![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I made chocolate cookies yesterday to ease my relationship to the world, and when that didn't work very well, I went to Leirdal's house and drank her wine. It was awfully good of her to supply it, given that I'd murdered her version of PageMaker earlier in the day in my misbegotten attempt at entrepreneurship (See prev.)
The top element in my stove doesn't work, so I am incapable of broiling, and my cookies come out burned on the bottom and raw on top. It occurred to me yesterday to flip them over, pancake-style. That meant there were two flat sides and no puffy irregular finished top, and they were still slightly undercooked in the middle, which made them a lot like those miniature individual brownies. A successful strategy. (If limited.)
Paris is lovely, with all its quirks. This bright airy front room all by itself makes up for the irregular ghost-holes in the walls and the occasional silverfishian tourists. I'm afraid I'm quite a bit ruder than the legendary running-joke waiters to them. Said waiters only crush your self-esteem. And they don't use a shoe.
(Can you imagine if they did, though? "Sea bass out of season?" WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!) (Or whatever. I don't know anything about fish except that I'm supposed to eat more of it or die of a heart attack at 32.)
Yesterday someone was playing loud bass-driven music while I was trying to grapple with reality, and I'm afraid that they're going to take my current Belle & Sebastian as a rebuttal. Normally I don't mind people in other apartments playing music -- having sex, herding sheep -- I'm pretty laid-back about that stuff -- but the rhythm happened to be one of those clever syncopated-yet-repeating patterns that never lets your heart fall in with it. It felt like my anxiety was escalating in an attempt to keep time.
Nonetheless I'm not putting forth diffident vocals and tinkly backgrounds as superior music overall. Far From It.
* * *
There's a meme going around about where the name of your journal came from. And because I find myself terribly interesting or I wouldn't have a LiveJournal, now, would I, here is mine:
Radiant Fracture Repair and Fabrication is the name of my not-exactly-company through which I publish or rather photocopy various zines and chapbooks and things and then entirely fail to distribute them in any meaningful way.
I liked the idea of writing being an act of repair (and of course of fabrication.) I've always liked steelwork and welding, except that I'm afraid of making myself go blind by forgetting to look away from the flame. So during my brief association with art school (Major #3, if I recall correctly, but it might have been #4)I never really used the welding machine, although I really, really wanted to work in metal.
Along with a rock tumbler, I've kind of always wanted to get a small torch and mess around with melting solder and wire. Maybe not over the hardwood floor, though.
Writing as creative act, then, but a purposeful one, that produces something you needed when it's done, or fixes something that was broken. Or at least is an act of building. I love the tangible products of creation, the actual physical booklet or scroll or mysterious box. One year I did seasonal gifts that were poems folded up into chocolate boxes and rolled up into cigarette packs. (Yes, I know, so did you.) That kind of thing.
And then Radiant Fracture itself is two things that any name should be if it possibly can -- a Leonard Cohen reference, and a dirty joke.
{rf}
I should also say, as a variant, that I liked the juxtaposition of writing, which has often seemed to me in the past, and probably will seem again in the future, to skate on the edge of being a wholly useless pastime, (with a beautiful icefield of Deeply Meaningful off to one side) with something so material and obviously productive as HVAC.*
*Heating, Ventilation, Air Conditioning
The top element in my stove doesn't work, so I am incapable of broiling, and my cookies come out burned on the bottom and raw on top. It occurred to me yesterday to flip them over, pancake-style. That meant there were two flat sides and no puffy irregular finished top, and they were still slightly undercooked in the middle, which made them a lot like those miniature individual brownies. A successful strategy. (If limited.)
Paris is lovely, with all its quirks. This bright airy front room all by itself makes up for the irregular ghost-holes in the walls and the occasional silverfishian tourists. I'm afraid I'm quite a bit ruder than the legendary running-joke waiters to them. Said waiters only crush your self-esteem. And they don't use a shoe.
(Can you imagine if they did, though? "Sea bass out of season?" WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!) (Or whatever. I don't know anything about fish except that I'm supposed to eat more of it or die of a heart attack at 32.)
Yesterday someone was playing loud bass-driven music while I was trying to grapple with reality, and I'm afraid that they're going to take my current Belle & Sebastian as a rebuttal. Normally I don't mind people in other apartments playing music -- having sex, herding sheep -- I'm pretty laid-back about that stuff -- but the rhythm happened to be one of those clever syncopated-yet-repeating patterns that never lets your heart fall in with it. It felt like my anxiety was escalating in an attempt to keep time.
Nonetheless I'm not putting forth diffident vocals and tinkly backgrounds as superior music overall. Far From It.
* * *
There's a meme going around about where the name of your journal came from. And because I find myself terribly interesting or I wouldn't have a LiveJournal, now, would I, here is mine:
Radiant Fracture Repair and Fabrication is the name of my not-exactly-company through which I publish or rather photocopy various zines and chapbooks and things and then entirely fail to distribute them in any meaningful way.
I liked the idea of writing being an act of repair (and of course of fabrication.) I've always liked steelwork and welding, except that I'm afraid of making myself go blind by forgetting to look away from the flame. So during my brief association with art school (Major #3, if I recall correctly, but it might have been #4)I never really used the welding machine, although I really, really wanted to work in metal.
Along with a rock tumbler, I've kind of always wanted to get a small torch and mess around with melting solder and wire. Maybe not over the hardwood floor, though.
Writing as creative act, then, but a purposeful one, that produces something you needed when it's done, or fixes something that was broken. Or at least is an act of building. I love the tangible products of creation, the actual physical booklet or scroll or mysterious box. One year I did seasonal gifts that were poems folded up into chocolate boxes and rolled up into cigarette packs. (Yes, I know, so did you.) That kind of thing.
And then Radiant Fracture itself is two things that any name should be if it possibly can -- a Leonard Cohen reference, and a dirty joke.
{rf}
I should also say, as a variant, that I liked the juxtaposition of writing, which has often seemed to me in the past, and probably will seem again in the future, to skate on the edge of being a wholly useless pastime, (with a beautiful icefield of Deeply Meaningful off to one side) with something so material and obviously productive as HVAC.*
*Heating, Ventilation, Air Conditioning
