![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Livejournal is down. How am I meant to find out which of my friends are feeling suicidal today, who's not talking to whom and which fake designer handbag each of them is most like? I feel bereft, Worse, I am writing this, which is doomed to inherent paradox as it is destined for my renascent Livejournal. I can't believe you b@st@rds got me hooked on this. I am Gene Hackman in French Connection 2, though at least I do not have a foolish hat. I do have a bowler hat now, granted, but I am not wearing it today. Nor am I entirely clear when I ever shall, or in the meantime, where to stow it. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
serious_k dropped by last night, and even she, who has seen the High Stuff Density approach I use before, was aghast at the state my room's in since that last batch came down from Derby. She's moving soon, which after three weeks of having her within walking distance, will be a bit of a wrench for me. I want everyone flocking to my manor, dammit, not heading away from it! I think my room's a bit more sorted now, I sorted it out while watching The Long Firm (nice performances, shame the plot's so predictable), though I do fear I will one day become trapped beneath an avalanche of information like Principal Skinner. I'd hate to have to chew my way through 150-odd issues of Hellblazer to freedom. Part of me doesn't know why I bother keeping the Paul Jenkins run; the rest of me knows that even bad Constantine is still Constantine, and understands the sort of nerds on whom I look down a little better. The film won't be Constantine, though, it'll be Keanu out of his depth again, Moore skull-raped again by the silver screen. Which of his demons did he annoy to get the treatment he does from Hollywood? All of which reminds me, via Ennis' near-definitive run, reread his Nick Fury last night. Fvck me that's depressing. Sure, any fool with an anttitude problem can take a Silver Age hero and turn him into a Grim'N'Gritty TM mess, but this one is so damn *plausible*. He was a Second World War veteran and Cold War superspy, it only makes sense to put him in amongst the different but complementary fvck-ups that are modern geopolitics and the nanny state, where the helicarrier got shelved for budget reasons and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s new HQ is non-smoking. Poor sod. Poor us, too. Livejournal's still down. I'm getting a new computer over lunch; hope this draft gets ported across safely or it'll go from oxymoronic to tears in rain, and I *hate* tears in rain. Even such clearouts of genuinely ephemeral ephemera as I've had in the recent moves traumatised me. Which makes me wonder why I'm so fond of stories set after the end of the world. Not in the immediate aftermath, with the ravening mutants and brave survivors, though I'm sure someone goes for those, just as marnameow likes to read about the End itself. No, I like the stuff where civilisations have risen again in the ruins, with a few relics and memories of the Old Times. Gene Wolfe's Book of the New Sun, Jack Vance's The Dying Earth, Moorcock's Dancers at the End of Time, Clark Ashton Smith's Zothique, and now M John Harrison's Viriconium. When I hate to lose or forget any fragment, how come I'm so fond of worlds where only fragments of now survive?
serious_k dropped by last night, and even she, who has seen the High Stuff Density approach I use before, was aghast at the state my room's in since that last batch came down from Derby. She's moving soon, which after three weeks of having her within walking distance, will be a bit of a wrench for me. I want everyone flocking to my manor, dammit, not heading away from it! I think my room's a bit more sorted now, I sorted it out while watching The Long Firm (nice performances, shame the plot's so predictable), though I do fear I will one day become trapped beneath an avalanche of information like Principal Skinner. I'd hate to have to chew my way through 150-odd issues of Hellblazer to freedom. Part of me doesn't know why I bother keeping the Paul Jenkins run; the rest of me knows that even bad Constantine is still Constantine, and understands the sort of nerds on whom I look down a little better. The film won't be Constantine, though, it'll be Keanu out of his depth again, Moore skull-raped again by the silver screen. Which of his demons did he annoy to get the treatment he does from Hollywood? All of which reminds me, via Ennis' near-definitive run, reread his Nick Fury last night. Fvck me that's depressing. Sure, any fool with an anttitude problem can take a Silver Age hero and turn him into a Grim'N'Gritty TM mess, but this one is so damn *plausible*. He was a Second World War veteran and Cold War superspy, it only makes sense to put him in amongst the different but complementary fvck-ups that are modern geopolitics and the nanny state, where the helicarrier got shelved for budget reasons and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s new HQ is non-smoking. Poor sod. Poor us, too. Livejournal's still down. I'm getting a new computer over lunch; hope this draft gets ported across safely or it'll go from oxymoronic to tears in rain, and I *hate* tears in rain. Even such clearouts of genuinely ephemeral ephemera as I've had in the recent moves traumatised me. Which makes me wonder why I'm so fond of stories set after the end of the world. Not in the immediate aftermath, with the ravening mutants and brave survivors, though I'm sure someone goes for those, just as marnameow likes to read about the End itself. No, I like the stuff where civilisations have risen again in the ruins, with a few relics and memories of the Old Times. Gene Wolfe's Book of the New Sun, Jack Vance's The Dying Earth, Moorcock's Dancers at the End of Time, Clark Ashton Smith's Zothique, and now M John Harrison's Viriconium. When I hate to lose or forget any fragment, how come I'm so fond of worlds where only fragments of now survive?
