Sorry for the blog silence but I have been ministering to my brain. Firstly, I have been reading what the French call la littératture. Swanky eh? You know, books and stuff. Novels. There’s been a recent rash [compared to nothing] in my consumption of the things. I just finished The Virgin Suicides, which was good, but my head was constantly invaded by the movie, particularly Kirsten Dunst as Lux. Before that, I read Glamorama which was totally the toppest shit, man. I love Bret Easton Ellis. This one wasn’t as funny as American Psycho but it really kicked ass after about the first hundred pages. Way excellent, with celebrity name-drops aplenty, and also some disturbingly hot porn spanning pages 334-340 of my copy, if you were interested. Er, anyway, before that, I read The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, which I liked because of the Sandy character and because the Miss Jean Brodie in question was such an utterly preposterous little demagogue. Before that, The Secret History, which I thought was really well characterised, eliciting a strong identification with the narrative voice, and a sneaking suspicion that the Henry character was not to be trusted. Poor Bunny. Before that, oh, it’s getting hazy now. I think there was that Martin Amis autobiography, Experience, and those two Ian McEwan novels, Atonement and Enduring Love, but hmmmmm, methinks those take me back to a time that pre-dates the recent rash, so they should be discounted. Oh yeah, now I remember. The Harry Potter novels, all five of them in quick succession. Thems are good eatin’. I think I’m going to try the whole Virginia Woolf/Salman Rushdie thing again, which I have aborted a few times in favour of other distractions.

Other recent stimuli in the form of fillims, [what the French call, les films] have been I Capture the Castle, which had great clothes and insouciance, but a poorly cast and unappealing male love interest. I mean as if! Hellooo! Romola Garai and Rose Byrne are totally hot and bohemian English roses, so trying to make us believe that either of them would want to marry that American dullard… sheeesh! What were they playing at? We are a thinking audience, you know. We know that hot and interesting goes with hot and interesting, okay, and that there are no ways between, so give us some cred! That guy was totally blank and unworthy. Anyway, during the film something odd occurred. A scene played out in which the father was apologising to his daughter, saying things like “I’m sorry I ruined your life”, which was an overstatement, and I was thinking, “um, she’s eighteen”, and then the daughter actually said, “Dad, I’m eighteen”, with the same inflection my mind had given it, because you know, that was the reasonable response. I just thought I’d share that with you. Also saw Confessions of a Dangerous Mind which made me think Drew Barrymore and Sam Rockwell are totally cool and should have babies. A while before that I saw Respiro which was bloody excellent. Set in Sicily, totally great kids and a powerful sense of dry heat and salty air. Last week I watched Disney’s The Jungle Book, of which I had fond memories. It seemed more abrupt than I remember, but it was still good. Next week I plan to watch Alice In Wonderland, which I think might be the superior of the two. But nothing else comes close to either of them. Am looking forward to seeing Buffalo Soldiers because of the Jaoquin Phoenix factor, who coincidentally, is mentioned more than once in Glamorama.

In other brain-related issues, my mother sent me to a psychiatrist the other week. She worries, you see, but I wasn’t perturbed. I am fairly assured of my normalcy. And the doctor man agreed. Score! No mental disorders, no psychotic dysfunction, no personality problems nor any sign of what he termed a ‘deep dark history’. He was a poet, clearly. I felt validated. It was great to find out once and for all that I am what I thought I was - just a perfectly healthy crappy daughter whose lacklustre lifestyle sends her ma into depressive and guilt-ridden agonies. Poor woman…. Mmmmmm… I’m not freaking out or anything, but what if Mr Doctor man was only hoodwinked into giving me a clear bill of mental health by my manipulative sociopathic wiles [hey, I might have them]? What if [gasp!] he wasn’t even a doctor at all? Hah! But he was! Take that, suckers! The office in the medical clinic, and the bulk-billing, these were all clear signs. Even so, it could be argued that the hour he spent in my inane presence wasn’t sufficient to plumb and diagnose the eternal mystery that is moi. Fine! In the interests of science, [and, taking into account the subjectivity inherent to psychological consultations] I’m gonna parade my lifestyle before your good selves so that you may determine whether or not I am symptomatic of, um, something. And ‘wanker’ doesn’t count as a diagnosis, as it is an ailment without a confirmed medical cause, and does not come in the requisite Latin.

I think my lifestyle is probably typical, but hey, what would I know? I don’t get out much. I wake in the mid-afternoon, usually on the couch in the living room. Check to see what Oprah’s doing. Basic channel surfing between Passions and Dr Phil with emphasis on the former, until 4pm when Big Arvo kicks in, followed by Entertainment Tonight at 4.30pm, and then Newshour with Jim Lehrer most days. This whole afternoon TV process is sometimes eschewed in favour of listening to music, most recently with emphasis on Lucinda Williams, Gillian Welch, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Simian, Interpol, Rage Against the Machine, Easybeats, Lauryn Hill, Blondie, Hives, Dandy Warhols, with best intentions of revisiting Strokes, White Stripes, Eeels, Radiohead, BRMC, REM, PJ Harvey, Bob Dylan, Bic Runga, Coldplay, Bjork, Machine Gun Fellatio, Cat Power, Beck, Hot Hot Heat, and Nick Cave. Have designs on buying Kings of Leon, Goldfrapp, Jet, etc. If not tutoring or working, continue in this mode until brother arrives home. He joins couch. TV watching/music listening now interspersed with more commentary and demands that I get him a glass of juice, and as I’m up anyway, why not make pasta or stir fry or chocolate muffins, cookies et al, accompanied by the constant refrain, “Do we have melting choc chips?”, followed by deliberations on whether or not to make expedition to 7/11 to get said item and a few more besides, on my dollar. Much haranguing, or not, depending on mood. Time passes, phone rings a few times, entailing ungainly struggle from beneath constraints of twisted doona/poor agility/brother’s limbs and refusal to move, with kicking release and quick dash before "Hello Elanor speaking" and surprised recognition or the taking of messages. Parents return home, sometimes with mother bearing goods from supermarket prompting reconnaissance mission disguised as ‘helping to put away the food’. Evening continues in a world of couch, other family members gradually disappearing, signalling the beginning of ‘my time’, which spans the interval between the end of passable TV fare and the beginning of NBC Today at 4am. ‘My time’ spent doing one or all of three things; eating, reading, continuing the crusade against unwanted body hair. NBC Today ends at 6am. Watch first ten minutes of Sunrise in search of fodder for smugness, switch off TV, and, depending on tiredness level, either read or contemplate sleeping on couch or making the move down the hall to my bedroom. Sleeping quarter decision based on whether or not I need to wake up ‘early’ that day. Go to bedroom if I don’t need to be conscious or present at anything for at least 12 hours, stay on couch if needed in 5 hours. Powerful dreams in bed, garbled recollections on couch… The end.

I admit to being feckless and adrift, but I defy you to call me crazy.