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The Thing that was a Car Crash

Went to Curtin today to show Abdyaghooth the first draft of his edited poem. He pointed out spots where the language wasn't nearly strong enough, and I took a lot of notes for reinterpretation. Got my leather jacket back. It's warm and soft and nice.

Spent some time just wandering around campus. I found out I missed the deadline for JLPT applications this year, which ended three days ago. Took down the address and time of a seminar on Artificial Life for Wednesday. Wondered if Santa was back, apparently not.

Visited the John Curtin Gallery. There was a series of photos on Cambodian prisons. The exhibition on Erwin Olaf was still on. I saw it a couple of weeks ago with phoenikoi and my mother -- the two ladies weren't particularly up to the items on show, and it was Open Day, so the gallery was packed. Seeing it again, in the Gallery as it usually is, virtually empty, in reverant silence, was comfortingly different. Firstly, the samples of pin-up grannies from the Mature series were still beautiful. I mean, these are beautiful old women, varicose veined, saggy, what-have-you, in teasingly cute poses, beautifully shot. It was fun, and elegant and exactly as I thought when I first saw them -- beautiful. It was nice to see them again. The Paradise Portraits still had the most amazing eyes. I'm very fond of staring at eyes because they're fascinating things. Like staring at the glass cases in jewellery stores. There's a certain glitter.

And right at the end, there was this set of four portraits I just skimmed past the last time I was there. These stark, white-backdropped portraits of platinum blonde models draped in white decadence, the only other colour being pink eyeliner or perhaps that they all dripped blood. I drifted past the first one, this lady covered in bullet holes, and stopped to stare at her Faberge egg. It was a beautiful Faberge egg, all clockwork bits and filligree -- I really liked it. Pretty much trod past the second, some guy bent over with a knife in his back wearing an olive wreath on his head. The third was undeniably Princess Di, with a Mercedes logo embedded in her arm, from which she bled. Hit me then: Princess Anastasia, Julius Caesar, Princess Diana. To the last piece, I said, "Lady, I don't know you." Not because she wasn't beautiful. She was. A heavily pregnant waiflet with lovely pink-rimmed eyes and Amidala hair, bleeding from her panties. I just had no idea who she was. Though she had amazing eyes.

Got out of there, took a pamphlet. The last girl turned out to be Poppaea. The first was actually Tsarina Alexandra. Faberge egg. Clue by four. Had no idea who Poppaea was, but handy bios were on hand. Kicked to death while pregnant. Nice. Learnt something new.

Came home. The KSP site got updated. I am officially a Young Writer-in-Residence with Events! Problem: I wasn't told about the dates of these Events, or even what they'd entail. They haven't asked me about my workshop. Or my bio or my mugshot. But somehow, the site has my bio (ganked off my cover letter), and a broken jpg that should be my face. Interestingly, I've now emailed them about details of said events twice.

In 8 hours: Interview for online teaching job.
I sigh a heavy sigh.

Late Edit: Due to extra goofdom, I re-read and recalculated my actual interview time to be 6PM +8 GMT, rather than 8AM +8 GMT. So to be extra safe, I now have a clock calculating time in GMT and CET each running.

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