Freckles & Doubt

I have emerged, mostly unscathed and presumably de-polyped, from the slightly haphazard embrace of the medical establishment. (Five hours of waiting for theatre, during which the nurses utterly failed to restore the missing curtains from my cubicle, rendering changing clothes somewhat of an exposed experience, and I read four-fifths of The Name of the Wind, which is interesting, if slightly gender-unenlightened grimdark fantasy whose protagonist is something of an oblivious dick for most of it). Most noticeable side-effect of the whole procedure: two days of random bursting into tears for no apparent reason, which I'd forgotten is the usual result of anaesthetic on my hapless form. I await with alert interest to see if the polyp-removal does have any actual effect on my currently completely randomised menstrual cycle, which has not been operating as a cycle so much as a sort of wayward and slightly amnesiac wavy line.

I feel the need to share for posterity some rather soothing web-widgets which have whiled away my slightly lachrymose recovery.

• This is beautifully random: it consists solely of a web page which reflects the time (hour/minute/second) as the colour of the hexadecimal colour code represented by the numbers. You can sit and watch it slowly, gradually shade as the seconds tick by. It's weirdly soothing.
  
• This is also colour-related - you choose a colour from the palette and randomly spread it across the black screen, and it builds you galaxies. They're beautiful and ethereal.
  
• This is meditative and exploratory and gently primitive, and the music is a lot of its effect, but I also like the strange, spidery creature you grow. Also, not actually two-dimensional, although you may think so at first.

I suppose I'm due for an outbreak of my techno-jinx, it's been lurking in hibernation for a while, but the emphasis is on the "lurking" - it's an undead horror that will never truly die. I have been without home internet since Wednesday morning, my existence bound by the sad contemplation of that doomful little red blinkenlight on the modem. My helpful Imaginet geek checked all the widgety connection thingummies, and the problem is apparently Telkom doing "routine maintenance" on the lines in the area, by which I assume they mean they're digging up the perfectly functional network and replacing it with something they crocheted from palm fibres while high. Techno-jinx 1, me 0, Telkom their usual 32 956, while cackling.

They may well have sorted it out since Wednesday, but I have been unable to check, on account of how my computer monitor abruptly stopped being able to talk to the actual computer sometime on Wednesday night, right in the middle of a high-stakes Dragon Age battle. Intensive operations swapping out monitors and connection cables suggest that it's not either of them, so I somewhat amateurishly diagnose that my video card has died. Either that, or it's a more pervasive problem with either the power supply or the RAM or the hard drive itself, which is preventing the poor creature from booting properly at all. Since it can't get as far as talking to the monitor either way it can't tell me what's actually wrong, which is a horribly helpless sort of position to put me in. These days I can usefully solve a good 70% of my computer problems by the power of random semi-competent fiddle, creatively channelling the Evil Landlord and various ex-boyfriends, and Google. Not this time, clearly. Techno-jinx 2, me 0, Telkom still cackling in the background because still no internet, which means my perfectly functional IPad is useless for internet-withdrawal-placation purposes as the wireless doesn't work. Curse that cloud computing, anyway.

It's entirely possible that this dual techno-failure was a signal from the Cosmic Wossnames on high that I need to get my butt back to work after ten days of sick-leave - certainly I have been far more motivated to actually leave the house when I can neither noodle around on the internet nor play games. I am thus back in the saddle, placating the swirling black clouds of internet withdrawal by virtue of my work internet (although my Tumblr feed is pretty much out of control as reading it full-time is not compatible with student advice or doing any actual work), and plotting to take the hapless computer in to the nice Korean geekpersons at Cafe Viva this afternoon. I am also way ahead on my tv-watching and reading, which means I have finally cracked open Parade's End, of which I have been somewhat scared in my weakened state as it looked heavy and possibly tragic. In fact, it's both tragic and absorbing, and exquisitely made, and is providing a horribly addictive plethora of compelling characters and amazing set and landscape porn. Last night I also combined the high-class BBC period drama with a completely random and uncalled-for acquisition of Chinese takeout, all on my own, just because I was grumpy and could. It turns out that techno-jinxen, if not placated, can be more or less forgotten with sufficient crispy duck with pancakes and Benedict Cumberbatch being Noble in spades. Thus Techno-jinx 2, Telkom infinity, but me 1.

In the context of all of the above I record, for posterity, my delightful discovery in the course of looking up "blinkenlight" to confirm that it was in fact spelled thusly and did indeed mean what I though it meant. Namely, the Wikipedia article on same, which reproduces in its entirety that beautifully Goonish conglomeration of mock-German warning sign which is one of the most elderly of tech memes, and whose existence I had entirely forgotten about. When confronted with a rampaging techno-jinx, horned and clawed, it is as well to remember that DAS KOMPUTERMASCHINE IST NICHT FÜR DER GEFINGERPOKEN UND MITTENGRABEN! and to RELAXEN UND WATSCHEN DER BLINKENLICHTEN. If I can get them to blink. News at 11.

Clearly it is fatal to ever name anything, truenames simply happen with cosmic inevitability. Minerva is apparently not Minerva, or is at least only Minerva for extremely formal occasions. Courtesy of her number-plate and Jo&Stv, she is now the Beast, or Beastie for affectionate. I am bowing to the inevitable, and will have to find a small demonic dangly for her rear-view-mirror rather than a wol.

I should also simply accept that classical names for creatures of mine are doomed: Fish was technically Ariadne, but was never anything but Fish. The Hobbit is technically Peregrine Took or Pippin, but it never stuck. The Biscuit Tin was also supposed to be the Boojum, but that didn't stick either. However, at least the Beast now fits neatly into the clear parameters of Names For My Blue Cars Which Have To Be The Definite Article Plus Something Beginning With B.

It is somewhat of a revelation to realise how much of the Beast is clearly a nostalgic attempt to reconstruct the Biscuit Tin, who I loved with the pure and abiding love of a girl for her small blue tin boxy car.

In the Department of Fire And Brimstone, I have this week brought upon myself solely by my own stupid exertions a particularly early start to Hellweek, which is technically next week. We did early change of curriculum for five hours of yesterday and again today. It's the exact opposite of Christmas coming early, and has moreover produced the misguided young man who, at the end of a long day, attempted to invade my tea-drinking moment with an insistence that he was only adding a course so it wasn't a change of curriculum and he could thus clearly ignore the No Change Of Curriculum sign on my door. Honestly. Basic logic, do we even teach it? *channels Professor Kirke*

Hellweek next week, aka the first week of term. Please forgive me if I am unduly short and explosive in chance encounters. On the upside, my Esteemed Mother arrives from the UK on Monday evening. That should help.

I'm rather late on the bandwagon with this - I've seen mention of The Lizzie Bennet Diaries on the web over the last year or so, but what with the urgent need to read all the Avengers fanfiction, never really got around to watching them. (Apparently internet distraction time is finite rather than infinitely expandable. Which, given the infinite expandability of the internet is something of a problem. Oops.) Today I am wandering around in a bit of a daze, bumping into things, because I was up until after midnight fascinatedly watching a modernised Lizzie Bennet deal with Darcy revelations and Wickham fallout, and am consequently somewhat short on sleep. I'm at around episode 90 out of 100 (it's just finished, making this a good time to leap on board for people prone to my need for instant narrative gratification). It was significantly difficult to drag myself away in the small hours.

The Lizzie Bennet diaries are two things: (a) a beautifully-realised and highly intelligent modernisation of Pride and Prejudice via social media, and (b) proof positive that Jane Austen still has a fan following - still speaks to people, even modern internet-savvy people whose lives revolve around phones and tweets and job opportunities rather than marriage and social class. The show consists of 100 2-5 minute weblogs from Lizzie herself, with extensions into Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr accounts and a couple of offshoot video blogs (Lydia, mostly), and a fan following who interacts with the characters as though they're real. It strips down Austen's narrative to show only central characters, while peripheral characters such as Mr and Mrs Bennet or Catherine de Bourgh are represented by quick (and often very funny) theatrical impersonations by Lizzie and various hapless assistants. It's a show about social media on several levels, not just in its own transmission formats, but in the daily life and concerns of its protagonists. At the heart of it is an intrinsically conscious equation between Austen's social awareness and social media awareness, an insistence that culture is culture regardless of its technological paradigm.

I love and frequently re-read Pride and Prejudice, and I love this adaptation: it's funny and sensitive, and above all beautifully acute in its awareness of the central themes of the book, and the way in which they transcend historical context. The equivalences the show makes for Charlotte's pragmatic acceptance of Mr Collins, for Wickham's desecration of Lydia, for the whole socio-economic edifice of Pemberly and Darcy's wealth, beautifully encapsulate the spirit of the original while cheerfully updating its letter. (Their version of Mr Collins is sheer genius, both in concept and in execution. Also, obviously Darcy is a hipster. Suspenders. She says darkly.)

Where the series most blows me away, though, is in their treatment of the Wickham/Lydia plot. I was a bit dubious about how they were going to handle it given contemporary sexual freedoms, but updated, and with Lydia's greatly increased interiority, it becomes heartbreakingly cruel. It fascinates me, that the trauma and heartache displayed on video in this version are such an exact and faithful match to the trauma and heartbreak (although more restrained in expression) in Austen's original. She wrote about people, how they love and betray and survive, and above all how they agonise about their appearance in the eyes of the world. Even more so given the power of our technology, so do we.

I have infected the Jo with this, so let's see if I can snag a few more curious squid. New webcomic! I have discovered Noelle Stevens's Nimona, mostly as a result of pursuing my legitimate dodgy fanfiction concerns via an increasingly obsessive Tumblr feed (she's gingerhaze on Tumblr, if you want more lovely art and pop culture injokes). Nimona is a short, stocky, grumpy, shapechanging, uninhibitedly destructive wannabe-sidekick who has apprenticed herself to the rather restrained villain Ballister Blackheart, who is locked in a slashy-subtexted nemesis relationship with the hair-swishy hero Ambrosius Goldenloin, with whom he was at hero school. The art is deceptively naive and highly accomplished; the world does a deadpan and unlikely mixture of medieval with contemporary; the narrative delights me utterly by taking off in absolutely unexpected directions whenever it can. Look out for visual in-jokes in the crowd scenes. Also, enjoy.

While we're madly trying to infect people: I am currently basking in the warm glow of my annual Wikipedia donation, impelled thither by the discreet banner which popped up at me this morning and made me realise I use Wikipedia pretty much daily and wish it to succeed and grow. They're having their annual donation drive, which is how they fund the non-profit organisation which keeps Wikipedia going. You might consider slinging some small wealth their way. Have you been on Wikipedia today? I bet you have.

Infection being what it is, this accursed 'flu has resurged: am in the hacking, bring-me-a-soprano-and-an-attic stage of stuffy head, cough and concrete sinuses. Spurred on by my nice therapist, I am going home now, and the gazelles and faculty can just damned well survive without me for a few hours.

I have discovered Chrome! It pains me to abandon Firefox, which has served me well for many years and whose cute logo and continued ability to not be IE I shall miss, but it was rapidly succumbing to the more noxious kind of bloat. Chrome is a new, fresh country in which clicking on a browser icon causes this useful contraption to load instantly instead of several minutes later in lead boots. I am, however, known proclivities notwithstanding, deeply suspicious of this "cloud" thing. It ain't natural.

Today I have done two loads of washing, written LARPs for two hours in the company of Jo (we have a mutual reinforcement pact in a desperate effort to actually finish something), diligently filed away the giant wodge of official-looking paper which has resided in the in-tray on my desk at home for upwards of a year, and submitted two tax returns. The dual tax return was necessary because, upon logging into the online filing site (which is madly efficient for a government bureaucracy and has my vote) I discovered that I never actually filed a return for 2011. Mature reflection suggests that this could be legitimately attributable to an ill-fated Australia trip, a life-threatening hospitalisation and several months of serious fatigue, but I don't know if that will hold any water with the jackbooted minions of SARS. I have no idea what actually happens to the evil defaulters who blithely file a tax return a year late: the Lawful Good part of me is subconsciously braced for the SWAT team to burst through the ceiling, waving paperwork. If I'm never heard of again, that's what happened.

The mad productivity and general organisation levels of the day would be terribly worthy, except that I have a dark suspicion I actually only did all of the above as a skilled avoidance of the marking pile. Essays marked today: 0. We're out at Overture for lunch tomorrow, so I suspect its score will be similar. Darn.

In only vaguely related news, apparently the result of spending two weeks reading Avengers slash is that I suddenly have a mad desire to ship Tony Stark with Kaylee Fry. The logic is both terrible and beautiful.

Goodness, April. I cannot condone the helter-skelter promiscuity with which the months leap headlong into each other's recently-vacated beds. In particular, I cannot but feel peeved at the fact that April this year seems to have heralded a full-on glandular resurgence, which means I'm dragging myself around the show in a dazed and non-functional state, wibbling. However, five-day break over Easter. (I took Thursday off to spend it with my Mama, who arrives from points British on Wednesday night, hurrah!)

It being a new month, I am obliged to follow my New Year's Resolution, namely to acknowledge the sources of my involuted subject line references. March shakes down as follows:

1st: English proverb. Have you ever noticed how many English proverbs are concerned with the weather? Poor things.
6th: David Bowie, lyrics of "Teenage Wildlife", appropriately enough given the subject of the post.
8th: beautifully apposite quote from Avengers trailer.
11th: quote from Rango.
16th: Quote from one of Gollum's riddles.
20th: quote from one of my favourite T-shirts, although not, confusingly, the anti-Twilight T-shirt featured in the post. We rejoice in a plethora of anti-Twilight t-shirts, suggesting that there's hope for today's youth.
24th: Logan quote from Veronica Mars. Logan is eminently quotable. Also, Logan/Veronica 4 EVAH!
27th: an infusion of my usual "< Weekday > Wol is..." formula with a mutated LOLcat slogan.
29th: Quote from "Teach Your Children Well", which is a catchy but saccharine Crosby Stills & Nash song I learned in guitar club at school.
21st. Self-conscious invocation of the traditional diss of a clichéd fantasy novel or D&D game, and simultaneously a deliberate subtextual referral to the slash fan fiction I teach in the course whose web pages the hacker is routinely hacking.

In other news, if you haven't yet seen The Guild's new musical number + video, do so. It's a marvellous geeky revenge fantasy, but it's also an incredibly clever piece of film which plays lovely games with visual matches and with pretentious rock-band tropes.

I've just run an ongoing orientation workshop, which entailed being in the venue early to set up data projectors and what have you. (We insert the usual ritual cursing aimed at my Cherished Institution's classroom "facilities" unit, which mostly facilitates frustration and despair). While I was waiting for the start of the session students were doing the usual student thing, which is to trickle in gradually (this process takes place from about ten minutes before the start of the lecture until about ten minutes after it's under way). I was struck, though, by the ongoing silence in the venue even as the numbers built. Surely students should be chatting to each other while they wait? They certainly have no problem chatting during the lecture itself.

And, of course, the answer is because almost every student is sitting in their seat in the modern attitude of techno-prayer, hands folded, head bowed, thumbs working busily as they send SMSes or read their email or whatever. It's visually quite a striking trend, looking up at the raked seats. Also, almost every student walks into the venue with their phone in their hand, presumably because they've been texting as they walk. Cellphones and their ilk have become communication and identity prosthetics, an integral part of both daily function and of self-construction. I am, because I text. Existence is only proven and affirmed in virtual space. And they say cyberspace isn't real. Hah.

I seem to have missed the cellphone thing, it's an occasionally handy tool rather than an integral part of my functioning, but I think the internet is absolutely a prosthetic self to me. I suspect I've never acquired the cellphone habit because both my work and my home paradigms are fairly sedentary - if I had the kind of job where I was more than ten metres away from my computer at any given time, I'd probably be giving my thumbs repetitive strain injury with the best of them. I become very, very twitchy if internet-deprived for more than a few hours.

But I mourn what we've lost, which is time. Time in the sense of extended focus, communication in anything other than bite-sized chunks. My students write increasingly terrible essays as the years go by, because you don't learn the skills of sustained argument and marshalling the logical flow of a large chunk of text by reading instant messages. And this is why they argue that blogging is dying, and maybe it is. No time, no attention to spare. TL;DR. All those words.

I like words, and I think they're happier in stupendous, horizon-filling herds.

It is a strange and disturbing thing, to live in an age where corporate lobbyists in another country have the power to potentially restrict net freedoms across the world. You can't say that SOPA won't affect us on the tip of Africa if it's passed. The blogs I read, the information sources I use, even the hosting of some of my own sites, is in the US. Globalisation means we're all interconnected. The activists and net-heads and ordinary people who are doing protest blackouts and phoning their representatives and trying to stop this, are striking a blow for me. I just wish I could do more than simply watch helplessly, and hope.

You know, it's not just the gentle weekly suggestions of my therapist which are starting to make me realise I don't have enough faith in myself. Remember the sad death of Winona, my netbook? She refused to switch on at any price, and eventually by determined trial and error I worked out that her on switch was defunct. I resolved to take her around to her supplier sometime and demand medical attention, and there the matter languished.

Then last night we were role-playing, and the conversation rambled around to matters technogeeknical, as it does, and I had myself a brief, ritual "dead Winona" lament. Whereupon Andrew H-S agreed that yes, it did sound like the on switch was buggered, and why didn't I just open it up and fiddle around a bit, he's seen me fix stuff he can't fix? (On mature reflection I think he must mean that one weekend away in Wilderness with the gang, over a decade ago, when I fixed the broken toilet flushing system with a brass brazing rod and the jeweller's pliers I carry in my handbag, and we spent the rest of the weekend rather drunkenly deciding who we'd like with us come the apocalypse, on grounds of random skills. I made it because of my ability to fix flush toilets. We decided, if I remember correctly, that we were pretty much screwed in genetic terms, we're all bespectacled geek types and our offspring would probably be blind within two generations. We also, for no adequately defined reason, ended up deploying Thakky's husband in a string bikini with a Bowie knife as a boundary patrol, and keeping David in a cage for breeding purposes as he's one of the few of us with 20/20 vision. It was a fairly drunken weekend).

Anyway, fired by this passing testament to my abilities, I just disassembled selected portions of Winona with the Philips screwdriver I keep on my desk, jiggled the switchy bits, blew carefully into the whole thing to remove dust and accreted pocket universes, and screwed it back together, whereupon it booted first go. She is now sitting on my desk meditatively downloading Windows upgrades. I feel smug, and also maddened beyond belief that I didn't trust my own instincts and bloody well do that first off when the problem manifested. Honestly. Two minutes of fiddling and a Philips screwdriver. Think of all the ritual Winona laments I would have saved.