Man, sometimes I hate my degree. On Tuesday in class we spent three hours walking around the space embodying colours. I'm not fucking joking. "How does it feel to be indigo?" she said. I don't know, bitch, how does it feel to be a wanky hippie new-age Feldenkrais practitioner with no sense of humour? I don't WANT to be indigo, or orange, or turquoise, or a chameleon, or a school of fish, OR EVEN A FUCKING ACTOR FOR THAT MATTER - please, please, can't we all just sit down and have a nice conversation on the importance of Stanislavski?
After a month behind the sound desk of Homebody/Kabul, Avi lets rip in a typically literate purge.
There’s a whole lot more at The rest is just commentary.
Also on the rec. reading list for the day is Alison Croggon, who is absolutely on top of her game in this triple-header review. She does this, time after time... works stuff out from first principles. I mean, cop this for an aside:
A pulp novelist writes a story about a murder mystery that reveals the human search for order and meaning in a godless universe; a literary novelist will write a novel about the human search for order and meaning in a godless universe, using the shape of the detective novel as a device. As a result, very few escape the odour of slumming it.I dips me lid...