Kieron Gillen's workblog

 
             

   
 
 

9/28/2004

 
I have a series of intricate, beautifully written letters that have appeared in my in-box, from various parties, over the last few days. They're co-incided with one of the occasional pulses in work which require a certain density in concentration, meaning they're going to lack a decent reply for longer than I like.

A public apology to those people, then.

I went to the Circus on Sunday.

In short: Anything involving Clowns was rubbish. Anything involving acrobats was excellent. Girls are hot.

Was a vague celebration-cum-research trip for the end of Busted Wonder, since co-incidentally a Circus hit Bath just before that self-imposed deadline. Which is my own indirect way of saying the second word in the Busted Wonder formula is "Circus". Regularly readers can do their own word maths to work out the whole concepts. Irregular readers can wait for me to show the workings at a future date.

Other stuff?

I have new secrets to keep, which is always amusing. I find myself screaming some of the choicer lines ("I'm not the carefullest of girls" "If I were any colder, I would disengage/If I were any older, I'd act my age" "It's not the way I'm meant to be/It's just the way the operation made me" "The bathroom full of flies" "Trying to convince you that it was accidentally on purpose" "Behold the world's worst accident/I am the...") from Girl Anachronism at random moments when the pressure inside my head gets a little too much. The Arcade Fire album is beginning to click properly, with the disco-chords that build up beneath the song at the end of "Crown on Love" sweeping me away as surely as they do the band. I'm feeling betrayed, for no discernable reason, or rather none that I care to point at. "Doom Patrol" is a brilliant name for anything. I'm thinking about CHANGE. Coin-operated boy is the other side of the triangle inside my head, with the aforementioned Girl Anachronism and Crown of Lobe... and, I just realise that Coin Operated boy is Kenickie's Robot Song, separated at birth. Lists are still groovy. Charity has effected my Instant-Messaging style. Rome is... oh, baby, y'know?

Onwards.


 

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