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desperancePossibly this is not tinnitus. Possibly there are in fact vast mad subterranean engines chewing on my sanity. [We need a better word than "auditory hallucinations", which is two words and ugly. "Paracusia" would only do if anyone actually knew what it meant.]
Life is meaningless and full of pain and noises. I think this is unfair.
In other news, the SuperCatnip Toy of Heavenly Perfection turns out to be just long enough that they can both kinda play with it between them, while their little cat-minds are still numbed and stupefied by the overblasting drugginess of the thing. As soon as they come to, then there is scrabbling and hissing and fighting and one of them has to go off and play with the bag it came in, which is a poor substitute and rapidly becoming less than entirely functional; but we get three or four minutes of almost-cooperation, which is quite unprecedented.
I am about to apply to join a study-trip to Toronto this summer (for the International Conference on the Short Story in English). I will not win a place, because the funding is adjudicated by bureaucrats who will award all the funding to other bureaucrats (we have been here before, or rather to Australia, or rather we have not been to Australia because etc etc); but I shall apply none the less, because they ought to send some bloody practitioners.
Robert B Parker is dead. At his desk, at 77, still writing. It is of course the way to go, but I am more cut up than I would have expected.
Life is meaningless and full of pain and noises. I think this is unfair.
In other news, the SuperCatnip Toy of Heavenly Perfection turns out to be just long enough that they can both kinda play with it between them, while their little cat-minds are still numbed and stupefied by the overblasting drugginess of the thing. As soon as they come to, then there is scrabbling and hissing and fighting and one of them has to go off and play with the bag it came in, which is a poor substitute and rapidly becoming less than entirely functional; but we get three or four minutes of almost-cooperation, which is quite unprecedented.
I am about to apply to join a study-trip to Toronto this summer (for the International Conference on the Short Story in English). I will not win a place, because the funding is adjudicated by bureaucrats who will award all the funding to other bureaucrats (we have been here before, or rather to Australia, or rather we have not been to Australia because etc etc); but I shall apply none the less, because they ought to send some bloody practitioners.
Robert B Parker is dead. At his desk, at 77, still writing. It is of course the way to go, but I am more cut up than I would have expected.