I am hungry.
Mar. 1st, 2008 02:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wolven7I'm thinking about making a run to Waffle House because I really want some fucking hashbrowns...
I was thinking, the other day, about the fact that when I do any kind of magical work that involves drawing, or writing, when I'm out and about, I can't work on anything but the napkins of the place. When I'm at school, I use torn lined paper or post-its, if it's small. Why is this? I think it has something to do with the transitory nature of the thing, and tapping directly into the circumstances of time and place. I date the work, too, most often...
Reading the new HellBlazer TPB, "Joyride," there's a scene where John's done some circle work in the sand under a pier, a portal for the dispensation of trapped souls, and all, but when the ghosts see what might happen if they step into it, they freak out, get scared, and none of them want to touch it. They ask him what to do with the sigil, and he says "Let the river take it."
It's done it's work, and if no one else is going to touch it, then fuck it, let it crumble and wash away, and seep back into the thing that helped make it.
I like Andy Diggle as the regular writer on HellBlazer. He seems to have learned his lessons, very well, from Carey and Azzarello and Ennis and Moore. His first arc weaves a story of identity and reclaimation. Of destroying that which destroys you to create yourself anew. It touches a little close to home, around here, lately.
Dreamed I started smoking, again, at a party. I can't even describe the atmosphere, anymore, past urban, but moneyed, ensconced mansions in the bad parts of town, and I met Anthony Bourdain, there, and I blamed him, for my picking up smoking. Him, and Warren Ellis, and John Constantine, but mostly him. I went into the party, from the junky yard/parking lot, and it was all terraces and columns, and verrandas, and shit like that.
Inside, downstairs, there was the sense of a campaign office, or bare-bones store/office front. My mother was in the basement, testing new pharmaceuticals on rats. A kind of ephedrine which wouldn't cause crashes, or addiction. She was developing it for military applications. Brittle, thin, "Masque-Of-The-Red-Death" kind of themes to the party...
Nah. No WaHo. Bed.
I was thinking, the other day, about the fact that when I do any kind of magical work that involves drawing, or writing, when I'm out and about, I can't work on anything but the napkins of the place. When I'm at school, I use torn lined paper or post-its, if it's small. Why is this? I think it has something to do with the transitory nature of the thing, and tapping directly into the circumstances of time and place. I date the work, too, most often...
Reading the new HellBlazer TPB, "Joyride," there's a scene where John's done some circle work in the sand under a pier, a portal for the dispensation of trapped souls, and all, but when the ghosts see what might happen if they step into it, they freak out, get scared, and none of them want to touch it. They ask him what to do with the sigil, and he says "Let the river take it."
It's done it's work, and if no one else is going to touch it, then fuck it, let it crumble and wash away, and seep back into the thing that helped make it.
I like Andy Diggle as the regular writer on HellBlazer. He seems to have learned his lessons, very well, from Carey and Azzarello and Ennis and Moore. His first arc weaves a story of identity and reclaimation. Of destroying that which destroys you to create yourself anew. It touches a little close to home, around here, lately.
Dreamed I started smoking, again, at a party. I can't even describe the atmosphere, anymore, past urban, but moneyed, ensconced mansions in the bad parts of town, and I met Anthony Bourdain, there, and I blamed him, for my picking up smoking. Him, and Warren Ellis, and John Constantine, but mostly him. I went into the party, from the junky yard/parking lot, and it was all terraces and columns, and verrandas, and shit like that.
Inside, downstairs, there was the sense of a campaign office, or bare-bones store/office front. My mother was in the basement, testing new pharmaceuticals on rats. A kind of ephedrine which wouldn't cause crashes, or addiction. She was developing it for military applications. Brittle, thin, "Masque-Of-The-Red-Death" kind of themes to the party...
Nah. No WaHo. Bed.
