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March 6th, 2008

Nowhere Near Savannah, Some Thoughts

Anna and I are fifteen weeks into Nowhere Near Savannah now and it seems to be finding its audience, which I think corresponds nicely to the fact that I've found the voice and beat for it now.

It's turning into a strange ride, however, from the perspective that I am suddenly becoming an audience for my own behaviour. If I was asked to describe myself in real life, I'd say I was easy going, laid back, and didn't really give a shit about much. Oh, I don't mean that I don't care, but rather that I am content to let people think what they want to think, so long as it's not stopping me from doing what I want. But fuck me, if I'm not looking at this comic, and looking at future comics, and seeing how whenever someone fucks with me or my friends, how I think it's not only fine, but fun to fuck with them back. I was having this discussion with Cas today, who read yesterday's comic and had the same experience as me. He reckons that he still doesn't believe that he did anything wrong in fucking with Snake Boy like he did and, indeed, I see nothing wrong with it either--though there was a moment when it happened that we both thought that him ending up in hospital was a touch excessive, but it didn't detract from the fact that he got what he deserved. It still gives us a chuckle.

It got me thinking about this blog, too, and the fun I've had on it. It's arguable that it has toned down a bit since I stopped talking the Australian Awards and the fiction of Australian writers, who were mostly made of glass when it came to the comments, and ended up calling me all sorts of fun names. But then and now, I've always treated everyone on this blog pretty much how I treat everyone in real life, which is cool and easy going right until they start calling me a cancer or something like that, at which point, I'm out to fuck with people, and I'll pretty much take any opportunity to do so. Some will argue that I bought a lot of it on myself by critically writing about their work, but seriously, if you can't make a distinction between your work and yourself, you've chosen the wrong form to perform in. Try flower arranging or some shit.

Which I suppose is why the most common comment of people who meet me in real life is to say that I'm alright, quiet in a way, funny even, and then to ask other people who know me why I'm such a dick. I'm sure a few people think I make it worse, but the truth of it is that I am alright here, too, right until someone decides to be a dick, in which case I do what I've done since for-fucking-ever, and I take a shot back. I'm not real fussed who it is, either: high up, low down, what the fuck do I care?

Perhaps none of this is worth mentioning, but I find it amusing and slightly disconcerting to watch my behaviour, and the patterns in it. It's not actually going to impact on me--I am, by and large, quite happy with how I am in life--so it's not like this post is all Ohmygodivegottochangenow.

In other news, I bought an Iron Maiden album for nine bucks today.

I don't know how grown men write these lyrics without laughing, but fuck me, it's glorious in its own way.