really is in sight now. I should stay in and carry on, but I think a pint or two at my local will win over.

2003-08-13T16:26:00.000Z

Much as I like conspiracy theories on everything under the sun, I seriously don't believe David Kelly committed suicide.

2003-08-12T15:56:00.000Z

Who was it talking about the Protestant work ethic the other day? This week I've been working like, well, someone who's working very hard - about 2500 words, most of a new painting (a big one, with lots of creatures and stuff on it), getting the photo/art page of my website finished... I'm now on the final chapter of the book. 6000 or so words and the first draft will be done. I got confused as to how long I've actually been living in Cornwall and writing the book; thought I'd moved here in late September last year, but I was a month out. Been here for 9 1/2 months, the computer's only been set up since the early part of this year, so I'm really pleased with the amount of work I've managed to do. Add to that the stuff I've been doing on exploring sacred sites and my blossoming hippie side, and I can really see how London was blocking my energies. My friend D says places like London are necessary, that negative energy needs to be collected and contained in certain areas. Which, of course, is great if you have the money or the opportunity to get away to the positive places.

2003-08-10T16:25:00.000Z

A wonderful week: sitting on Porthmeor Beach in St Ives, drinking red wine and watching the sun sink over the horizon, driving around Penwith, showing T my favourite places (Cape Cornwall, Madron Well, Zennor, St Just), having my oldest friend just turn up in the village to see me and to cap it all, exchanging rings with T at a sacred site on Friday morning. It's all been so perfect, though exhausting, but now back to real life:

I've signed the contract for Necrologue, the Diva book and filled in my first ever publicity form. 'Why do you write?' in ten words or less. And requesting two decent 'headshots' (presumably photographs). Of course this is what I want - to be asked why I do what I do. Just now I got the editor's comments on the story, I think she's tightened it up a bit, but she asked about the title (Owl-Blasted) and said Very Nice Things about my writing. The book should be out in October. Expect lots of blowing of one's own trumpet on this very page.

2003-08-01T19:13:00.000Z

How's this for creepy/efficient (delete as applicable) - T is on her way here by train and I can stalk her progress using First Great Western's real time train news.

I had a good discussion today about the rabbit I killed and what I should do about it. I still feel incredibly awful about it, but it seems more 'processed' now. And donating some money to the West Cornwall Badger Group - the most local wildlife group I could find - plus seriously considering doing some volunteer work for the local bat sanctuary, is far more constructive than beating myself up and making it my drama.

2003-07-30T16:45:00.000Z

They don't make 'em like they used to.

2003-07-30T15:59:00.000Z

I'm still waiting for the contract from Diva magazine. While I was away I got an e-mail from the anthology's editor, Helen Sandler, asking for a biog to be sent urgently. 100 words about myself, in the third person. I hate doing biogs, I feel like I don't 'sell myself' well enough in them, but yesterday I just went for it and came up with something half decent at last. My ambition could be outweighing my Englishness. Meanwhile, I'm pleased with the (vague) shape the website is taking, although I'm going to just plod along with it until the book's at least drafted and before getting it properly up and running.

2003-07-30T09:00:00.000Z

I killed a rabbit on my drive to London last week. There's no way to pretty this up: I was on the A30, doing 60mph and I glanced at the side of the road because I thought I saw something there, then I looked up to see a young rabbit on its hind legs, staring right into my eyes, it seemed. A second later there was a sickening thud. I wanted to stop and get away from it equally, but there was no choice - my muscles seized up and didn't relax for about an hour. I've taken life before - how many insects does a person kill every day without even really noticing? - but this was (hypocritically perhaps) different. Because I can bond with a rabbit. And there's no taking it back, is there? I feel intense sadness, must guilt and remorse but most of all, I feel ashamed.

I must do good things to try and redeem myself and redress the balance.

2003-07-22T09:20:00.000Z

After some stonking good, serious films with storylines earlier in the year, the summer is again awash with trash, sequels and children's films, but on August 1 a biopic of Dublin journo Veronica Geurin, murdered in 1996, is released. I hope it makes it down here to hicksville.

2003-07-22T08:42:00.000Z

St Ives at 7 a.m. is beautiful, in case you didn't know. I walked through a maze of little back streets, past Porthgwidden Beach, where me and T (My [New] Girlfriend) first met, then down past the harbour, all around the Wharf and back to the car park via Fore Street and a quick sit in the entranceway to the Tate. Felt like the place was mine.

2003-07-20T18:18:00.000Z

My new painting - one of a series of two inspired by My New Girlfriend - is now hanging up on my wall, and it looks pretty good, if I say so myself. Enamel and acrylic on driftwood - sounds impressive, doesn't it? I've had a good, productive and inspiring last two days, beginning with some lovely post yesterday morning, which included 'Ooomim', the most recent cd by 3 Daft Monkeys. My system is messing around with cds at the moment, so I played it downstairs and was very tempted to dance strangely around the lounge. Their sound is a lot more polished in the studio, and the production is excellent - that 12 string guitar just bounces out of the speakers, and the music is a great blend; I could hear English, Irish and Eastern European folk influences, among other things. I have got to catch this band live again soon.

I managed to get my parents out of the house and got on with painting a birthday card for my mother. Her birthday's not until the end of the month but I'm going to be away for much of that time. The design was pretty simple, but looks nice - turquoise swirls as a background (amazing what effects you can come up with using a pan scourer), then some yellow stenciled lines over the top (old lacey tablecloth for that) and a red border. It's now squished between the pages of a heavy book to make sure it stays straight. Of course the paint has to be left to dry between different colours, but it was a breezy day, and I was only using acrylics, so leaving it in the conservatory with the doors open meant I could dash up and down to it and add bits in between writing, which I did on and off all day. I got over a thousand words done yesterday, which means I have 1 1/2 chapters to go before the first draft is completely finished.

But today was stone hugging day. It was cool and breezy and very overcast when A picked me up in her huge vehicle. After a decent pint in Lamorna Cove and some clambering around on rocks to get a good view of the ocean, we went haring around the country roads and hugged the Merry Maidens, the Pipers, Men-an-Tol, Men Scryfa and Tregiffian Barrow. Actually, I didn't get to hug Men Scryfa - it's an inscribed standing stone that stands proudly in the middle of a field full of bullocks, and one of them was standing obstinately in front of the inscription. A coaxed it out of the way for a few moments so we could look at it properly, but the cattle use it as a scratching post, so it's surrounded by thick mud, and I was already wet through by then and slightly scared of the bullock, who really wanted to stand in front of it again, so we left. I'd first seen the Merry Maidens from the air, on the helicopter trip over to the Scilly Isles, and it looks amazing from above, but when you walk around it, there's a distinct lack of atmosphere. A said she felt the same, and thought it might be due to the sheer amount of people who had tramped around it over the years. The Pipers were the complete opposite. A was excited to find them at last, having looked many times over the years. We tramped through a field to the first one, which must have been about 10 feet high, then into another field for the second one, which I think is the tallest standing stone in Cornwall. I got some really strong energy from this one, it was powerful yet serene. A pointed out all the different kinds of lichen on the stone, which I'd never really taken in before. Country bumpkins, huh? I'll take her to London one day and show her all the variations of tarmac on the streets.

2003-07-17T23:06:00.000Z

Channel 4 have just shown a documentary on Adam Ant and his battle with manic depression. I was wondering how it would be dealt with - too many people who frankly should know better had a good laugh when he was sectioned recently - but it turned out to be understanding and informative, with lots of input from Adam himself. A very good thing, since from personal experience I know that one of the first things that gets taken away from you when you suffer from a mental illness is the right to be listened to or taken seriously. In fact, Ch 4's website file's the documentary under health rather than entertainment. The programme was hard to watch in places, partly because it hit some raw nerves but mostly because the Antz were a fantastic band and when I wrote to Adam, way back in 1980 (ye gods!!), he took the time to reply, send me some stuff about the forthcoming Kings of the Wild Frontier tour and wrote out some lyrics for me. Not long afterwards, he appeared on Swap Shop, all shiny and famous, and my sister dragged me along to BBC HQ to wait for him. We were the only ones there, not surprising since it was a bitter cold January day, but after three hours of shivering, he was driven out. The kindly guard made the car stop and he chatted to us and signed a poster for my sister. What a gent! His mental condition has been pretty bad for a while now. I hope he gets it under control soon.

My website is under construction (i.e. I'm floundering around, trying to upload photographs onto the home page) as I type, courtesy of Chaos Magic with much nicer templates and more pages. I'll link it here as soon as its fit for public consumption. I feel like quite a chump, talking about myself and my 'work'. It's an entirely different ballgame to Blogging, but it's a good start in trying to flog my paintings.

2003-07-15T17:15:00.000Z

I'm feeling a bit lethargic today, due to the weather and PMT (I'm at that stage where I want to sleep or kill people). Been mucking around on the 'net, with mixed results: P J Harvey's website is really badly done - it looks like a school scrapbook, although since it includes photos of The Goddess looking incredibly fucked off,

I can almost forgive them.

I also thought it was about time I set up a website for my photos and paintings, so I signed up for a Geocities page, got it all laid out and then realised that it looked awful, so I scrapped it. Of course, I want to do it for free, so I can't expect much, but then again Blogger has some good templates, so why can't Geocities? I have a few other options, so I'll mess around with them in the next few days.

My Aunt is visiting this week. I haven't seen her for ages, but she's my favourite Auntie (well, my favourite proper/blood relative Auntie, anyway) so I went out with her today - firstly to reserve her a seat on the train home, and then for a visit to the mighty Minack Theatre. My Aunt rides First Class everywhere, one of the perks of having a husband who worked for British Rail (RIP - both him and BR). Just standing in the station with someone who owns a pass for eternal First Class travel felt quite glorious. The whole concept of it turns my stomach politically, but I'd love to do it once, just once...

2003-07-12T23:10:00.000Z

What a great day - busy and constructive and productive. Got up when the postie arrived and did some work on my newest painting. I wanted to put a Goddess type figure on the slate, and had no idea of how to do it, but it seems to have worked really well. I put some detail on it and got stuck into chapter 5 of the book. The rest of the morning's a bit of a blur; this chapter has been hard work. The plan was a bit sketchy, I feel like I've had to chisel it out, but I finished at around lunchtime, and the last two chapters should be an intense, rollercoaster ride - so much to put in, but it's all happening in my head, so it will be easier to write. It's been another very warm day, so I took the opportunity to sand, brush down, and seal the three pieces of driftwood I found on Thursday, so they're ready to paint as soon as I get the time. After that, I rang a lovely friend of mine in the States, and we caught up. It had been too long. Finally, I did some more painting, it's coming on well now. I really have to stop chickening out of at least trying to sell this stuff. I'd planned to drive to Carn Brea and sit on the hillside, watching the early evening sun, but I fell asleep for a while and it was too late, so I've been looking out of my window at the moon instead. It's astoundingly beautiful tonight and shining right into my room.

And I don't put much personal information here, but I will now: I'm missing my grrl a lot today.

2003-07-11T16:04:00.000Z

Thanks to Bitchiekittie for sending me a smart little tub of vegan lip balm, even though it goes under the name of 'Clitoris Citrus (for the tastiest lips north of the hips!)'. Ahem. It does feel like good stuff and was the sweetest thought, but if anyone really does taste of citrus then I'd like to hear about it for research purposes.

2003-07-10T16:40:00.000Z

The Arty/Hippie Bit

Been out on the high seas and have returned home with treasure, me hearties.

I hadn't been down to the estuary for some time, and I'd heard the curlews warbling during the evenings just before I went away, so I promised myself I'd go down there when I got home. It was so beautiful - a lot of different birds were around, all making as much noise as possible, and the cat who lives in the station house was in fuss mode, so after some petting (me petting her, you understand) I crossed the railway line and went down onto the beach. The tide was way out but the sand still had a lot of water on it, so I picked my way along the beach. The big old boat wreck - a real skeleton of a hull - had nothing realistic that I could take with me, which was a shame because the shape of the wood is gorgeous. Anyway, I walked a fair way further and found a nicely stacked pile of wood up above the tide line. It wasn't secured or marked in any way, so I took it as a gift, and chose three interesting looking pieces - two that were possibly old doors at one point, the other a nice bit of boat wood with some heavy duty nails through it. The nails didn't want to come out, but they were no match for my huge muscles, well, the hammer I took to them, and after hosing and scrubbing the things down, I can start thinking about what I want to do with them.

The Political Bit

More thoughts on the butch thing: the dykes I saw in London last week were, on first sight, a big bunch of femmes. Oh dear, I said to My New Girlfriend, I really am out of date. She pointed out to me that they weren't really femme at all, they were a real product of what we'd been fighting for all these years - the right to blur boundaries, no pressure to be anything other than oneself etc. She was right; it was all very relaxed and no one ran me out of the bar for being a big ol' butch. If the dyke community feels comfortable and strong enough to be true to herself then maybe progress has been made after all. Something I find really noteworthy these days is that I care less and less about it all. I'm really happy and proud to be queer, but there's so many other things that define who I am, I'm only just tapping into them. Perhaps I'm just lucky in that I'm very comfortable with who I am and feel pretty snug in my sexuality and gender. That's snug, not smug; I'm learning how hard it can be for others, so maybe I'm just counting my blessings.

2003-07-09T16:26:00.000Z

Geek post ahead. You have been warned.

I've just got back from a week in London, my home for 35 and a bit years and it felt decidedly wierd. Not bad, because I'd gone to stay with My New Girlfriend and her extremely vocal but nonetheless handsome and charming cat, but odd. New things have appeared: the exciting new bendy buses, where you can get on and be trusted to have bought a ticket beforehand, and the new(ish) Congestion Charge zones, which apparently are quite good at keeping most of the traffic out of Central London (although Oxford Street was still as choked as it ever was). Suddenly I noticed big circled 'C's around the edge of the zone, and it was quite exciting to be driving towards My New Girlfriend's place and not know if I would enter the Forbidden Zone on my way there. I went on the Underground and it was as hot and horrible as usual, although I noticed station staff all over the place. Does this mean that Ken is doing his job?

Apart from the transport excitement, I saw a lot of folk who mean much to me, spent an afternoon wandering around Greenwich and having proper beer in a gay pub (no mean feat), which was needed after being freaked out by the Cutty Sark (I'll explain about my boat wierdness some other time, no doubt). I got some writing done and got some great news: a short story I'd submitted to Diva magazine well over a year ago for an anthology has made it into the collection, as 'one of the wierdest... very unsettling'. I get a contract and payment and everything, I think. But most importantly, to have something else in a book is a big, big deal. Cue a huge and beautiful bunch of flowers from My New Girlfriend and a bottle of rather good Champagney stuff in celebration. I didn't expect the story to impress Diva, since the magazine usually concentrates on 'lesbian fiction', which seems to consist of women meeting one another in bars and getting together, which is dull to say the least, but they're doing something different this time by the looks of it. I was also being a bit flippant when I sent it off, since I consider myself a horror/dark fantasy/slipstream writer rather than a lesbian one, although the images and characters are very dykey. So what does it matter? Perhaps it's just about which ghetto you prefer to inhabit, and the simply lesbian one is too restrictive for me. Besides, too many slipstream writers are conservative/bigots and they need a kick up the arse, so I'd rather piss them off than lounge around in lesbian land.

I left the big smoke at 04.15 hrs today, and the drive through London was fairly eerie - that wierd pre-dawn light, no traffic on the roads - and after hitting some serious fog in Hampshire and Wiltshire, I sped home and got here before 10.00. So I'm tired and a bit emotional and to add to it I was sitting in the garden just now when one of the cats decided to bring a little friend in to play with - a shrew. A beautiful little thing, it seemed unhurt and was just being carried around in the cat's mouth. My father managed to grab the cat and make it drop the creature on the floor. Then he caught it in a fishing net and put it outside. I watched it for a while, just hanging onto a plant while it tried to recover from the shock, then I stroked its back very gently to make it move and it walked away, so I hope it's going to be alright.

2003-06-29T15:33:00.000Z

Well, if I had any London snobbery left, it's certainly disappeared now. Yesterday's Mazey Day in Penzance was absolutely bloody marvellous. I got to town just before midday, an hour before meeting up with A, and was instantly in childish excitement mode at the first sight of Market Jew Street - full of flags and market stalls and folk. I took a slow, slow walk up the hill, browsing at everything, about as happy as I could be. There was a lot of craftwork, a lot of it South American and African influenced, really good quality, and decently priced, too. I could easily have bought loads of presents for everyone, if only I was a bit richer. Half up the street, there was an announcement that the next procession was starting. All the models and stuff are made by local schoolkids. The tannoy was gushing praise, which I thought was sweet but I didn't know what to expect, but I looked up the street and suddenly a huge, orange Ganesh was waving its arms at the crowd, followed by a sea serpent, a lizard, and kids dressed as tin miners. The models were amazing. So I was all hyped up, still looking for a birthday present for my niece, but it was time to meet A, so I gave up for the moment and went along to the Turk's Head. A had said to meet there, so I knew the place would sell good beer. I found her and her friends outside and we settled down to a pint of Hubble Bubble, a gorgeous brew which unfortunately I can't find any information about. A is more girly than I could ever be, so once away from the pub I dragged her around the market for a bit, and she picked out a lovely little rainbow coloured purse-thing, from a stall that sold badges with motifs like It takes balls to be a fag! and I have tattoos in places you'd love to lick. Very 1970s. Anyway, A was meeting her friends again, so I took my leave and wandered back to the newly renovated bus station. Which looks really nice, and has plenty of covered seating, and well marked bays, but no central information to show what bus goes from where, so you have to look at each bus stop and timetable individually to find out where to wait. They really should consult transport geeks when they design these places.

2003-06-27T16:37:00.000Z

I'm playing the tape I did yesterday for My New Girlfriend, to see if it runs together well. I love doing tapes, this one has a weird feel to it. It's supposed to show my romantic side, and many of the tracks reflect that, but in a quite melancholic way. I hope it doesn't sound too dour. Anyway, this post is really just an excuse to boast that a) someone's willing to go out with me and b) My New Girlfriend is away this week working at Glastonbury. She gets to wander around with a walkie-talkie. Not for the fun of it, you understand, but as a volunteer for Oxfam, who are providing a lot of the staff. How much better can it get? Well, obviously, being there with her would make things perfect, but short of digging a tunnel under the fence or forking out £250 for a ticket, it's no go. I'll be getting drunk at Mazey Day in Penzance tomorrow instead.

2003-06-26T17:06:00.000Z

So Blogger has spruced itself up, eh? Well, it looks nice enough from the editing screen, but this kind of thing (change) always has me on the run for a while. After slowly, slowly getting to grips with HTML, I'm hoping none of that stuff will be different. So I'll keep this one short, just enough to say: I know I have a real snob's view of horror, I dismiss most of it as being lowest common denominator, exploitative rubbish that has some dodgy ideals at heart, but I must go and see Wrong Turn, despite its pandering to prejudice (hillbillies! inbreeding! DIFFERENCE! yuk!) just as soon as it hits the cinema screens over here.

2003-06-24T17:16:00.000Z

Today is my father's birthday, and his choice to take a trip to Carn Euny, was inspired as far as I was concerned. As the rather dry article I've linked to says, the site is an Iron Age settlement, built on the side of a hill near Sancreed, and as the land rises and dips you get the distinct impression that the sea is actually higher up than you are. It was nice and quiet, with only a field full of cows for company, and I rushed around a bit, keen to find the fogou. A foogoo, as it's pronounced, is a Cornish term for an underground passageway, used probably for storage or rituals.I'd never been in one before and even overcame my claustrophobia to clamber under a low stone into a beehive shaped hut. Last night I took a dusk time drive along the coast, past Zennor and Pendeen, before going inland to Penzance and home again. There were rabbits all over the road, so it took a lot longer than planned, but the sunset sky was beautiful and made for the strangest cloud shapes - they looked like giant trees or even standing stones. I thought that would be hard to beat, but today might have done it. Especially as, later in the day, a parcel was delivered for my parents. It was a giant telescope, a present from my brother. The cats adore the cardboard box it came in, and I am looking forward to clear skies and more geekiness than I could ever have imagined.

2003-06-23T07:29:00.000Z

The Daily Mail is full of horror at the fact that this man

managed to gate-crash Prince William's 21st birthday party. Me, I have no wise words on national security. I'm too busy laughing.

2003-06-22T17:32:00.000Z

So what do you do when an important part of your culture becomes a completely misunderstood fashion accessory?. I'm trying to work out how I feel about Selfridges having a tattoo section. I've found that it's fairly natural to want a more obscure part of your life kept out of the mainstream and shared by the hoi-polloi, so more of an understanding of tattooing - or body art - should be a good thing. Perhaps. The article I've linked to was written by someone who had a tattoo at Selfridges. He had no idea why he did it, didn't bother to try and find out why people modify their bodies in this way, and assumed it was all meaningless. My four tattoos are incredibly meaningful to me, two of them especially are very potent symbols. I happily went through a fair amount of pain to get them, because I think that's a good part of the process. Just about everything we do in this life is temporary. To make a decision that is permanent should take a lot of thought and some commitment. I'm annoyed because I expected more from the Observer - they used the novelty of tattooing at a famous department store to reinforce the myths about the grass roots scene, when really it should have been a good excuse to discuss a fascinating counter culture.

2003-06-21T15:32:00.000Z

The sun shines into my bedroom as it rises, which would be Hell for most of the folk I've ever known, but it's perfect for me, as I it wakes me up at the best time of the day. 06.00 hrs today and I was up and working on the outline of the book for the agent. I'd set myself a deadline of Thursday to get it in the post, but bearing in mind my trips to Berlin and London, I don't think I did too badly. I'd also spent weeks and weeks wondering how on Earth to write a full outline. This is where the odd writing lesson might have come in handy, but I always was to arrogant to go for that kind of thing. Anyway, I'm happy to prod my writer friends for help, which has saved the day this time. So, I didn't even make tea or feed the cats this morning, just focussed on the outline, got it finished, numbered all the pages up (ok I do need to learn a bit more about my word processing programme, stop laughing at the back there) and got it to the village post office in time for the morning collection. I've made a start to chapter 5, but I don't think I'll get much more done today - need to let it brew for a short time, which gives me the excuse to go down to the cemetary later and sit and watch the rabbits for a while. Strolling back past the village pub, it would be rude not to sit in the garden for a pint, wouldn't it? And contemplate the next part of the novel, along with, more importantly, tomorrow's car boot sale in Hayle and the friend I'm bargain hunting with's promise to take me for a drive in her unfeasibly large jeep type vehicle.

2003-06-19T18:17:00.000Z

After a day of gallery hopping with Sue The Artist, first in a mist-bound St Just, and then in Newlyn, it's back to bastard reality with the news that lesbian teacher Shirley Pearce, who had to leave her job after putting up with huge amounts of homophobia from pupils with no support or backup from her employers. She's spent the last 12 years trying to get compensation, but she can only bring a case under sex discrimination laws. And of course that doesn't cover queers. New legislation in December should make racist and homophobic discrimination illegal in the workplace, but even then we'll be less equal than others, since it won't apply in religious workplaces.

2003-06-18T09:47:00.000Z

And to cap it all, this morning I got a certificate from the DSS, saying, basically, 'Wow, you *are* mad, aren't you? In which case you can have free prescriptions, dental treatment and NHS wigs for a whole year'. Great start to the day!

2003-06-18T09:10:00.000Z

Just e-mailed a friend and was discussing how much the novel has taken me over and the possibility that Something Else Wierd happened last week, which may just have been a product of my constantly thinking about a story full of magick or else was the result of trying to experiment with altered mind states and astral travel. Basically what happened was that I was sitting in the lounge, feet up, cat on lap, when I saw myself outside the window, in front of the house. I saw and felt myself levitate several feet off the ground. It lasted a few, glorious seconds and then I was back in my chair. Wow. Whatever it was, it was a grand experience. I've worried in the unhappier parts of my past that I'd get immersed in my writing for the wrong reasons - as a means of escape, instead of changing my life for the better. But I've been working hard on getting what I want from my life and I'm very happy right now, so I've no need to get away from anything anymore.

Browsing the online news to try and sound like I still have my finger on the pulse or could at least provide some links to break up my self indulgent waffling, I came across (not literally, but it's an interesting thought) Julie Burchill. She pisses me off royally sometimes, basically because she chooses to come out with some quite stupid 'contraversial' opinions amongst very strong, sussed, feminist writing. She pisses a hell of a lot of 'right on' men off because she sees through their guilt and not so well hidden sexism and her articles on domestic violence have had me applauding. So today I've been laughing my head off at her article on female tennis players and men's attitudes to them. The best political writing is often the stuff that makes a serious point but is funny, too. So get this: "Just after Navratilova came out, there was always some plug-ugly Yankee teenager with a mouthful of metal, or her mother, whining about the sinister Sapphics hanging round the showers; one of them, Tracey Austin, went so far as to paint her nails publically between sets during one match. The message was clear: I don't dive! Unfortunately, she couldn't play tennis all that well, either."

2003-06-16T20:33:00.000Z

I've been in South London for the last few days, and it's amazing how much I've changed since I lived in the filthy city. I drove up, and I smiled all the way, even on the endless hell of the M25. I wasn't stressed, even caught in the Peckham one way system. Walked down to New Cross Road a bit later and sat in the sunshine, watching people threatening to kill each other. Road rage is big in New Cross, it seems. It was boiling hot and the traffic was dreadful, and I remembered the everyday stress of travelling and London life. I can handle the place in short bursts now. I ended up in Greenwich. It's bizarre - you walk from the inner city vibe of New X and Deptford and then cross a road and you're in a quaint maritime village. A few bookshops worth checking out, but on Friday night all I wanted was a beer in The Gloucester, a beautiful and queer as fuck pub. I felt like an Auntie beyond my years, seeing all the youngsters there who I can't believe are old enough to be served, but it was good to be in that space. Then again, I'm noticing that I'm far more comfortable in quiet, old straight pubs than I used to be. I mean, the chunky sweaters and beards who drink real ale have no interest in giving me a homophobic kicking, but I avoided straight places for so long because of having to be ultra aware of who might want to have a problem with a screaming dyke sitting in the corner. I also feel more able to deal with it, since I no longer have hostile men in my face all day. And despite a six hour drive home this morning, I was inspired to do more work on the book's prologue and transcribe the scrawly mess onto the computer this evening. Feel like I'm 'coming out' as far as the story goes; I've been loathe to tell anyone the plot in case they laughed or didn't get it. And I was treating it as the precioussss - while it was just my own, no one could shatter the dream of getting the thing published and me becoming rich enough not to have to work and buying an old engine house and converting it and living in it and...

2003-06-10T11:55:00.000Z

If homosexuality is a disease, let's all call in queer to work: "Hello. Can't work today, still queer." Robin Tyler

I'd rather be black than gay because when you're black you don't have to tell your mother. Charles Pierce.

Ho, ho.

2003-06-09T18:14:00.000Z

Settled down last night and watched Channel 4's programme on Morrissey. I found it quite comforting to see him smiling a bit and driving around Los Angeles with his beautiful Husky dog, but the footage of recent performances were a bit of a let down - I'm sure Morrissey gigs are every bit as fun as Smiths' gigs were (how about that for a casual bit of showing off?) but I thought The Moz's voice was pretty lacklustre. But since half the people who go along just want to get up on stage and grab the bloke, I don't suppose it matters that much. I'm back into write/sleep/tea/write mode, but it looks as if chapter 4 is now just about done. A bit of spit and polish and then it'll be off to the agent. I've actually told a few people the plot of the book, after being shy and protective of it for ages. Everyone says it sounds great, but I honestly have no idea of how the thing will read. Much, much printing to be done. But before that, a trip to the pub I think.

2003-06-08T18:52:00.000Z

Oooh. Back from Berlin after three and a half days of talking about spiritualism, transitioning and looking at tattoo designs, and I feel like posting here again. The trip involved a long wait at Stansted airport between flights (for some reason they wouldn't put the temperature in the place down below 150 degrees) so I spent a lot of time reading Lynn Breedlove's Godspeed. I was about to give up on it - the first half is well written, but I'm really tired of junkie stories - but I hung on due to a lack of anything else to do and found that once the narrator, Jim, gets a job as a roadie, then things start picking up. There's plenty of roadie stories out there, to be sure, but they're more fun and I can relate to them better. And Breedlove is a woman unrestricted by the boundaries that define how women are supposed to act, or write for that matter. There's a short story in the book about her as a child, called Tranny Child, and it could be my life story! I'll try and quote some bits, or maybe I shouldn't - go out and get the damn book yourselves. To cap it all, I went through the zillions of controls and checks at the airport, and was called 'Sir' at all of them. Me, with my bust that reaches places several minutes before the rest of me does! It hasn't happened for ages, not since I got chased through the women's toilets at the Tower of London by an attendant shouting 'wrong bathroom!', and who then laughed at me when she found out her mistake. Wierd. Anyway, I got to Berlin on time and roasted in the mega-heat. My gifts - English beer, brown sauce and lots of cheeses - were accepted happily and we had a fine time. D is looking amazingly good on the testosterone. It's had some bad side effects, and he got all I want to punch something! I need a punchbag!, not macho but needing some place to get rid of the energy buzzing around him. He ended up whacking me with a cushion. Wussy stuff! And then I tried to outdo him at weightlifting and lost spectacularly. Letting butch dykes the world over down. Sorry, grrls.

As always, I had a wonderful time, but was more than happy to come home. Dropping out of the clouds just outside Newquay, even with the Tosser Brigade downing beers and yelling behind me, I saw the rugged Cornish coastline and a huge grin nearly cracked my face in half. I am so in love with this county. Today I have been showing a friend around - one day in St Ives and she's thrown in her life in Dublin and got a job here - but tomorrow I will get back to work on the book and hopefully get hold of the paints I need to do my big arty slate thingy for the garden.

2003-06-02T19:13:00.000Z

This blog is seriously lacking in political stuff and links, so I'll try and do something about it. I'm really not on the ball about political stuff at the moment, well not world or even national politics, but I have been hearing a bit about Cornish politics recently. There's a lot of 'cultural correction' going on in this part of the count(r)y - road signs with the English Heritage rose on are being covered with the flag of St Pirian, and there's a growing movement for a Cornish Assembly. The arguement is basically that Cornwall is the only Celtic region not to be granted devolution. There's quite a distinct culture down here and of course a separate language (which has been recognised, but there's three versions of it so they need to decide which one to use). Anyway, check Senedh Kernow's website. And here's a geeky link to the BBC's 'Painting the Weather' site. Which is about paintings about the weather. Anorak wearers of the world, unite!

2003-05-31T22:26:00.000Z

I've just finally seen Boys Don't Cry, about the short life and horrific death of Brandon Teena. Not sure I can sleep now.

2003-05-31T18:50:00.000Z

I usually hate 'Which blah blah character are you?' quizzes, but my friends are all doing this one and I want to play, too! And the result was rather accurate:

Which Donnie Darko character are you? by Shay

"Congratulations, you are Donnie Darko.You're not afraid to speak what's on your mind and tell people what you're really thinking.You think about sex a lot and sometimes you wake up with your hands down your pants."

Troubled? Indeed. Can't argue with that after dreaming last night of my abusive ex chasing me to my beautiful dream-house, me locking two of its three doors but not getting to the third in time, and ending with him breaking in and promising to kill me. Shall I just shoot this tosser and get it over with? Answers on a post card, please.

2003-05-29T15:57:00.000Z

I know what I meant to write about today - my cd player has finally given up the ghost. I'm thinking that if I ignore it for a while, it will get better, but since I can't go for more than a day or so without listening to Blyth Power, I'll probably have to shell out sooner or later. Damn. Got that player the day after my first proper girlfriend dumped me; it's stuck by me for a long, long while. Don't like spending money, at all. Although I did bite the bullet and get some factor three zillion sun cream - after a glorious, life affirming hike up to Chun Quoit and the nearby castle yesterday, I'm somewhat burnt and a bit funny looking. Worth it to hug some more ancient monuments, though.

2003-05-29T15:51:00.000Z

Driving around a seaside town in blazing sunshine and listening to The Smiths doesn't go together at all. Just in case you were wondering.

2003-05-27T12:22:00.000Z

After another dreadful night of bad dreams and wakefullness, I managed to see my doctor this morning. Not just see her, blush stupidly like a teenager with a crush as soon as I was in the consulting room with her because she's so nice to me. She gave me a different kind of sleeping pill, so I'm exhausted but expecting to sleep tonight. I got home to find that my brother had phoned - the twins he and his wife were expecting have died. I wonder how people go about grieving in this kind of situation?

2003-05-26T21:57:00.000Z

I've written nearly 900 words today, chapter 4 of the book is rattling along nicely but I don't know how I've done it: I woke up at 3 a.m., scared witless by two dreams, one about being shot in the neck, the other about being aboard an old steam boat that kept trying to sink. Believe me, seawater in the middle of the ocean is cold. I woke up thinking I was alone in the house and was terrified; that lifelong fear of being left alone really got to me. I went to check that the window was locked, because I was then sure that something would be climbing up the side of the house to get me. All was well, though, the moonlit, silvery clouds over the horizon really calmed me down. But I didn't sleep after that. I've been quite zombified all through the day, but I got a couple of nice e-mails from people and had a serious haircut to celebrate going to Berlin next week to see my friend who stated last night that he 'didn't think I looked that dykey'. I'll show him!

2003-05-25T19:18:00.000Z

I keep writing and then deleting blog entries. PMT has me in its grip, so nothing I do seems good enough right now, except for spreading the news that yet another street festival is fast approaching, this time in Penzance. Read in a comedy Cornish accent if you will:

"On Midsummer Eve, after dark, the town blazes with light; through the main streets is a continuous line of blazing tar barrels; in the crowded Green Market till midnight fireworks of all descriptions are burnt; about ten o'clock from the Quay comes a procession of dock labourers and sailors swinging burning torches. The numerous inhabitants engaged on the frolic, pouring forth from the Quay and it's neighbourhood, form a long string and, hand in hand run furiously through every street vociferating ''an eye, an eye, an eye!'' At length they suddenly stop, and the two last of the string, elevating their clasped hands, form an eye to this enormous needle, through which the thread of the populace runs. The line is formed without any regard to the number engaged, excepting to keep in mind the old proverb of '' the more the merrier ''. On the morning of Midsummer Day children ramble about the town with garlands of flowers around them, and on that day is also held Quay Fair.''

The Golowan festival looks like it's going to be a goodie - plenty of Wickerman scariness if the photo below is anything to go by. Smiley horse skulls are bad enough, but who's that figure in the background with the glowing eyes?!

2003-05-23T12:15:00.000Z

I've been looking for my favourite Situationist cartoon, can't find it as yet, but there's some good examples at Nothingness. My fave is probably the most simple one I've seen, yet it says so much: a smiling man and a boy are in a room, watching tv. The image on the tv is is of fields and a tree. Behind them is a window, outside the window is the same scene. Funny, but deadly serious.

2003-05-22T18:23:00.000Z

Heading towards the Guardian Online, I stopped off to see what the Sun was offering today. Inside was an article about Mariah Carey having a scrap with ex-boyfriend Eminem and contained this quote: “If he is thinking of using a voicemail I left a year ago it is crazy. “It feels like he is engaging in a catfight with me. It’s like dealing with a girlfriend in seventh grade. It’s like fighting with a little girl. It’s childish.” No, Mariah, it's like fighting with a little boy. Nothing worse than a bit of misogyny from our own side.

2003-05-22T18:04:00.000Z

I got a message from a wise woman (and a damn good photographer to boot: all hail black and white photographs with borders) I know who read my entry on the 19th, about writing and sexual arousal. Basically she said, in the nicest possible way, of course you can feel this way when you write or do anything creative...It's all about raw energy and 'creative juices' and where did I think that term came from? It really was something I shouldn't have been surprised at, it's just that it's never happened to me before, even though I've been thoroughly involved in what I've been writing. Perhaps it's the length of what I'm doing; a 9,000 odd word short story takes investment in time and energy, but it's a shortish burst. Now I'm finally writing a novel, I'm so far inside it that I'm practically living it 24 hours a day. This has been going on since the end of last summer, when I first had vague thoughts about what it was going to be about.

Hey! - this has lasted longer than most of my relationships!

And add to the above the environment I'm living in - the energy of Cornwall makes me feel possessed - and I'm surprised I'm not having continuous orgasms.

2003-05-21T15:21:00.000Z

Apparently the Sun newspaper has offered £50,000 to the couple who shag first on Big Brother. As long as they do it for real and, inevitably, as long as they're straight - it's been specified as being open to male/female BB shags only. Gareth McLean has written a good (angry but weary) article about this in today's Guardian, about how it suddenly appears to be fine to promote promiscurity as long as 'normal' people are doing it. This bit made me laugh and want to hug the man for knowing:

"Like most things, this double standard comes down to sex. Specifically, two kinds of gay sex. First, there is the acceptable kind. This involves two women who don't conform to the stereotypical image of lesbians. They are Tatu, or Brookside's Beth and Margaret, the stuff of the straight man's masturbatory fantasy. Indeed, if the Sun could guarantee the conventional attractiveness of Big Brother lesbo lovers, it would likely pay a lot more than £50,000. As it can't, it won't, and Tatu will do for now. Then there is the unacceptable variety of gay sex. This can be further divided. There is sex between women who conform to dykeish lesbian stereotypes, and therefore are not attractive to the male gaze; and there is sex between men. This is the scariest sex of all. Even otherwise liberal straight blokes can't hide the fear in their eyes when they meet gay men. From this fear springs mistrust; from that comes guilt and fear. It's all very tedious."

Buy that man a drink!

2003-05-21T12:59:00.000Z

Not so butch after all. I spent one day in the genderfuck group and then unjoined. One of the problems was that I recognised a couple of people from the Hackney scene - not brilliant parts of history I want to relive, and one of them has connections with my ex, which is no good. The other thing I found was that I am waaay too female for this lot. And my feminist hackles have risen. Not knowing the individuals or the culture that well, I'm aware of looking in from the outside. But I couldn't help but get angry at photos of women covering their breasts up. Is some of the stuff - boi/Daddy - about surrendering to Patriarchy? Is it easier to play at passing when the mood take one than to be a full time butch dyke? To ask these questions on that forum would have been rude, an intrusion of their space, so I left. I identify completely as female, I'm proud of it, although my definition of female is a bit different to the way Patriarchy would like it. But endless stories of 'boys' being told to 'suck my cock, you faggot' made me feel alienated. I'll play with dildos, and I've done scenes with women who are packing, but it's always been within an extremely female headspace. Perhaps I am just ignorant, but I think these questions should be asked: where is the butch community going? Are we becoming extinct?

2003-05-19T21:57:00.000Z

Today I was invited to join a butch/genderfuck online group. It would have been rude not to, so I'm now a member. So no more arm wrestling in the pub or posing around a pool table, I'm BUTCH. OFFICIAL!!

Actually, I did point out that I was probably no way butch enough for them, but they let me in anyway.

2003-05-19T09:39:00.000Z

File under 'far too much personal information for a blog', but I've either got to say it here or ring a writer friend up who will probably run screaming from the 'phone: my novel is dark fantasy, with elements of horror. No sex as yet. So why is it, the last few times I've been working on it, have I found, ahem, evidence of sexual arousal? And I've already thought of the one about it proving that my writing is a load of old wank, so try and come up with some other explanations, please.

2003-05-18T18:26:00.000Z

How fucking racist are the first two Indiana Jones films? Not having seen either of them for years, I've got through fifteen minutes of each in the last week before switching off in disgust. How could I have missed the excitable/cowardly/untrustworthy/disposable darkies? The Indian villagers, powerless (naturally) to help themselves, giving all their food and blessings to a white man and a white woman (even though she spends all her time screaming at snakes and bats), because, in his benevolence, Jones is going to retrieve a sacred stone for them? Things have clicked into place since I saw the credits - both stories were written by George Lucas. Ah, now I understand. I nearly walked out of The Phantom Menace (well, okay, my girlfriend wouldn't have come with me, but I should've gone anyway) because it was so insulting. I'd forgotten about it, until I started Googling George+Lucas+racist? and come up with some interesting articles. The sensible BBC one is here, the absolutely hilarious and much more fun one - Jar Jar Sucks.com - has no doubt got loads more hits, though.

2003-05-16T12:00:00.000Z

The DSS sent me pages of waffle this morning, so it took me a while to work out that I got enough 'points' in the interview on Tuesday to qualify for benefits. A big relief. Also, the Blyth Power cd I'd ordered turned up, and I've been playing it all morning. It's utterly wonderful. Schoolkids should have to listen to their stuff during history lessons - they'd learn more and have much more fun.

I've done some writing which I'm very happy with but I feel very restless - now is the time I really need someone I can drag along to the amusement arcades in St Ives. I went in there briefly the other day and whupped my mother at target shooting. It was satisfying, especially the bit where I hit the target, which made one of the scary 'hillbilly' dummies spit water all over a tourist walking past the arcade. But mother finds the music in those kind of places really wierd and horrible so won't stay long. The gauntlet is down for anyone who thinks they can beat me.

2003-05-14T20:23:00.000Z

Talking about dreams with someone just now, I was reminded of an incident a while back where I was asleep at a friend's place while she was pootling around on the 'net. She walked across the room just as I was in the middle of a nightmare, actually watched me twitching and making noises, trying to break out of it. I really wish she'd been able to video it - I've sometimes felt after a lot of dreaming that I've actually been away from my bed all night, and I'd like to see what I look like when I'm having adventures. My sister was saying how awful she feels after a particularly bad dream, but it seems obvious to me why that would be so: in dreams, you're to all extents and purposes actually living an extraordinary/terrifying experience that you would never face in waking life. So naturally you're going to be suffering trauma of some kind afterwards. More on this when I've made it up.

2003-05-14T19:07:00.000Z

Trying to find a nice photograph of Berlin, I ended up with this instead:

It's by Nokkvi Eliasson, who's been taking pix of deserted farmhouses in Iceland for years. I found his site via the wonderful Abandoned Places. Lots of examples of photographers who are into the same thing as me, but are much better at it.

2003-05-14T18:45:00.000Z

I'm going to Berlin. Ryanair did their best to stop me finding out the info I needed over the 'phone (after 15 minutes of U2, I gave up in despair), so I took my chances on the 'net and booked the two flights I needed; Newquay to Stansted. Long wait at Stansted then on to Berlin, but a well connected journey back again. Hopefully, anyway - once I'd booked, Ryanair sent me an e-mail saying they did not recommend booking connecting flights with their company, and took no responsibility and would not be held liable for leaving people stranded in airports around Europe. They practically told me that on no account should I enjoy myself. There's no other practical way to get to Berlin, so I'll just try not to worry about it. I haven't seen my best friend since early January, so the trip will be tiring but worth it. Also, I get to meet his newest cat, who he rescued from a flat he was cleaning. It looked as if someone had kicked it in the face and was really ill for a while but bounces around and gets into all kinds of trouble now. So lots of hugs and beer is in prospect at the beginning of next month. Unless things go really pear shaped, in which case I'll spend four days at Stansted Airport.

2003-05-14T08:46:00.000Z

The interview with the DSS doctor was not quite as awful as I had imagined it would be (I'd visualised a couple of Daleks screaming questions at me and then deciding "YOU. WILL. WORK! YOU. WILL. WORK!"), athough it was interesting to note my defences going right up when I saw a man in a grey suit, dipping his fountain pen in an ink bottle. I was such a bag of nerves that I could barely string a sentence together. He talked about another 'chat' in a year, so fingers crossed, I got through it. Went home after the hugest coffee I could get hold of an got working. It's very difficult, even when you really want to get on with something, to have to sleep after a while, wake up, drag yourself back to the computer, rewrite more of the chapter, then fall asleep again. But it's getting there, and I now have all the details of the agent and the format I need to send my stuff to him in. I feel better this morning and have started work early - nothing like two sleeping pills and half a litre of strong beer to get a decent night's sleep at alst - I still have a bruised toe from Saturday night, where I woke up yelling and kicking the wall because I dreamt a Daschund had turned into a huge spider and was chasing me. As a result of all this light dozing instead of real sleep, it took me about three hours to re write one short conversation yesterday, but it feels okay, I really feel on top of this.

2003-05-12T19:29:00.000Z

Thanks to Plums for directing me to Webmonkey, and allowing me to finally not be scared of adding photos and whatnot to this here blog.

2003-05-11T20:06:00.000Z

Drove back from Plymouth this morning. I thought it was a big, horrible port but what little I saw of it looked fantastic. Some great architecture and wiggly little roads around the Greenbank area. The place was apparently 'bombed to fuck' in WWII but was rebuilt using the original plans. Instead of the usual tower block ugliness. And of course driving over the beautiful Tamar Bridge (one of Brunel's best) was something else. Driving alone, I got to play my new tape; Spiritualized's 'Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space' on one side, which is incredibly sad when you're hungover/sleepy/sober, and Embrace on the other. Embrace sounded distinctly upbeat in comparison, although the tape is a fairly dreary ninety minutes which I wouldn't expect anyone else to put up with.

There seems to have been a few trans stories in the press recently, one in the Daily Mail/Express (can never remember which is which) which covered the transwoman who fathered a child before her op. It was an interesting story, the couple were very sorted and loving and it was like the paper attempted to tell the story properly but couldn't resist making snidey remarks every so often. 'Sordid tale of self gratification' came right after the child's birth mother talking intelligently about sexuality issues. There was another article in The Guardian that a lot of people have taken offence at. I read a bit of it - it was about genderfucking in New York - and it was so sneering that it made me laugh my head off, which is probably a terrible attitude, but it kind of vindicates my view of the 'liberal' left who, not very deep down, hate us wierdos. Which is why they love Eminem so much - his working class background can apparently justify his hatred of poofs, dykes and women in general. And of course, you can now buy rap music without having to give money to those nasty Black men.

Having now read the article through properly, the writer seems to have got the point she was trying to make (which I'm still not sure of) rather mixed up in two issues; i.e. transpeople who don't go 'all the way' in surgery and whether or not that 'still counts' as being transgender, and women who appear to be making a statement about gender fluidity. These deserve two separate articles at least, on top of the obvious sneering the writer wanted to do at all the other sections of the gay community. I don't see it as transphobic so much as it is such a real mish mash of opinions that doesn't really say anything much, except that the writer isn't very good. On the second point, if I were trans I might feel a bit aggrieved about women adopting the pronoun 'he' to play politics (if such women really exist) - to me that sounds like the straight women who claimed to be bisexual when Go Fish came out (ho ho), but were never without a boyfriend and didn't really fancy women at all. It gave bisexuals - an entirely different kettle of fish - a bad name. Coolness without any of the flak. But transpeople who go for, say, hormone shots and breast removal/enhancement without having genital surgery doesn't make them not transpeople. That's a different thing entirely - that is about how much space there is between male and female. So it'd be nice to be able to work out what the writer of that article was against, exactly, before trying to work out how offensive it was or wasn't. Although naturally the biggest shouting seems to have come from the guilt ridden white male, who, different from the liberal left, are desperately aware of how much priviledge they have, how they can't bear to be reminded of it, and how fucking sexist they are and how bad they are at hiding it. At least you know where you are with the Daily Hate rags.

2003-05-11T15:56:00.000Z

2003-05-09T23:09:00.000Z

I'm supposed to be sleeping now, but I'm still buzzing after the gig tonight. Driving to St Agnes at dusk, down little roads I'd never been along before, then getting to the venue, the Driftwood Spars hotel, right on the coast. A lovely little pub with lots of lovely beer, but I wasn't going to drink and drive, so I sipped a soft drink, wondering if this was going to be sad and nostalgic but it wasn't. The band still do punky folk songs, but it doesn't sound like a bunch of old punks trying not to have to go out and get proper jobs. It was actually one of the best gigs I've ever been to; they're even better than they were when I last saw them, all those years ago. I was blown out of my cynical old socks. Took a deep breath after the set and said hello to singer/drummer Joseph Porter, who I'd spoken to a couple of times back in Olden Times. He remembered losing to my team at cricket, so that was all right. He's a clever bastard, as you can tell from these lyrics if you want an idea of what they're about (well, English history and trains, mainly). And then buy a cd.

2003-05-09T17:00:00.000Z

I mentioned an agent possibly looking at my book - well, he's an agent for someone I'm quite friendly with who's written two very successful SF novels and he's keen to see my book. Cue wild, hysterical excitement and total and complete panic... he wants to see a full outline and the first 4 chapters. I don't even know what a full outline is. Ye gods, have I got to get down and work now. Couldn't be happier.

2003-05-08T20:39:00.000Z

Got a text message just now from my best friend - he's going for his first testosterone shot in the morning. Rang him and talked about it for a long time. He wondered why I wasn't 'wierd' about it - we used to go out a few years back, when he was a grrl - and I said something that surprised even me: "If I was still going out with you, it wouldn't make any difference. I wouldn't dump you or anything. It's just you being more you...". Interesting. So I got a bit sniffly and promised to set my alarm clock for 07.00 hrs, which is when he'll be bending over, getting a needle in his arse.

2003-05-07T21:06:00.000Z

And while I'm on the subject - pretentious is something I'm unlikely to ever be, judging by the way I've been floating around this afternoon because Sue the Artist liked a story of mine and is working on illustrations. I am full of I am not worthy and almost puking with excitement and nervousness. And of course if this agent likes the synopsis of my book then I've got to actually finish it and hope it makes sense. Holy shit! I'm also feeling good today because after a hell of a lot of effort my social life is really picking up. Although that doesn't mean I miss my friends any the less. And yes, that is a hint. If you're reading this, then I want you to come visit.

2003-05-07T13:22:00.000Z

Got up early to finish the painting, which I really like. When am I going to do something with the damn things, though? It'd be great to hang them all up in a great, big room and see how they look. If people fell about laughing, then even that would be helpful in it's own way. I paint the kind of stuff that I like, which of course is what I should be doing, but making some money was supposed to be the idea, and I'm too scared to show them to anyone who isn't a friend and so will be kind. Perhaps I should start buying and selling German pottery - I got another two pieces today at a local boot sale. One's an ashtray, probably at least 30 years old, the other is a bright yellow vase with a handle. Both are in excellent condition and are absolutely beautiful. Two quid for the pair. Amazing. I really should be selling this stuff in London. Anyway, I also got Carlos Lozano's memoirs of life with Salvador Dali for 50p. I've read the odd paragraph, it looks like it's going to be fascinating but pretentious as hell. A good read.

2003-05-06T10:40:00.000Z

So do I go for a hysterectomy or not? My mother had one, and they left her ovaries in so she hit the menopause at the usual time. There's no way I'm ever going to have children, so no problem there, it's just typical that I've finally found a pretty effective method of controlling the pain (a mixture of lemon balm tea and solpodol painkillers) which meant I could walk around St Ives yesterday, see the May Day procession (and the gorgeous samba drummer), meet up and wander around with a woman I've been chatting to on the internet for most of the afternoon before wandering back up (somehow I never seem to walk downhill) to the bus station and home. Usually, I'd be doubled up in agony or asleep, if I was lucky. So that's quite miraculous, although putting more chemicals in me doesn't seem like a good idea. Think I should go for the op if I get the offer. It could save twenty years of buying feminine hygeine products and would hopefully stop me being the utter bitch I was last week due to PMT. Sorry, everyone. Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn't mean it.... Additionally, the effect of the pills is similar to that of good cocaine. And I don't want to get too keen on it.

Meanwhile, I've decided to pinch, ahem, use the influence of Naomi Frears and experiment with using material as stencil templates. Just started one today - got a lovely big bit of slate from the Kingdom of the Spiders (behind the shed) and have put the first colour on. It looks good, and of course using acrylics on material means you can wash it out, dry it and use it over and over again. Perfect!

2003-05-04T20:22:00.000Z

I still have a passion for English social history from the Industrial Revolution onwards, and I'd learnt a little bit about the Peterloo Massacre of 1819 when I was at school. Bascially: Northern English workers gathered in a field to talk about rights/empowerment + yeomen galloping in on horseback to shut the oiks up = 600 either trampled to death by horses or killed by swords. Less folk get killed in demonstrations/gatherings in this country now, but the general contempt for free speech remains the same. Anyway, there's a ton of information to read, which I haven't gone through due to the migraine that's beginning to take hold, but it's looks absolutely fascinating, and I can't wait to get to grips with it.

2003-05-03T19:56:00.000Z

I don't think I can get to this, but I wish I could, and someone reading this might be interested. It all takes place at the ICA.

CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION - NEW BRITISH SCIENCE FICTION, May 14th - 15th

"There is talk of a renaissance in British SF. On the eve of the Arthur C Clarke Award, the ICA holds two talks about this continually underrated and increasingly exciting genre. Both talks will be introduced by M. John Harrison, author of Light (shortlisted for this year's award); Jon Courtenay Grimwood, author of Pashazade, and Effendi; and China Mieville, author of King Rat and Perdido Street Station.

May 14th, 7pm: Fresh Blood.

There's no doubt that British SF is undergoing a thrilling renaissance. But why is it suddenly so good? Who are the new talents in the field, and who are the stalwarts they're joining? And what is driving this efflorescence of creativity? Speakers include Paul McAuley, author of Fairyland, and a judge at this year's Clarke; Muriel Gray, broadcaster, and author of Furnace and The Ancient; Andrew McKie critic for The Telegraph and Gwyneth Jones, last year's Clarke winner for Bold as Love.

May 15th, 7pm: Generic Modification: Is Genre The New Mainstream?

For decades, science fiction has been attempting to escape the constraints of genre, and occasional masterpieces have done just that. But now the discipline as a whole is stretching its legs, flexing its muscles and setting up camp in the literary mainstream. Is modern SF's compulsive criss-crossing of genres the kick in the pants contemporary fiction needs? Or is there still further to go? The award-winning literary writer, Toby Litt, one of Granta's 20 Best Young Novelists; John O'Connell, journalist and Time Out reviewer; Muriel Gray and Justina Robson, author of Mappa Mundi and one of our hottest new SF writers talk it over."

So says the blurb. I should put a link to M John Harrison, I suppose, but I'll be principled (or juvenile, depending on your point of view) and won't - I have little doubt he's an excellent writer, but I got involved in an argument with him about slash fiction and let's just say his attitude toward homosexuality was malicious ignorance at best. So there's no way I'm going to promote him. Anyway, science fiction writing as revolutionary and ground breaking? That's a toughie. I don't read that much SF - the short fiction I've read in the small press has been incredibly poor, and the one book I've half read, Mappa Mundi, appears to be very good, but I'm ashamed to admit the science part of the fiction goes way over my head and I can't visualise it at all. I was involved in a SF/slipstream magazine's messageboard for a while, and apart from the slash fiction debacle - where I was insulted and patronised like it was going out of fashion, purely for asking what people's views were on slash - the general attitude of the SF community was very conservative. These people think they're breaking boundaries but most of them don't seem to have a clue. I remember seeing Kathy Acker interview William Gibson, maybe 15 years ago now, also at the ICA, and the audience - while aware of how right on Gibson was - treated Acker like she was just getting in the way. I wish I'd had the confidence to go up to her afterwards and tell her that not everyone there was stupid. Won't get another chance now, of course.

2003-05-02T20:46:00.000Z

This is weird. Before I left London I gave a special friend a little babies' music box that plays Brahm's Lullaby on when you pull the string. It was given to my brother by my beloved grandmother, who died several years ago. I made my friend promise to keep it safe. Anyway, we've had a real bust up and she sent it back. I put it in my drawer next to my bed, which is in the next room to the computer, and I can smell my grandmother. I've never had any sense of her since she died until now. I suppose it's more likely to be that I saw the music box today and have been thinking about her, but it feels very real. I still miss her. It must be six years or more since she died.

2003-05-02T19:48:00.000Z

Nothing like a walk on the seafront on a sunny evening to make you think of lost love, the one you'll never have, all the times you've messed up and so have no one to share this with, blah blah blah.

2003-05-02T16:16:00.000Z

Saw a documentary last night on Channel 4 about MTF transexuals, which seemed suprisingly well informed and was handled pretty well, I thought. Ch4's been going downhill for quite a while now, so I was expecting a 'look at the freaks' kind of thing, but it was educational, not patronising and showed facial feminisation surgery, which was fascinating. I found some more info on the channel's website and it looks fairly sound. I'm a hell of a lot more well informed about trans stuff than I was even a short time ago, but there's people who could comment on the article from a better perspective than me. But it appears that Channel 4 may be dragging itself out of the mire.

2003-05-02T16:08:00.000Z

Pretentious artistey stuff coming up, you have been warned:

I'm around halfway through the first draft of the book. I had a beer yesterday and it loosened my tongue a little and for the first time I told someone what it was actually about. Fired me up (I'm great! The book's going to be a classic!), felt wierd (just who the fuck do I think I am, talking about myself?), slightly embarrassing (she'll read my stuff and think it's terrible and never speak to me again, and...) ... all at once. But anyway, it's just hit me that being at this stage is why I've been struggling a bit, I think: I'm too far in to stop, but not far enough to see the end yet. A bit like swimming across a huge lake. Or, for me, anything more than around twenty feet wide and two feet deep. But I've written much more today than I have in the last few days, and I expect to get 1000 words done today. I should be doing a lot more than that anyway, but for a first novel, I'm not going to stress that much. If I do another, then I'll be setting myself a certain number of hours work per day (you can see I'm confident of never writing another novel). So far it's the kind of book I'd be more than happy to read. The fantasy elements are dark and fantastical rather than whimsical, the story is simple but topical, and asks a very basic moral question. And the genderfuck stuff is fun. Sue reckoned it could work as a mainstream book, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I keep thinking I'd better put some nastier stuff in it.

2003-05-01T16:14:00.000Z

Well, I am all galleried out. After a fantastic visit to the doctor - who signed me off work for two months instead of the usual one, and stated that 'it was my right to have a hysterectomy if I wanted one', I want to marry this woman! - I met up with Sue on the harbourfront in St Ives. We took in the Tate - the Barbara Hepworth wallpaper in one of the rooms was astounding and made viewing the other exhibits really difficult - then went along to the New Millenium Gallery that had an exhibition by Naomi Frears, who I'd never heard of, but am now a big, big fan of. The examples on the link are nothing like as good as the stuff I saw today. Anyway, after that we checked out a few other places in St Ives, then drove to Newlyn and had look at a gallery there. Ended up in a pub, of course, drinking a wonderful Cornish ale and sketching pictures of each other. Sue wants to do some illustrations for some stories of mine. Hopefully it wasn't just the Stella Artois talking... I also found out about a local scheme called ArtCred, where you can buy bloody expensive art and pay it off in installments - interest free. Excellent stuff, makes art accessible for more people, i.e. me. Which is always a good thing.

2003-04-30T20:22:00.000Z

The irony of the U.S. demanding Iraq become a democracy and then U.S. soldiers shooting dead people exercising their right to free speech is a true killing joke. The soldiers claim they were shot at first. Which is possible, but they have such a reputation for being trigger happy, who's going to believe them? Add to that stories of looters being stripped and having 'Ali Baba' written on their torsos in Arabic by American soldiers, and Iraqis might be wondering whether the new boss is going to be the same as the old boss.

2003-04-30T18:13:00.000Z

I'm doing art galleries tomorrow with Sue The Artist. She made my day earlier by refusing to go to the Tate if Terry Frost's stuff was being exhibited there. I saw a couple of his paintings in a gallery in Marazion yesterday, at well over £2000 a go. I've probably linked to him before, but if you haven't seen what he does, take a look and tell me why he's so well regarded, because I certainly don't know. Ian MacNeill Cooke (who I raved about the other day) doesn't seem to be known outside the hippy element. Don't seem right to me. Alfred Wallis, though, is another matter. Although, again, I couldn't say why. So, anyway, we might take in the Tate, Newlyn Art Gallery, and whatever's going on in Penzance. She's doing the driving so I'd better provide the coffee.

2003-04-29T17:29:00.000Z

Just heard Black's 'Wonderful Life'. The song's beautiful but the lyrics are heart breaking. I always seem to get caught off-guard when it gets played:

Here I go out to sea again/The sunshine fills my hair/And dreams hang in the air/Gulls in the sky and in my blue eye/You know it feels unfair/There's magic everywhere/Look at me standing/Here on my own again/Up straight in the sunshine

No need to laugh and cry/It's a wonderful, wonderful life/No need to run and hide/It's a wonderful, wonderful life

The sun's in your eyes, the heat is in your hair/They seem to hate you, because you're there/And I need a friend, oh I need a friend, to make me happy/Not stand here on my own/Look at me standing/Here on my own again/Up straight in the sunshine

I need a friend, oh I need a friend/To make me happy, not so alone/Look at me here/Here on my own again/Up straight in the sunshine...