For the past several days I have found myself lost within a labyrinth of complex epistemological problems, trying to make a powerful critical point by looking at the History section of a rather innocuous website. Still, I think i managed to cheat the hideous gnome perched on top of my PC. He sits there, waving his hourglass at me and brandishing his pistol with the inlaid-silver on the butt, but there are some things that can't be beat, and my ability to write convincing nonesense about piffling issues at a considerable pace is one of them.
    In other matters, I've been gazing down the barrel of a blank canvas lately, thinking about doing something mysterious. The problem is that all my ideas are moods and impressions rather than images, and the only pictures to surface are Franz Marc-styled ecstasies of Expressionism that I have neither the time nor the technical ability to tackle.

    Speaking of things which I lack, I'm also flat broke. I bought a CD this fortnight which, coupled with somethings costing more than they should have and my forgetting about several trips to the corner shop, has left me with just enough money to survive after paying the rent. Having several hundred dollars sitting there, grinning at you, knowing you can't touch it but that you desperately, desperately want to, is the closest I have ever found myself to a sexually-abusive relationship.

    I finished three novels last night, all of which I'd left lying around a few dozen pages from the end; The Dain Curse by Dashiell Hammett, which was as enjoyable and loopy as I expected but which cheated a little in terms of the characterisation of the villain, Man Plus by Frederick Pohl, which was a fine read despite the unavoidable gloss of 1970s America (which I immediately associate with bad TV shows as a result of my misspent youth), and The Devils Maze by Gerald Suster, which was a fine and unusual riff on Arthur Machen and H.P. Lovecraft written, apparently, in answer to a book I've never heard of.

    I'm currently embarking on The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov, which is so far pretty grand because it has a giant cat that hops trams, and The Lady in the Lake by Raymond Chandler, which is pretty good so far too. I can't help thinking of Bogart when I read Hammett, but I've never really had that problem when it comes to Chandler.

    Last but not least, I've finally realised how absolutely awesome Tom Waits is. I already knew, but now I know. I like Alice better than Swordfishtrombone or  Rain Dogs, though those three and Orphans are, regrettably, all I've heard.
    Meanwhile I have to write 1200 words on six different topics by tomorrow, so I'd better wrap things up.
   

Tags: bulgakov, tom waits, yanyuwa
Current Location: Deakin Burwood University Library
Current Mood: cheerfully optimistic
Current Music: Boards of Canada - Geogaddi