satyrica

horribly failed my read-small-print roll and tried to go and see a non-existant showing of 9 Songs at the Ritzy but wandered around Brixton for a bit instead which was cool; I really like going around markets even though I almost never buy anything at them, which I can't quite work out: I guess I'm feeling like I'm engaging with the local community or something. I also accidentally bought three more books just don't tell

mistress_fran that one of them was The Republic . . .

my current life-scheduling anxieties has made me oddly contemplative about how I spend my time: it strikes me as wierd that I devote so much time to consuming or creating representations of fictional lives in a plethora of media rather than getting on and 'living' my own (however one may do such a thing) and likewise devote so much energy to activities whose nominal aim is to change societal attitudes/political decisions when I don't honestly believe they have any kind of impact. It seems odd that such apparently futile activities are so important to me and yet (along with cultivating various levels of intimacy with other members of my species) they are pretty much what I have made my life about and I know that if I made the rational decision to shed the dead weight of such unproductive activity I would feel psychically impoverished to a level I don't think I could cope with.