This is not a meme, I just like ordered lists.
- Car alarms that sound the horn, blaring, never fail to remind me of the final scene in Chinatown. There’s one happening right now, down the street. That movie opens my whole being onto an abyss. The only thing improving matters any is Dunaway’s last exchange with Nicholson. “He owns the police!” At least the abyss knows its shit.
- Last night I went to bed very early and set the alarm for early, too. Woke up feeling very rested; checked my phone for the time. 11.45am. I have no memory of turning off the alarm. It could be because I started drinking mid-afternoon. Are hangovers before sleep worse or better than in the morning? Years ago an acupuncturist gave me this great Chinese medicine that made hangovers bearable; she said it balanced out the damp heat. Aspirin and loads of water take care of a lot, but not the damp heat.
- I’ve spent the last few weeks labouring under the impression that I was supposed to include intersex surgeries in an encyclopedia entry I’m writing on sex reassignment surgery. Had kittens over the weekend: the best book on history of intersex surgery was missing from three libraries, and I don’t know enough to wing it. Also, I was thinking, what kind of cultural encyclopedia is this, that conflates two such different topics? Reread the editor’s email just then, and phew, there is a separate entry on intersex. Now feeling like a fewl.
- A propos of the previous item, here is the best ‘historical fact’ I learnt this week. Apparently Nero accidentally killed one of his favourite wives in a fit of pique. When he realised his mistake, he called for a male slave, who was told to impersonate the dead wife. The imperial surgeons were asked to transform the slave’s peen into a vagina. I’m aware that some of you are more classically knowledgeable than I am; does anyone know if this is ‘true’? Any accounts exist of the success of the operation? Where would I find references?
- I have a new hobby: taking much younger people seriously as possible friends and confidantes. It’s awesome. Not that I didn’t already have friends who are younger, but there’s something really wrong about hitting one’s 30s and watching oneself begin to divide the world: ‘contemporaries’ versus ‘those who are younger, therefore probably want to know me so I can help them.’ The line is arbitrary, of course.
- Last night I realised what is wrong with my haircut. It’s too long at the sides. This fact occurred to me while I was watching the end of So You Think You Can Dance. Yes, I’ve been converted. It’s awful.
- …which leads me to the final point: this year I promised myself I’d take more care of my body. Back to the gym, therefore. I also want to take a dance class. The idea of taking classes fills me with terror. But what’s fear meant for except to conquer?