A productive day away from the Web

You know why it's called The Web. Because it's sticky and you can't help going there. All good little flies, comme moi, et peut-etre, comme toi*, manage to get entangled and spend about 80% of the daily work hours buzzing around, doing the Internet ablutions, over and over, before settling down like a bee (I know, I'm changing my metaphor). We settle on our flower, no matter what type, and do our business. But soon, we are aloft and flying, scanning again.

It's fucking annoying and pathetic and such a time-waster.

What I want to know is: What did people use to procrastinate before the Internet? Suggestions welcome.

So today, I went to my mamas. She was out. She doesn't have wifi. I still had Internet on my phone but I muted it - it usually is - and got down to it, man.

I worked solidly from 10am - 3pm. I raided mum's fridge at about 11.37am (don't you love that 'about' slipped in there?) and had left-overs and two large glasses of Buddha's tears tea. I did the following writerly tasks:

1. cleaned out all my superfluous folders to do with my next writing thing. I had duplications, I had irrelevant notes, I had lists and shit all over the place. My desktop is already a brothel, with damp towels lying everywhere and used condoms under the bed, and DD bras just HANGING OFF THE BACKS OF CHAIRS LIKE IN THE MOVIES. So you techie types will be pleased to know that my folder for Thing Two was cleaned up like the backyard after rain. Slashing and burning and whippersnippering all over the place. Filling my 'trash can' and emptying the fucker. So now all that is relevant to Thing 2 is IN THE ONE PLACE. This is quite a major achievement pour moi.

2. I went through my hand-written notes for Thing 3 (which after going through Thing 2, a far more advanced Thing, I realised Thing 3 might become Thing 2 chronologically. It's a much easier thing.)
I transcribed some text and notes for this project and became very excited about it all over again. This is something I haven't looked at for months because I've been focused elsewhere but it's a Thing that has come very easily and fluently and is quite the contemporary Thing (compared to the others, which in my mind - again, that cavernous, dark space - I conceptualise as more saga-ish) which I'm quite pleased with.

So, enough about me. What do you think about me?****

* Wondering why I'm using Franch***? I've had one wine.
** I lie, it's two.
*** Does anyone know to which movie character this refers? (In my own mind, quite possibly.)
**** Bonus point for person who picks this movie character.

Friday funtime

So I haven't done a diarama for a while even though from memory there's still about 18 months if not two years of the 80s to go. Wondering if I should persist? I hate an unfinished project.

In other news, am getting through the David Foster Wallace biography. It's brilliant, I am taking notes. And girding my loins for Infinite Jest.

My father, who I have called a cunt on here, and who I don't think visits much anymore (and not because of that, I hasten to add, probably just because it's boring here) is still talking to the poh-lees about the particular case from several years ago (early part of Bad Eighties Diaries, I think early 1984). His 'detective friend' (as my dad puts it) had gone quiet (required else where in the city a couple of weeks ago) but he's sure to pop up. Dad had to give a proper statement, and he gave the DNA cheek-swab.

I love my dad but gee he's snaky. I spoke to him just before and told him so. Last week he let me down and sometimes it seems like that's the pattern. Here I am - a mature woman - capable in every way, yet she still has a seven-year-old girl living inside of her, who gets hurt. It's pathetic but I'm sure I'm not the only one. Don't we all have smaller versions of ourselves living inside our skins?

Last week we had organised to go to lunch. Him, me, my mother and Princess. (My parents are divorced but still share sweet nostalgic referencing when they see each other; talk of songs remembered, seeing Frank Sinatra together in the '60s, peeps they knew, etc. This is a contrast to the wild scenes of thirty-five years before - love letters found in shirt pockets; soap rubbed into locks; marital beds dismantled; feelings hurt about not being invited to Abba at the Myer Music Bowl.) So Dad cancelled at the last minute. He said he'd hurt his leg. I smelled bullshit and found out today that aroma was accurate. I can't be fagged going into it; it's like politics. Just let it go. But I told Dad today I'd felt he let me down and I felt he was being snaky and not being straight with me. He gets caught in the middle - something that happens to men NOT women. Women are the ones that PUT them in the middle. Men are reeling, fogged-headed and confused, trying to keep everyone happy and not managing to get a smile on anyone's face - so they lie and cover up and bullshit and make excuses. They can't win. I know that.

Anyway.

Anyway.

He and I are good. I don't like it when we're not good. Families suck but they are also really great when they are great.