November 30, 2005


Since we're talking about fame, recognition and rejection, this is a good time for a commercial break. I'm offering signed - signed !! - copies of my devastatingly funny, sexy and accurate satire The Joy of Letting Women Down - Secrets of the worshipped male for the special bargain price of £3 British Pounds or $5 U.S. Dollars!! Even Amazon's used books prices can't beat this offer!! (Mine are mint-fresh copies!!) The book is hardback, 160 pages, measuring 13cm x 18.5cm (5.25" x 7.25"). Fully illustrated and written by yours truly!! I'll even pay postage since I expect to receive a flood of orders from y'all!! You can read some customer reviews by clicking on the cover thumbnail above!! It will also be reviewed before Christmas on Reading Matters!! It was reviewed by Nick Barrett (Jan.2004) and by Cass Brown (March 2004) on their blogs. It 's the ideal gift for wannabe or don't wannabe Casanovas and all those you know (even you?) who have suffered and/or enjoyed being, or being under the spell of, a worshipped male.

Am I an ace saleperson or what? Come on, send me your money and send me an email: <augustine DOT nda AT blueyonder DOT co DOT uk>

HOW TO ORDER: Send me an email with your address and how many copies you want. I'll reply giving you my address and you can then send me a cheque, preferably in British Pounds or the equivalent in Euros. I'll have to pay bank charges if converting Dollars so if you must pay in those green things, please add another $1.50.


November 27, 2005


The rejection bug.

Where does it begin? Probably as soon as you take your first steps. No, before that. You've only been born a few minutes and your mother puts you on her breast. You start to suckle as best you can and just as you're enjoying the cuddly position and the warm sweet nectar going down your tiny throat, it all stops. Mom's nipples hurt or she wants a cup of tea or sleep or whatever. But in your tiny newborn brain the conviction forms that she has REJECTED you.

The little REJECTION bug takes up residence in your psyche and grows there, fed by innumerable incidents of childhood which prove to you that your adorable, unique self is ALWAYS BEING REJECTED. It may or may not be true that people in your life treat you badly or unfairly or indifferently but facts have nothing to do with it. The bug in your brain tells you how to interpret looks, words, actions, and that's how you interpret them.

Fast forward to adulthood. You are a unique, adorable, talented, writer/artist/inventor/cook/musician/tightrope walker/philosopher/etc. and your friends confirm all the nice things you know about yourself. However, you do not have widespread RECOGNITION. Your uniqueness is not applauded by the world. Press cuttings mentioning you are not from the major newspapers. The slim volumes of your revolutionary poetry were self-published. Your sensational tightrope act is performed at family birthday parties. The Museum of Modern Art has never heard of you. Your song is not Top of the Pops. You are not on the A-list of bloggers. Your extraordinary wind-powered mind-altering peace-making machine has not been adopted by the governments of the world. You are poor whereas derivative banal rubbish earns millions. You have banged on more doors than a double-glazing salesman and they are still saying thanks, but no thanks. You are REJECTED. The bug is alive and thriving inside your head.

I've been thinking about all this because of a recent, unremarkable incident. I discovered that the major publisher of intelligent graphic novels in the U.S. accepted submissions via the web so I sent them links to my gnovel samples and to the God Interviews. Somehow I was sure that this would be the one to take me on and I confidently awaited an enthusiastic YES. Only a couple of days later (amazingly quick response) an answer came from the top:

"Thank you for your submission but this would prove a difficult sell."

So what? I have files full of letters praising what I do but adding: it's not commercial. Fair enough, no problema. I'm not offended, discouraged or disillusioned. I'm an old hand at this game and I'll carry on playing because I know I'm good and market values do not define me. Coincidentally, an excellent post ("Note to Self: Remove Scaffolding") by Richard Lawrence Cohen explores the need for recognition and comes to a wise conclusion, which I share.

But I still wonder about this nagging question: why is it never enough?
Why aren't we satisfied to have the intelligent approval/appraisal/love of a small circle of people who have come to know what we do and what we are? Why do we think we must have more recognition, bigger recognition, wider recognition? Why? Why? Why?


November 26, 2005


London underground train arriving.

Another little diversion into moving pictures.You are in the London Underground, watching my train arriving. I stop filming and board the train.


November 24, 2005


stormy movie?

Looking out the window this afternoon, a sudden storm. Caught a moment of it on silent digital movie but now comes the usual difficulty of posting it here. It may take a few tries but if I succeeded before, I should be able to succeed again. Patience.

Later: Got it! Double click the image and see the storm. Wait for the motorbike. Put it on loop and see it again.


November 23, 2005



November 16, 2005


Update: I did give up after 7000-and-something words. I will go back to it at some point but for now, "Clearing History" has been removed from this website.

Going under?I didn't realise what I was doing when I jumped in at the deep end of NaNoNovelling, not knowing how to swim. Plus I had to jump in naked, throwing caution to the winds. Any wonder then that I'm now treading water like mad, trying to keep afloat? Reaching the 50,000 strokes goal is out of the question. I am barely managing a couple of hundred (a dozen?) a day, even with heavy breathing. The question is, and that is always the question, to be or not to be? Why didn't I tackle something simple like murder or romance? Woman meets man > man must have his mate > a fight for love and glory > the same old story > the world will always welcome lovers > as time goes by > The End.

Never trust revelations, they are always false. I'm seriously considering changing horses in midstream. No, wait. I'm not on a horse, I'm drowning in deep dark waters. What I need is a helicopter to pull me the hell out of there.




November 12, 2005


stick-person pounding a keyboard till s/he bleeds

Borrowed from Watermark because it's so perfect for us mad people doing NaNoWriMo. Another sleepless night looms. I shouldn't have posted my NaNo so soon because now I've gone into that familiar mode, you know the one:

WaitingForCommentsMustCheckCommentsWhereAreAll TheCommentsIExpectedMoreCommentsCommentsComments!!!

That's just so infantile. Back to my erotic word-counting.


November 11, 2005


I've done a reckless thing. Posted all of what I've written so far of the NaNoWriMo novel right here . I want to carry on this way, adding sections as soon as I finish them (no pictures). Don't anybody ask if it's about me. It's fiction and all fiction is also not fiction. Reality is also mainly fiction. Even if you recognise things I may have posted over here at some time, I could have made them up. After all, I'm only an alter ego and what's more a cartoon.

Now, important question: do any of you techies out there know how to do that techie thing which makes it impossible for people to print a page off the web? I'd like to do that for Clearing History.

Comments about the novel over here please. You must be over 18.

(Update November 30: I've removed "Clearing History" from this site as I didn't complete the NaNo marathon. Will get back to working on it by and by).


November 10, 200


I have 3593 words, 53 paragraphs, 5 pages of an (extremely) erotic novel. I didn't expect it, didn't plan it, but that's what's emerging so why should I resist? At this rate I don't see how I can reach the 50,000 word goal in time but I'm completely hooked and won't stop. It's disrupted everything. Even my faithful little Epson printer after five years of loyal service decided to quit. I took it in for repair but was told that fixing it would cost more than buying a new one. So I had to buy a new one yesterday, those all-in-one monsters who can print, scan, copy but not cook, clean, sing or dance. I must have a printer in case my erotic masterpiece is swallowed by the computer. Heh. I'll bet you're curious about the erotica, right? I will resist the strong temptation to post it as I go along. That would be cheating. Be satisfied with a picture of The Lion On The Machine. Apologies to Arthur Koestler who wrote The Ghost in the Machine. As you knew. Nothing whatsoever to do with the nanonovel.




November 8, 2005


Am I insane or what? Have just signed up for this eight days late, with no idea of what I'll write. Because I want not to know what I'm doing. Because I don't have self-discipline and imagine this will give it to me. Because it's another avoidance tactic, another trick from the Distraction Monster's bottomless bag of tricks. Because it sounds like fun and I just want to have fun, all the time, every day. Because it's a challenge. Because it's Not Serious. Because if I can do it it might be good. And if it isn't it won't matter. Because I can pretend it's serious work. Because if I start doing it and then give up I can say: see? You always start things and don't finish them, you're useless, you're wasting your talent on trivia. And so forth. Excuse me now. I've got to go and write - what is it, 1,600 words a day? I've missed eight days so that's 12,000 words. Tonight.


November 7, 2005


Do you ever wake up from a daytime nap not knowing where you are, who you are? And then familiarity creeps back in and the strangeness creeps back out?

The most extraordinary dream I ever had was not like a dream at all although I was asleep in bed. I was sitting at the table in my living room, everything normal and familiar, when suddenly my mirror image was sitting opposite me, alive and looking at me. Heart-stoppingly real, frightening, exciting, bewildering. It was a couple of years ago but I still remember it vividly.

I want to stop explaining myself to myself and to others. The urge to explain and to receive explanations is highly overrated. After all, what's wrong with not knowing?

Me and myself.


November 3, 2005


Lion reveals all.

No, this picture is not lion porn. It shows that Leonardo, my lion, may be a spy. When I discovered that he had a zipper in his belly, I naturally assumed that it meant you could zip off his skin for washing. Then I realised this was ridiculous. Besides, the zip is only a tiny one and it opens a small pouch. Rummaging around in the pouch, I found a battery case which I unscrewed. Behold, there were two batteries inside. I put in brand new ones, just in case, replaced the cover, zipped up the pouch and waited for something to happen. Nothing. I pinched, poked, prodded and squeezed Leonardo over every inch of his soft anatomy but there wasn't even a soupçon of lion roar or any other possible reason for wiring him up. Unless. Unless he is a spy disguised as an innocent toy and whoever would buy him (at a bargain price) would become an unwitting source of information for whatever dastardly plot the dastards are cooking up? Well, maybe. Now I am desperate to know how to activate him and hear him roar, moo, baaa or speak Chinese. Any ideas on how to find out what the batteries are for without ripping out Leonardo's entrails?


November 2, 2005


It was one of those Asian shops selling anything and everything crammed into the available space - just put it all out there and if they trip over it they might buy it. Rugs and bedspreads from Bangladesh, tables from Thailand, china from China, pots and pans from the back of a truck. I wandered in not looking for anything in particular, just out on another one of my playing-hooky-from-school (ie getting on with real work) days and all of a sudden I saw him. He was sitting majestically on a seagrass carpet, guarding the store. I fell in love instantly and so did he. I heard his commanding voice:"Take me home with you. Do it." I fingered his price tag: £14.99. In posh stores in the West End it would be £40 and upwards. He wasn't posh quality but still, for a 22" long by 12" high beast he was magnificent enough for me. I decided that some bazaar bargaining was in order and went to the turbanned owner standing forlornly in the shop doorway. I was probably his only customer today. "Will you give me a discount on this animal?" He looked deep into space, calculating. "I'll give it to you for £12.99" he said. I put on a pained expression. "I'll give you £10" I said, handing him the money. He shrugged and put my lion in a bag. Cradling my treasure I left quickly, feeling as if I'd stolen a priceless antique. It was fate, I am a Leo and he is my lion.

My lion