The Adventures of Susie Down

This site is an incomplete archive of a secret diary I kept between Summer 2004 and Summer 2005.

Right, that’s it.  This blog is moving to an undisclosed location.  I’m censoring myself too much to make it worthwhile.  If you want to know where the new blog is, email susiedown@gmail.com and I may or may not tell you.

Thanks to everyone who has read and commented and sent me email up to this point – I appreciate it more than you can imagine.

Susie Down xx

Hurray! I can now strum my way through – wait for it – Kumbaya! I use all my Zen powers of A, D and E to do so.  Current challenges: learning the 2,3,4 fingering of G, toughening up my fingertips, doing speed and accuracy exercises, learning some of the minor chords, learning to pick…

Sorry for the lack of updates in the last few days (I know you’ve all been completely lost without your Daily Dose of Down) – I had a bit of a busy weekend.  On Friday, I went to a party at the new squatted social centre in Hanover Square.  It was lovely – talked to my friends, had a few too many beers, met my friend’s girlfriend and had a very interesting conversation at how she organised the music for LadyFest San Diego, DJed (well, playlisted) some riot-grrl and queercore.

The next day, I pottered around town and my friend Will helped me buy the worst guitar and the miniest amp in the world.  In the afternoon, I got a call from my friend Tamar who lives at the squatted social centre.  There had been trouble on Friday night – some local people had started a fight and made some threats.  Everyone was a bit freaked, and Tamar came over for the night and we hung out, ate some home-made pizzas, ate some eclairs, smoked a lot of cigarettes, watched Y Tu Mama Tambien (lovely film, full of sex but unsexy), got a text from our friend Jess who said that the trouble-makers had come back, went down to the squat, found out that everyone was OK, hung around for a bit, went back home, shared my bed with Tamar and nodded off.

On Sunday, Will and I conceived of a poker night that will probably happen this week.  We’re going to model it on my Grandma’s bridge evenings: a select few guests, cashew nuts and crisps in little plastic bowls, gin and tonics, and hardcore cards all night.

In the evening my Uni friend Matt arrived, he showed me the chords for Talkin’ About A Revolution by Tracy Chapman, we went for dinner at Pizza Express (doughballs and salad to share, goats’ cheese and sun-dried tomato pizza), snuggled up on the sofa together and watched The Pelican Brief.

Ace.

Yay! I’ve just moved desks.  This may not sound like much cause for a ‘Yay!’, but it is.  It means my boss can no longer see my computer screen, which means more blogging, more writing, more website, more email, and less boredom.

In the last few weeks, I’ve felt an almost overwhelming creative urge.  Usually when this occurs, I’ll conceive of and begin some  project: a new website, a new story, a new piece of software.  However, I’ve found myself unable to actually do any of these: I want to start learning the guitar, but haven’t had time to actually buy the necessary instrument yet, I haven’t been able to find much fiction inspiration, and I all the coding projects I can think of are leaving me a bit cold.

In the last few days, some writing inspiration has come upon me, and I’ve been slowly putting down and piecing together ideas for a very, very long story.  I’m a little worried about whether my concentration and focus will be enough to see the thing through to the end, but at the moment, I feel pretty committed.

However, something rather unrelated is preying on my mind: do I really want to put all this effort into a story? Or rather, would my time be better spent elsewhere? Or even more rather, is creating stuff alone like this really living life?

I’ll explain.  Before I moved to Leeds, I spent a lot of time on solitary and non-communicative activities: coding, reading, writing, playing sport, watching films.  I was fairly social – I had lots of friends, I went out – but I really felt that time alone was fruitful and fun, and time with others was fun.

Now, however, that attitude has kind of changed.  I desire company a lot more, and it seems enriching and beneficial, rather than just amusing.  Thus, I find myself in a dilemma about the value of spending time alone creating something.  Perhaps this attitude is some offshoot of the decreased activity at the social centre – my time there was both creative and social and was very much ‘living life’ – maybe I’m just feeling the lack.

The following, from here, actually made me laugh at work:

Farm workers Henry Redekop, 23, Gary Ferrier, 32, and Eric Schulz, 33, died after climbing into an 4,680-gallon liquid manure tank they were using to fertilize a farm field near Drayton, Ontario. Police speculated the men climbed into the nearly empty tank one at a time…

When I was eighteen, I visited New York City with my Dad.  We were only there for five days, but in that time I decided, rather precociously, that this whirling maelstrom of excitement was where I wanted to live.

Whilst there, we went for a meal in an Italian restaurant that was recommended by a friend of my Dad’s.  Entering, I felt like I was in an old concert theatre lobby:  Gold-painted dadoes, dark green embossed wallpaper, an Italian man who graciously took my coat.

We were seated and given menus.  My Dad had this most delicious fish soup to start.  It was almost clear, but tasted of oysters and prawns and mussels and tuna and lemons.  The waiter even brought me my own smaller bowl of it to try.

At all the other tables there were what appeared to be, at least to my untrained and rather innocent eye, gangsters.  I remember one nearby table in particular.  At it were sat two foot-soldiers and their beautiful, dark-haired, red-dressed molls.  The men spoke only to each other. and the women didn’t speak at all.

I remember feeling unjustifiably nervous that some argument was going to break out at another table, maybe over the bill, and my Dad and I would be caught in cross-fire.  It was only after we left that I realised that we were the only people who had paid for the meal.

The following, from here, actually made me laugh at work:

“Farm workers Henry Redekop, 23, Gary Ferrier, 32, and Eric Schulz, 33, died after climbing into an 4,680-gallon liquid manure tank they were using to fertilize a farm field near Drayton, Ontario. Police speculated the men climbed into the nearly empty tank one at a time to repair a faulty part and were overcome by the fumes. Each time when the man who went inside failed to return, the next man went in looking for him.”

Wowzers.   Lesbo drama is BACK on Channel 4.  This evening, I caught the end of an episode of Sugar Rush, which seems to be about a teenage girl’s investigations into the – uh – length and breadth of her sexuality.  Aceaceace.

I feel absurdly sad today, and I don’t know why.  I keep on having to go into the Ladies to cry in private.

Wow.  I am absolutely and totally shattered.

On Friday, my Uni friends Dave, Erica and Anna arrived, we went out for a lovely supper at Pizza Express (good food, lots of catching up, cute waitress, laughter and our old jokes).  Afterwards was Sandanista! bar for Havana Club and Cokes and shouting.  Then, we went back to mine and messed around, took photos, talked and drank until five in the morning.  I shared my bed with Anna; I love ‘sleeping’ with friends, the chatting and whispering and giggling – it makes you feel very close.

Saturday was the stressdayer, the worrydayer, the nervesdayer.  That is, The Alldayer.  It started with waking up and showering.  I put on my black, arc-neck dress, white shirt, tights and school-girl shoes. After a cup of coffee, I went to Morrison’s to buy food.  I came back, we made some bacon sarnies, ate them in front of the cricket, then our sandwich production line began.  Anna chopped sun-dried tomatoes, I chopped olives, Dave chopped bread and Erica spread houmous and inserted salad.  An hour later, we had fourty delicious vegan sandwiches wrapped up in tin foil, Australia were all out, Jef and Kate had arrived and we were running out of the door.

We got down the venue and genius soundman Ross Ghost Town had already set up the PA.  Will and I discussed a few arrangements, we got the door set up, and then sat around pretending that we weren’t nervous.  The first relief was when the bands began arriving.  The second was when Red Stars Parade brought down the backline (the bass and guitar speakers).  November 13th (fantastic, thrashy crustcore from Germany) were on first.  They set up and were doing a soundcheck when someone discovered that the kick drum skin was broken.  After trying to get in touch with other people that have drum kits, I got in the car with Ben, the guy that lent us the drums, and sped at fifty miles per hour to the drum shop in town, bought a skin, then sped back to the venue at sixty miles per hour.  As it was being installed, relief number three occurred: someone paid in.  Then, at long last, two hours after we were supposed to start, the first band played.

The night proceeded in a haze of fantastic music, talking to bands and my friends, Strongbow, handing out sandwiches, sweat pouring down my back, my heart being warmed by the bands’ shoutouts to Will and I.  The venue felt wonderfully old school – peeling paint, dank and dark, hot and humid, cig butts and empty glasses lying on the floor.

All the bands played great sets, but a few stuck out.  Duckxstab were bursting with energy, Steve jumping around in his three piece suit and striking poses.  Tangaroa were just as musically exciting as ever: complex, emotional and constantly inventive vocals.  The gig climaxed beautifully with a lightning-charged, muscular, grooving set from Humanfly, followed by the whole audience being crushed into submission by Red Stars Parade.

After the gig, I felt completely exhausted.  We’d had nine bands in six hours, forty-three people paid in, fourty more band members, and we only lost fifty quid.  We saw off all the bands, then I went home with my friends, fell asleep on the sofa, woke, got drunk again, then finally limped to bed at five a.m.

Some tosser smashed the window in the rear passenger-side door of my car last night.  One hundred and sixty quid to have it repaired.  Thing is, the joke is on them cause all they stole was a case of rum and apple alcopops that I was storing for the social centre, that tasted…

I smile in sleep.
I try to keep,
One foot on the floor.
I try to keep,
One hand on the door.

On Friday, I was sitting in Caffe Nero reading Water Dancer and smoking a cigarette.  I heard a jangle behind me and then an ‘Ohhh’.  A man had just spilt his coffee.  I smiled, then realised I was going to laugh and, in trying to stifle it, I sort of snorted…

My friend Will, who lives in London, and my Dad, who was supposed to be visiting the city today, are both OK.  I hope your loved ones are too.

MESSAGE FROM THE FRONT STOP MORALE LOW STOP TROOPS IN DISARRAY STOP NEW BATTLE PLANS POTENTIALLY FATAL STOP COMMUNICATION A SHAMBLES STOP ALLIED SUPPLY LINES STRETCHED STOP REINFORCEMENTS INEFFECTIVE STOP FUTURE OF CAMPAIGN UNCERTAIN STOP RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE REGROUP STOP

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been embroiling myself in a fitness regime.  Well, sit-ups and press-ups each night.  I’m very slim, but I used to play loads of sport and don’ any more, and so I kind of miss being fit.  I’ve definitely noticed a difference: muscles starting to appear…

One of my main jobs at the social centre is to serve on the Events Collective.  We also have several unofficial titles: Staffing Collective, Loose Cannon Collective, and Fall-Guy Collective.

I was woken up at 03:30 this morning by a text message from my friend Danny. ‘What film is it where Angelina plays the big-time lesbo.  Haha I’m so drunk’.  Somehow, I gathered my wits enough to send back ‘Haha.  Gia.  Have fun.  Love susie’.  I then immediately…

Went to the social centre this evening for the weekly general meeting.  Lots of fun G8 protest stuff was discussed.  Simon turned up out of the blue, on a whirlwind visit before going back up to Edinburgh.  After the meeting, he and I went to Cellar Bar for a drink.  Yet…

Going to the squatted nursery tonight for a meal and bands, in support of Italian anarchist prisoners.  Am terrified that I will know no one and have to stand in a corner like a limone.

Q. What’s the difference between a fox and a dog?
A. About ten pints.

Just about to head out to buy a fuckload of beer for tonight’s event, come back, get dressed up pretty, head down to the social centre and have the bar kick my ass for the third time this weekend.  I’m fucking exhausted and I look like a ghost.

Jiminy Cricket, I seem to put up posts like this at the end of every week.  Got another crazy weekend coming up: gig on Friday, dance/DJ/barbeque day on Saturday, Rob Newman/Chumbawumba on Sunday night.  Guess what? I’m on the bar for all three.

I was looking back over some old posts, and realised that I have actually ticked off three major items on my Things to do do list.  This is very pleasing, but there is still a way to go.  Living in New York City is definitely a priority.

I was thinking today that Snoop’s line from Gs and Hustlers ‘How many hos in your motherfucking crew / Wanna take a ride in my 78 coupe Deville’ would, for me, translate to ‘How many chaps in The Common Place want to go for a short drive in my R-reg Golf’.

Still staying strong.  Today is worse than yesterday: hell minus smokeless fuel.

Does anyone use the ‘star this message’ feature in Gmail? It’s always seemed a bit redundant to me.  Surely, if you want to categorise certain emails, you use labels.  Or, if you want to draw your attention to an important email, you’d just keep it in your inbox.

Did you hear the reformists’ slogan?
‘What do we want? Gradual change! When do we want it? In due course!’