Wednesday, February 18, 2009
My safe place is dysfunctional!
I am in computer crisis!
Here's what happened: my two-year-old laptop went very suddenly from perfectly okay to mildly eccentric to totally broken. Now, I have it under warranty, but the next thing I'm supposed to do is reboot it with the startup disk, and here's the thing: I bought it the same month I moved house. Hence my filing system was ... well, I won't go into it. Suffice to say, I probably filed the startup disk somewhere that seemed like a good idea at the time.
So until I can take it into a Mac shop for repairs, I'm stuck using my fiance's computer. Now, you'd think that would be fine; I'd mercifully acquired the habit of backing stuff up on a flashdrive, so I do actually have the manuscript I was working on. (If I didn't, I'm not sure you'd ever hear from me again; I don't even want to think about it.) But the problem is this: it's not in my study.
That sounds utterly pathetic, but I can't help it. My study is small and cosy, with pictures of animals on the walls and little paper dollies and a colourful tablecloth. It's nice in there; it's safe in there. (Picture of my desk included out of sheer sorrowful nostalgia.) My fiance's computer is a big unwieldy thing, and it belongs to the desk in the open-plan, much-too-big-for-writing-comfort living room. The walls are too far away; predators could be sneaking up on me from any side. I don't want to write down here.
So I'm reduced to bringing a pen and paper upstairs. Now, writing by hand may actually do me some good; it's an earthy method and it's been a while since I've done it, so long-term this is no bad thing. But I'm still all upset about it. My consistent space has been disrupted, and I really rather mind. This is the kind of thing that makes hardier writers sneer, there being a prevailing idea that you ought to be able to write under gunfire while trapped in a safe being carried along on a float during the Notting Hill Carnival, but the truth is you're still allowed to be a writer if that kind of thing freaks you out, just as long as you get the book finished some time.
The main lesson for today, I think, is try not to order new technology in the same month you move house. Or if you do, get some kind of tattoo reminding you of where you put the extras.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Mikalogue: landscape gardening
Kit: Ugh, there's grit in the bed!
Mika: 'Sright! You like?
Kit: You did this?
Mika: Course. No need to thank.
Kit: Mika, we don't want grit in our bed.
Mika: But has to do it! Is vocation now.
Kit: How on earth do you figure that?
Mika: Is on earth and linen both. And fine figure of a cat.
Kit: Okay, let's try this again, sweetie: why do you think you have to put earth in the bed?
Mika: Mika is landscape architect, of course. Is relandscaping our home, deconstructing indoor-outdoor dichotomy. Is avant-garde.
Kit: Hang on - you're a landscape architect? What made you think that?
Mika: Daddy works for landscape architects, yes?
Kit: Yes, he does work at an enviromental consultancy firm, but I don't see how that translates to needing earth in our bed.
Mika: You is slow. Is simple syllogism. Daddy's boss is landscape architects. Mika is Daddy's boss. Ergo, Mika is landscape architect.
Kit: That's not a proper syllogism, baby. It would only work if the first premise was 'All Daddy's bosses are landscape architects.' Actually it's just some of Daddy's bosses. You're a separate category. If you used more articles in your sentences you might have spotted that.
Mika: Fie upon your verbal pedantries. Is not grammarian. Is landscape architect and must express creative self. Have decided to begin by moving some earth from garden to bed.
Kit: Mika, we don't want earth in our bed!
Mika: Shh. Is havin creative moment and you is interruptin the Mews. Go away.
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