Wednesday, 22nd November, 2006

Well, Now, That's Interesting

I just pulled my sock off to scratch my foot, and discovered there's a huge pile of skin falling off my sole

I'm on my tod tonight. Well, it's just me and Frank really. I'm sat lying on M's sofa in Harrogate, herself having gone to Coventry on Uni-business (and on to sunny climes apparently), leaving me the keys and the flat to myself.

It's odd, really, being alone in someone else's flat I'm not entirely sure I'd be too willing myself — I'd be far too worried about people poking through drawers and finding 'unmentionables'

(Not that I have any intention of going through M's drawers. Just to point that out)

...

I so didn't want to get out of bed this morning. The alarm went off at six, then again at 6:10, 6:20, 6:30 — each time yanking me unceremoniously out of some kind of intensely weird dream. I (obviously) can't remember any of them, but I think I was in New York in one.

Or it might have been Swindon.

The more I do that journey — over the hills from Lancaster to Leeds (via Skipton) — the more I'm realising I need to live here. Well, not here as in Harrogate — here as in Leeds. I was thinking earlier that this (having the flat to myself) was the perfect opportunity to indulge in that pastime that I haven't done for ages — going for a drink with my colleagues after work.

But I was in the car. And I was shattered. So I didn't.

I just jumped in the car, forced my way onto the Meanwood Road and sped to the sanctity of North Yorkshire, pausing only to pour a much-needed tenner's-worth of petrol into Ffr whilst oggling the poster of the Ben Sherman's girl in the process.

(Seen it? If you have — and you know anything about my 'preferences' — you'll get what I mean)

...

The thing was, I had a strange sensation leaving work In the past I've found it quite difficult to do my job — senses of under-appreciation, self-doubt, dislocation, that sort of thing have always left me walking out with some kind of indescribable grievance to the place. But this evening, I had two conflicting emotions:

1. I was fucking tired. (Given half the chance, I would have grabbed a quick nap this afternoon.)

2. I'd had a fucking good day

And it occurred to me that maybe this is how it's supposed to be. Maybe it's not all about dramas and difficulties. Maybe it's just about getting on with things, and having everyday stuff overwhelm you.

...

Earlier, when I was sitting eating bread and cheese (yum), I noticed the carving on M's dining-room chairs. I don't think they're special hand-carved chairs — I think they're just random things that seem to be prolific from the 60s/70s — you know, those chairs that always seem to be a part of any rented accomodation.

In fact, I've got two like them myself

Anyway, what struck me was that the carving was quite intricate — but surely they're mass-produced. In other words, a machine made them.

I'm finding it hard to picture just how a wood-carving machine works.

I did once see a machine on telly that reproduced ornate chair-legs via a system of routers and moulds, but I can't quite see that this is the case here.

Whatever.

...

Telly on Wednesday is rubbish, I feel. The only thing that's piqued my attention remotely is that thing about wine with Oz Clarke and James-Out-Of-Top-Gear in it — and even now, with 5 minutes until it starts, I'm wondering if I can be bothered with it.

You know, I sometimes feel all 'smug' about my telly habits. Not actually having one (in the conventional sense) is a boost to my self-impressions of 'bohemianism' — but dammit, I miss a load of good shit.

...

I always find myself stuttering before I 'pat myself on the back' online. Despite being the epitomy of Arrogant Little Bitch, it does (I feel) go against my nature to 'big myself up' or give myself credit for something — even every once in a while.

But it occurred to me, as I was driving here from work earlier, that I did something rather good by accident the other day.

Yesterday, in fact.

Or was it the day before

Whatever. In an attempt to capitalise on the fact that I seemed to have discovered the possibility of something rather good in Second Life way before anyone else did, I decided to fling the URL to the previous entry around a bit.

What? I did A Good Thing™. I thought People Should Know™

With hardly a second thought, I spun a quick "here's something people might find useful" email and launched it at the Second Life Education Mailing List — but it was only just an hour or so ago that I realised that I'd, in effect, come out within an academic circle.

I worry, sometimes, about this domain name. Not specifically that it signifies a very particular perspective on things — ie. it blatantly says "Siobhan's a transvestite" — but rather that's it's essentially a one-trick pun.

I think, sometimes, that I manage to convince myself that in doing what I do on these pages — writing about things that ensnare an audience larger than the closeted tranny ghetto that seems to exist in other web-spaces inclined in the same sexuality as myself — helps 'our cause' in some way, in that it serves to demonstrate that not all transvestites are figures of fun.

Some are (and, immodestly, I include myself in this) rather interesting people, with the ability to contribute to the general flotsom of the web in ways other than mincing on about stockings and lipstick. There are a handful of us that aren't instant-figures-of-ridicule — and I believe (she said, patting herself on the back for a bit) that what I do here helps to prove that.

But I'd hate for that to be my raison-d'etre.

I remember, a good few years ago, getting riled by a couple of lesbians that I used to live with. It wasn't (of course) the fact that they were lesbians that riled me — it was how they chose to express that. Granted, they came under a great deal of pressure and experienced a fair smattering of prejudice just because of what they were — and I fully respected them both for the way that they handled that.

It was just, well, everything they did, they did "as lesbians".

They didn't make a cup of tea — they made cups of tea as lesbians. They didn't tell you how they felt about something, they told you how they felt about it as lesbians.

I mean, fair enough, challenge stereotypes and narrow-minded thinking. But FFS recognise when you're dealing with sympathetic people. When someone is on your side, you can lay off the "this is who I am, dammit" antagonistic, confrontational approach.

Surely?

What I'm getting at (badly), is that one of these days, someone is going to look me in the eye and say "yeah Siobhan, we know you're a transvestite. Will you stop going on about it please?"

And at that point, I think this domain name is redundant.

Dammit, I so wanted siobhan.org

You Know You're Onto Something (BTW)

...when you google what you wrote about two days later, and find yourself third in the list after Apple and Avid

Yeah yeah yeah

Shh. I've got to find Frank and let him in