I need to do a new podcast, listen to a gazillion seven-inches that I haven't had time to even look at since they arrived in the post, reply to friends' emails, think of where to put all those books that are coming from Brussels via Athens, learn computer geekery and understand what happens in cricket (again). I hate how much time jobs steal from us and how they make our brains shrink. My memory is terrible (my mum insists it's because I don't eat meat - still bitter after all those years) but work worries have been erasing whatever good there is left on there to replace it with anxiety about Blu-ray logos and editing terrifyingly bad copy. At the end of the working day on Friday, I cleared my desk and opened a notebook to make a list of the good, interesting things that I wanted to do this weekend, like updating the Caramel site, listening to Camila's last two popcasts, sowing some herbs for the kitchen windowsill, walking to Brockwell Park, making cupcakes, installing the Apache server again, staring out the window, eating strawberry Petits Filous and writing some lyrics. All I could really do without difficulty was to sleep. Work is ruining my life.
But: ha! Next week is going to be so brilliant that the sun is going to be shining over me the whole time and that's because there will be pop in huge doses and friends and because by then I'll have decided that work is not worth worrying about, not when you can worry about whether cranberry or fresh lemonade make a better mixer for vodka than, say, tonic.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Deirdres are not a band: they are a precious poetic ideal and a vulnerable one at that. Something to be protected and cherished; something that sits outside reality. There is no calculation in what they do. Their songs are systems of resistance and those of us who dance around at their shows become part of that moment when intelligence and nonsense are finally one, as they should be, and the joy of touching hands also serves as a force for the revolution.