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Camy

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Blog Entries posted by Camy

  1. Camy

    Me, Myself, I pt XXVI

    By Camy,

    Umm. I had a reason to blog, but it seems to be escaping me at the moment. Most odd.
    Anyway ... so I found a box of Cassettes that had - once I dug an old cassette machine out of the loft and found a lead to attach it to the computer - some amazing AMAZING stuff on them. Like the rehearsal at Solid Light where I fell asleep over the drum kit in the middle of a song. Hmm, I suppose gouched out is closer to the truth: it was a long time ago. Then there are the first few recordings I made with M. Before we erm ... well, before he told me he umm ... loved me.
    Times and places are wonderful. I only wish I'd made a few more sensible decisions. Arse I am.
    When we were in Germany I recorded everything. I'd set up the desk, fire up the Atari and keyboards, plug in the guitar and ... what a load of crap!
    Though there are a few tracks I'm inordinately proud of. A few that have stood the test of time.

  3. Camy

    Novel approach

    By Camy,

    'Harvest Time' - the novel I was writing for NaNoWriMo - is still unfinished. That's not say I'm not continuing it, it's just that the 'gotta get to 50,000 words or look like a pranny' impetus has gone. Such is life. I've also got other stories to finish too - including 'Bathtime' which I promised Cole an age ago.
    I've sent a short story off to a magazine, and am waiting patiently for the rejection slip. At least this time I didn't send a 'Dark Drama' to a SciFi mag. Duh.
    Cole Parker's 'Bleat Bleat Quack' is quite trying my patience. This bi-weekly posting malarkey is causing no end of angst to my digestion, and until I get to the end I don't think life is going to get back to normal. It also seems that the Raccoon is going to be visiting our fair shores. I've decided to avoid the capital for the duration, and have told my sister to padlock her bins.
    The Hub's new Anthology is now on-line. The theme was 'Voyeur' and there are seven great stories there. Well, six and mine.
    And that's it for now. Hmm.
    Camy
  4. Camy

    Done!

    By Camy,

    The 2007 NaNoWriMo is finished! Thank the stars.
    I wrote a story called 'Harvest Time' which started off one thing, and ended up something else entirely - there is no accounting for my muse's whim.
    It's not finished, but hopefully will be soon, and then It'll be edited and released chapter by chapter. It's sequelesque to Nyquist and Feredir.
    Camy

  5. Camy

    J's Resurrection

    By Camy,

    I keep thinking about Jason's blog entry. I keep thinking 'and there by the grace of God go I' but that's entirely wrong. I have been there in my own way. Similar but different.
    I keep being told that addiction is a personality trait, and therefore genetic. In other words we are pre-programmed to self destruct. And I wonder is that right? Are there addictive personalities or is it just modern day psycho babble to excuse a whole tranche of society for misbehaving?
    When I was small I was a classic case of ADHD. But then when I was small that nifty acronym hadn't been thought up. I was classified as naughty: occasionally thrashed for it and sent to child psychologists. Not a sniff of Ritalin, or anything else.
    The one addiction I'm thankful I don't suffer from is alcohol. One majorly major hangover was enough to put me off for life. The rest (nudge nudge - a nod's as good as a wink to a blind man) I'd still be happy to 'suffer from', except for the outrageous cost: that and the inconvenience of possible jail time.
    Then there's sex. Can you be addicted to sex? I'd say yes. If you can be addicted to powders that change your mood, why not to the ultimate high?
    I have no idea where I'm going with this, so I'll thank Jason for his post and the thoughts it engendered, and stop.
    Ave.
  6. Camy

    The world of Emu

    By Camy,

    I ain't blogged in an age, so seeing as how I'm in the mood I thought I would.
    I'm now past halfway in my NaNoWriMo tale 'Harvest Time', which started out being one thing and has now turned into something else. I still have faith that it will be a good something else, but who knows.
    That's the trouble with being a pantser. One the one hand it's like exploring a vast empty city - you're constantly surprised - and on the other you really, really wish you'd thought about it a bit before you set off, and had a map.
    I went through my 'work in progress' folder yesterday, and found a whole slew of stories that I'd forgotten I'd started. It was actually rather nice, 'cause I read them fresh, and with dispassion.
    There are painters who hang up a bunch of canvases, then paint them as they see fit. If they get stuck with one they move on to another - which is all very well, provided at some point you finish them. I feel similar, though I have almost too many half written and not enough close to being finished. Hmm.
    And then there's The Dude! He shocked the hell out of me the other day, by saying he wanted me to be part of the AD Family of sites. I don't have a webcam, so he missed the point where I fell off my chair and hastily dusted myself off. He also missed the dance I did ... which was like this - but for one:

    The cats told me it was 'entertaining'.
    Then - 'cause I'm a total moron with money, my bank hates me, and I couldn't do it myself - Dude organises camysgaff.com. There was a repeat of the falling off the chair followed a dance thing. Though this time cats stalked off shaking their heads.
    The best thing was that when I woke up the next morning, it wasn't all a dream!
    Back to 'Harvest Time'
    Camy
  7. Camy

    Knee

    By Camy,

    Two days ago I came thundering down the stairs and wacked my knee into a stupid door frame. Yes, I know. Since I live here, I should know there's a door frame at the bottom of the stairs, but hell ....
    Anyway, it still hurts ... in fact it still ^&$$()_$%!!! HURTS! So I've had words, and whilst the door frame won't apologise, it said if I'm careful, it'll try to stay out of my way. Yeah right.
  8. Camy

    *Chilled*

    By Camy,

    Arriving home after a long, and very hard days manual labour, is ... just peachy.
    I can go to bed - or stay up and veg out with the TV brain death machine.
    Tomorrow, I can throw the alarm clock out of the window without feeling guilty.
    In fact I'm free ... for almost two days ... FREEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!
    Until Monday. Damn Monday.
  9. Camy

    *snore*

    By Camy,

    This week I'm grape picking for a living. As I write I'm both tired, irascible, and off to bed.
    Goodnight.
    The knackered one.
  10. Camy

    Meh 4,271

    By Camy,

    Meh 4,271
    Why are all my blog entries so ... depressing? I'm not normally a depressed person, but then I suppose there is no normality to my life any more. I feel like I'm drifting - oh for a boat - and have entered the doldrums. The sails are up, but *insert deity of choice* has switched of the wind. The fucker.
    Shoulda, woulda, coulda. That's all I can think of. And I'm sooooo tempted to pack a bag, and vanish. Yeah right. Not like it's going to happen. But the thought is like a lifeline. The idea that I could. Disappear.
    When I was small I read George Orwell's 'Down and out in Paris and London.' It's a wonderful, wonderful book - provided you're reading it with a full stomach, in a cosy room, with a warm drink to hand. I also read 'The Autobiography of a Super Tramp'. The idea is rather appealing ... but the actuality. Maybe twenty years ago.
    Maybe tomorrow ....
    I just do not know. And there lies the problem. I'm surrounded by idiots, but the biggest idiot looks back at me from the mirror. I should never have given up drugs. At least they dull the constant yearning for ...? Yep. The grass is always greener.
    So, I'm going to have another go at NaNoWriMo. If anyone feels up to taking part I can honestly say it's BIG FUN!
    Now, I'm off to steal a kiss from my beloved ... hmm ... take a kiss? Have a kiss? Kiss? Whatever. It'll be nice.
    Camy
    PS if you haven't read Jason Rimbaud's 'The Finale', then do. It's excellent, though sad.
  11. Camy

    Needy

    By Camy,

    I is feeling mucho needy.
    Just over a year ago I took my heart in my hands and told my best friend that I loved him. It was done deal, really, 'cause deep down I knew he felt the same way ... and he did. The idea was that we were going to live together as soon as we could. A year and a bit down the line it still hasn't happened. 'Things' keep getting in the way, and I'm getting really effing brassed off.
    One of the 'things' has been ... erm ... my problem, is to do with personal space. I'm a loving guy, but I can't sleep with anyone. Cuddling, no problem. But actually sleeping. Big problem. And I don't know what to do about it. The one good part is that he's known me and my foibles for years, but still. It would be nice to wake up in his arms.... Well, according to the stories I've read, it would.
    Yesterday I came downstairs and found the cat looking inordinately proud. He had a baby bunny. It was in perfect condition - except for being dead - and looked asleep. I was mortified. But the cat didn't care. I tried to explain that killing baby bunnies was not on - but to no avail. He pointed out that he's a cat, and that he's following his genetic prerogative ... as I'm following mine. Bloody Cat.
    Chapter 12 of Seraph is finished and edited. Only one chapter left to go, now. At some point after it's finished I'm going to re-edit, as inevitably there are bits I'm not happy with ... not to mention the odd flaw in continuity and plot.
    I'm part way through a short 'boarding school drama' - as requested in dubious circumstances by Cole. It's set in the UK in the seventies with a working title of 'Bathtime'.
    And I'm still needy (even after writing this blog). I want a hug! *sighs*
    Ave, all.
    Camy
  12. Camy

    Stupid I am.

    By Camy,

    So I trundle off and write a story - or which I'm proud - and post it.
    I'm tidying up when the computer goes 'ting'. Email!
    'twas a rare missive from the Dude! After opening the champagne, and putting the caviar on ice (yick, pah, pass me a bucket) I sit down to read:
    I scratch chin, then panic - or was it the other way around....
    Paranoia wakes up. Everybody hates me. I pace up and down ... up and down ... down and up....
    Then:
    Grinning I sit back, then frown and start to worry that Cole is going to think horrible things.
    Checking emails more than once a minute can get irksome.
    Then:

    So ... consider a public school story on its way!
    Camy
  13. Camy
    I've got so much to say, but have just had a phone call. I'm always late, and here I am late again.
    The above means goodbye for now. Explain all later.
    Hmm....
    Camy
    PS 'Tardy Swine!' emoticon obviously required.
  14. Camy

    The Car Boot

    By Camy,

    Sunday car boot (trunk for those with a different vocabulary) sales have taken over from church as the place to congregate. Not only do we all worship the great God Mammon, but we either get a bargain or two, or make a few quid - depending if you're buying or selling. I've been both, but today I was selling.
    I HATE it. Hate, hate, hate it! Got the idea? It's so damn embarrassing having total strangers trawling through your tat.... But needs must when the devil drives, so suffer I did, with cheesy grins to all and sundry. Mindless gossip with penurious proletarian peasants. Not that I'm hoity toity by any stretch of the imagination, it's just that I FUCKING HATE IT!
    Then there's the guilt. Selling 'things' that my father gave to me.
    It was strange: there was an old (pre 2nd world war) small two drawer wooden filling cabinet. One person wanted to buy it, and yet if he'd offered me a fortune I wouldn't have sold it to him. The chap who eventually bought it 'felt right'.
    So here I am, back home. I'm not rich, but not poor. I guess it's better to make a few quid rather than chucking it all away, but I still hate it. There's another one next Sunday!
  15. Camy

    Cheery Me

    By Camy,

    My poem 'Cheery Me' seems to have caused 'a bit of a to do'.
    Cheery cheery me
    Razor blade and morphine free
    Can't take the final step
    No one to feed the cats you see
    I appreciate the concern more than those concerned will probably ever know: however, I'd like to state that though I've occasionally pondered the idea of 'offing' myself - and who can honestly say they haven't - I wouldn't. It's pointless, and I have way too much to do. I really, really want to finish my novel. I've songs to record, a boyfriend to shag (too much information?) and a life to live ... not to mention cats.
    So thank you - you know who you are.
    And to those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, thank you too.
    Camy
  16. Camy

    The occasional wobble

    By Camy,

    Part of the reason I originally moved from 'the big smoke' down to the coast was to avoid the membership dues of the 'Getting Off One's Face' club. So, it was with trepidation (yeah right) that I got the call, and rushed for the train (Whoopee!!!).
    Mental salivation is just as good as physical in my opinion, though on the way up I much doubt anybody watching me would have known, and on the way back I could have cared less.
    London: one thing I have missed is the eye candy (paragraph two equally valid here ... though they can cross over). Not that I knew it until I realised it was lashing down with rain. Normally, when I'm in central London, I walk. But the rain made it impossible - so I got the tube. People watching is the only pastime for brief tube travel, and lawks-a-lawdy there were some fine specimens of mankind to watch.
    I knew there was something I was missing!
    Finally: I make it from the parochial windswept coast, to the urbane dealer's pad ... and much fun was had by all.

  17. Camy

    Sunshine

    By Camy,

    So ... I'm fed up with my uber whiny blog entries, and much as I sincerely appreciate all the sage advice and help proffered, enough is enough - until the next time.
    We have a gig tomorrow night, and like any sensible fools we rehearsed. I wish I'd recorded it. My guitar, which has had some problems with its pick-up, has been fixed, has new strings, and sounds peachy. 'twas a good couple of hours. But not as good as the walk on the beach that followed
    Don't ask me why, but the beach was empty. It's the middle of June and there's no one around except for a few poor souls fishing. Why do they fish near sewage outfalls, and do they eat the fish they catch?
    Walking on an empty beach with the guy you love is ... well ... wonderful, fantabulous, magical, fun, erotic, inconsequential, meaningful, and very, very deeply deep. It was sunny, the sea was lively enough to be interesting and there was no wind to bring up goosebumps. We talked and talked, and honestly ... I'm one happy Emu.
    'nuff said.
    Camy
  18. Camy

    Fragile

    By Camy,

    I'm feeling fragile. Apologies for the expletives.
    Ultimately it comes down to purpose. Why am I here, and what the fuck am I supposed to be doing?
    They say - depending on who the 'they' are - that I'm here to improve my lot and will come back time after time until I get the keys to ... heaven/nirvana/shangri-la or alternatively I'm gonna burn in the fires of hell. Well, I'm not keen. And I'm certainly not keen on the fires of hell. I want to know what it is I should be doing so I can get on with it. Hmm. Not too hard is it?
    Apparently, yes. It is.
    The concept of life I grew up with was: be a child, go to school, grow up, go to university, get a job, retire, die. Well, I've truly fucked up on that. I got stuck in the growing up bit, and I can't even seem to achieve that. There are no jobs for life anymore, and retirement is just a farce unless you happen to win the lottery.
    I wish my dad was still alive to tell me, though actually he was as lost as I am. His only piece of advice to me was 'do whatever you want provided you're happy, and don't harm others'. Nice, but really he should have given me a map.
    Then there are the side roads I seem to have drifted down. Like drugs. Well, yes I do. Unfortunately.
    Oh lord, hear my prayer, and send me a sign ... or the lottery numbers. I thank you.
    I should have been an astronaut or a steam train driver. Perhaps it's not to late. Ok, so maybe not an astronaut.
    I'm one fucked up Emu.
    Goodnight.
    Oh, and then there's M, my true love. I want to live with him, but achieving it seems nigh impossible. The C word - commitment - is just ... terrifying, yet why should it be? I love him, and he loves me. So why is it all so difficult?
  19. Camy
    One of my all time favourite films is 1980's 'Airplane', which is now considered such an old chestnut that you can hear the groans of disapprobation from miles away every time they announce it'll be played; Still, I like it. There are two classic running gags. The first is the Peter Graves' Captain Clarence Oveur to Joey, the little boy: "Joey, do you like movies about gladiators?" "Joey, have you ever seen a grown man naked?" etc. The second, Lloyd Bridges as Steve McCroskey, the frustrated controller: "I guess I picked the wrong week to quit..."
    Well, so did I.
    ... um ... you probably had to be there ... or should that be here...
  20. Camy

    How hard II

    By Camy,

    Today I dismantled what is laughingly called 'my office'. In estate agency terms it's 'bedroom three, big enough to swing a cat - just.' My cats weren't keen.
    I have/had two computers in there. One, an old pc, is no problem; It does what it's told. The other (a bargain I just had to buy - stupid arse) is a very large old server. I've never done anything with it except store my albums on its hard drive, and say to all and sundry whilst preening: "I have a network". Now, kind as I am, I can't seem to get it to want to turn on. Swearing at the bastard does no good either.
    Anyhow - Long boring waffle short. I thought by the end of the day I'd have cleaned and painted the room. But no. Best laid plans of mice and Emus... *sighs*
    So now I'm in 'bedroom one, large enough to swing many cats', with four computers, surrounded by boxes, and typing on my lap. I should - should - stop this blogging malarkey and go to bed, get up early, and get my act together.
    Fat chance.
  21. Camy

    How hard can it be?

    By Camy,

    I've always lived with the idea in the back of my mind (don't laugh) that, if push came to shove I'd be able to walk out of the door with a pack on my back, and start a new life without worrying about what I'd left behind.
    Ha! Fat chance. I'm selling this thing called house (can't afford the mental anguish any more) and have been trying to get rid of my 'things', but it's proving a lot, A LOT harder than I thought it would.
    Take photographs. I have a lot of them, both from home and from work, and video too. I also have all my father's negs. If I were to start now I'd probably not be done digitising until Christmas - and I'd be lucky if it was Christmas this year. Diaries: I have years of the buggers - some with only a few entries, but every time I put them in the bin, this other 'me' pulls them out again.
    T-shirts. I like t-shirts
    The list goes on and on, and I don't really want to throw any of it away.... *sighs*
  22. Camy

    I want to cry

    By Camy,

    When I was young, until I was about twelve or thirteen, I used to cry a lot. When I say a lot, I mean a lot. At the drop of a hat. I don't think I ever cried infront of my peers and friends, but at home I'd be howling at the unfairness of whatever it was that was unfair at that moment in time.
    Now I can't, and I WANT TO. Badly.
    There must have been a pivotal moment in my life that caused me to stop. But I can't think of one specifically. I went to boarding school (where you'd rather cut your leg off than be caught crying) and I'm British which means that I'm probably genetically repressed, but I want it, and I need it, and yet I still can't.
    God is that unfair.
    </self pity>
  23. Camy

    Trust on-line

    By Camy,

    I'd like it if I could assign more than one category to a post. It would be peachy, because this might well end up being claptrap as well, and possibly include a whine or two. So.
    Trust is the most important part of any relationship, be it in real life or in the relationships we have with people we are never likely to meet. There are people here I like, there are people here I admire, but as far as trust goes is it right, or indeed safe, to open up and be truthful about who I am. Stupid question really. The answer has to be no, but I'm asking it nevertheless.
    I always tend to trust first and then be very disappointed when the trust I've given is thrown back in my face. Ultimately, as humanity spends more and more time on-line, the question of trust is going to become more important. Can you have meaningful relationships with people in cyberspace? Can you open up to a bunch of similar minded people without fear of recrimination? Can one come out from behind a pen name and say 'This is who I really am'?
    My muse is saying yes, do it! I'm not so sure.
  24. Camy

    Time zones

    By Camy,

    Time zones. I don't like them. They are there to annoy.
    I suppose I should be honest. If the world revolved around the time zone I was in I wouldn't mind so much: having to think about them would still irritate, but I'd cope. BUT having an editor who lives eight hours behind is just ... well bloody inconvenient. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change her for all the tea in China (hmm...). Let me re-phrase. For all the tea in China - which I would sell and then be able to pay her a vast salary and re-location fee, I'd be daft not to.
    Ho hum. It's not going to happen. I can't see the Chinese being so foolish. Although saying that, one of my stories has been 'taken' and put up on a site that might possibly be Chinese.
    Anyway. Time zones are not my favourite thing.
    Neither are slugs. They keep sqidging through the bottom of the back door and 'frightening the horses'. Treading on a slug in the middle of the night whilst half asleep is not to be recommended.
  25. Camy
    I've added a new category 'Claptrapish' This is for claptrap that has marginally more ... erm ... possibilities than straight common or garden Claptrap.
    Here's an example: Astrology. Believe? No. No proof; but it can be entertaining.
    http://www.freewillastrology.com/horoscopes/aries.html
    Aries March 21st - April 19th
    '"If you hold your dreams too tightly, you'll crush their little ribs," was the message scrawled on the wall of a public restroom I visited today. I immediately recognized that as excellent advice for you. While I'm usually all in favor of cultivating a ferocious devotion towards one's goals and desires, I've noticed lately that your grasp on yours has turned into a manic clench. Please let them breathe better. Give them some slack. Maybe tell yourself a joke about how funny you look applying that death-grip.'
    Totally meaningless, but entertaining = Claptrapish.

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