Maybe i'll dye my hair blonde. Which is what i was planning to do all along, of course, and then go blue or red or purple or piss about with crazy colours, but i might try going blonde and staying blonde. Making it seem almost natural.

I found a copy of Jeff Noon's (first) play, Woundings, yesterday, just after crying off from the Prom since it'll be the day after the funeral and i'll miss the rehearsals. I still haven't looked at it properly, just read a paragraph of speech about combat makeup made by max factor, that seemed familiar as if I'd read i before. Things are like that, recently. They like to claim they've been here all along.

I also managed a meaningful conversation with the brother, yesterday, about memories. Because i know for a fact that my first memory is uncle john's clock, glass case over gold workings, and "swinging on a star" (the version sung by big dee irwin and little eva, although possibly recorded by someone else). Nothing more, nothing less. And, before i realised this, in english we'd be asked to write about our first memory and i didn't have one, because i forget everything.

I like forgetting things. This may have been previously mentioned. I forget in order to survive. I remember standing outside some museum in Petersburg with Chris, and him being amazed at the fact that i didn't have a camera: but you'll forget! It's hard to explain that you don't like remembering, that you crave evanescence
- vanishing or fading away -
that it, obscurely, feels *better* to lose everything and have to come back to experience it all again, and never be able to recreate a moment.

In a way, that's the lure of GFs, these things which force you to live in the very second of the present, which shred your past into rags to warm their nests. They're the most incredible creature, because the more of your memories they eat away the more attuned to you they become until you are the perfect junction, no longer separate entities but one one and always one. A few minor incidents of an uneventful life is barely any price to pay for the beauty of that union, one you'll never get with any other no matter how much you love them because you can give all you can, but only to a GF can you give the charts of your beginnings. They take out the filaments of your being, and put themselves in their place, and if they are drawn away your mind topples like a tower without foundations.

And you can change if you have no memories, you can become something new. Just like you lose your dead cells every month, every cell renewed - like you can never step in the same river twice - you can become something else without the agglomeration of memory like a blood clot heavy on the brain. The awkward child, ready to giver help where it is needed but unwanted, disappears. The harsh arguments and the soft-focus platitudes crumble away like so many ancient corpses brought to modern light and oxygen. Everything is new, like the lazy snake shimmering out of its old sagging skin and revelling in the smooth slide of shining unmottled scales, wonder returns to the world. Identity becomes truly fluid: a heart beats out "i am, i am, i am, i am, i am", and not "i was".

And you're left naked and vulnerable, not protected by the reassurances of memory. The world is cold and unfamiliar, and sharp-tasting, full of excitement. There's a curious exultation in smiling at someone who remembers your face and knowing that you could never place them in a crowd, smiling and nodding and smirking, safe in sublime ignorance. You can think what you like of anything, without the harnesses and blinkers that a life's ideas endow you with: a best friend becomes an enemy, the grey areas of good and evil merge, places take on new and alien significances while old haunts dwindle to insignificance. Forgetting is the perfect loss of control, the only loss of control i will accept: as the smoke rolls in like dry ice (cold CO2 in lumps kept under the stage when we did britten's midsummer night's dream at hampton court and i was a fairy in basketball boots and pajamas) and blankets scraps of existence like new snow (can never step in new snow feels like sacrilege feels wrong to make a mark in the perfect white which smothers the cold ground softly) i loosen the cables on my memories and let them drift away.

Much of the time, i don't feel this way. I think i'm chanelling somebody whose voice wants to be heard. I'm sure they'll come out to play soon.

so, finally gave in to the evil lure of winamp, only to find that realplayer is real pushy and won't let winamp play in its sandpit.

So to speak.

Anyway, it's all very well having winamp but now i need mp3s, as i'm currently listening to a loop of "Sanctus" from Angel Sanctuary what i got off Rose's music recs page just now. That song, it *pretty*. Pretty pretty. So, anyone out there feel like filling in this desperately clueless kiddie on good places to pick up anime and jrock mp3s, considering that i've never had enough harddrive space to even consider finding out what winamp was before? *pleady eyes*

I feel suddenly blonde. I've never felt blonde before. The right hemisphere of my brain is aching... or is it right half?

recs are also always good ^_^

ack! i know what i want! green bird and tank!... *ambles off to find bebop mp3s*