And I know that it was only yesterday that I posted the last, but I just feel like putting off the work that I've brought home for a teensy bit longer. And besides, I feel inspired, and surely one should seize such an opportunity.
Some of you may know and some of you will not know, that I have been running most days since the beginning of the year. Well, it transpires that I have to take a short hiatus from running because I'm actually too fit. How can one be too fit, you might ask. Just picture that woman who won the London Marathon recently. That is surely too fit, wouldn't you agree? It's definitely not sexy in any way.
No. Stop me here. That's a serious opinion statement.
I don't find that sexy, and I did ask Nick whether he would find that attractive, and he agreed that he didn't. Imagine making love to her... why, you'd just bounce right off those muscles. They gleam like shiny rubber boots. I don't find that attractive. But it's not, of course, the bounce-factor that would make one shy away from loving her physically, but the aesthetic displeasure. Having made this opinion statement, I'll qualify it with the fact that someone out there, probably a woman of similar fitness and build who can see herself when she looks at our number one runner and likes what she sees, will love her. And they'll go running together in the mornings... and at night, they'll bounce off each other...
My point, somewhere along the way, is that I don't feel particularly attractive when my rear end is solid as a rock, and believe me, it's getting that way. I had to make a decision. There'll be no more running for at least a week, whilst I try to deflate, and after that, I'll reassess the situation and maybe try for a mere two runs a week.
I'm eating a mandarin and listening to Broken Social Scene. I missed tickets by a whisker to their show tomorrow night. I probably would have bought one and gone by myself, like I did with the sonatas and the Bennett and upon reflection, I think this shows how few friends I have in London. Especially, how few I have who have the same tastes. I know you're all out there. You're all springing to mind right now. But you're not here, are you?
What on earth am I doing in this city away from you all?
Not that you're all in the same place.
I've also procrastinated today by vacuuming the house(or is it vaccumming? Oh, what does it matter in England, where it's always hoovering) followed by a mop of the floor. I don't think it's the act of cleaning that I love... I was thinking about this whilst mopping the kitchen ... I don't mind cleaning and I do it quite often, more often than most, but I think it's the result that I like the best. Therefore, surely I'd feel just as satisfied if someone else did the cleaning for me? I'll test this theory one day by hiring a cleaner. So many people in London have them. A lot of my friends who live in those flats full of ex-pats have cleaners. I prefer living with fewer people myself.
And now I'm chewing on a teacup full of pumpkin and sunflower seeds. Gorgeous. I'm still trying this fruit diet, most of the time, so that I can see whether I really need that much sleep. I think I mentioned before that the sickness stymied the experiment? I'm still trying, although not too desperately, to see what the results of such an experiment will be. I did wake up at six this morning, having gone to bed at midnight, which might count for something? It's not a "fair test" yet. All's fair in love and war and experiments conducted upon my interior.
I'll keep you posted.
Oh, a blog pun! How fantastique!
Last night, I watched Sidney Pollack's Sketches of Franck Gehry and it was very good. I like Pollack. I like Gehry. Not everybody does. Did you know that his real name is Ephraim Owen Goldberg, but he changed it partly due to anti-semitism? I find that fascinating. Ephraim... what a name... like Finghin. A name to celebrate.
I went to see the Guggenheim in Bilbao with James. What a monstrosity. I love monstrosities. I don't think we have enough of them these days. Like the Sagrara Familia in Barcelona. Stupendous creations.
And then, can you imagine, we watched Die Hard, as it happened to be showing on Channel Four. Well, some of those lines! How undeliverable! It doesn't matter how good you are at acting when you're faced with a script like that. And then there are the gems:
"Yippe-ki-yay motherfucker".
This movie is actually based on a novel. I can imagine that it doesn't strictly adhere to the actual dialogue of the book.
And it is yet another good reason why, instead of blogging, I should be writing that action movie screen play and selling out.
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Saturday, 15 May 2010
15 May 2010
Sad times these are indeed. After Monday, things went progressively down hill for me. I've had an awful illness that's incapacitated me for most of the week. Tuesday was spent in bed; wholly in bed but for two hours when I managed to rouse myself to the office where certain matters were screaming for my attention. But they did not get the best of my attention, that's certain. Wednesday, again, I was in bed every moment that I wasn't at work, and again Thursday. Rubbish really. The exhaustion. It was uncanny.
But, we could imagine that my week actually went according to plan and I went to the Pie and Mash store with Andy on Thursday night for some real Eel Pie. It's down on Royal College Street and it's one of those traditional English style places where you all sit together on these stalls and demolish great plates of pie and, well, mash. And then I lifted a great wad of mash atop my spoon (because I imagine I have a spoon) and I say to Andy, "I'll ssss...mash you" or perhaps, "I'll give you the mash". And he guffaws and starts churning out a host of awful puns that wouldn't bear repeating (thank goodness, because I can't think of any - what an excellent escape from a sticky pun situation).
There's another Pie and Mash outfit that's acclaimed down on Goldhawk Road but, although I lived there for at least a year, I never tried it. Perhaps my time will come soon. Then I'll get ss...mashed.
I'm not even going to apologise for that one, even though I acknowledge how horrendous it is.
And so, Friday. Again, I managed work and Sandra made me promise her that I would take it easy this weekend. This is probably because she is sick of hearing my hacking old hag's cough ringing in her ears all day. I'm feeling much better, but for the cough. I even managed to stay awake last night long enough to use my ticket to the orchestra down at Cadogan Hall. And I'm so pleased that I did. Two very enthusiastic young men - one on the cello and one on the piano playing all the best songs written for the two instruments. Yes, they played the Chopin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnYYM_DMeOU
Love, Nelsova... just look at her billowing dress... But this man (Guy Johnston) was brilliant too. He actually broke a string in the Polonaise and threw up his hand to stop Mr Piano, (Finghin - what an exquisite name!) and turned to the audience with such a polite "I'm terribly sorry"... oh, the English. So refined.
And they played Mendelssohn which I adore! And the real thrill of the night happened to be, of all things, the Britten. It was very, very enjoyable to watch him plucking away whilst the piano banged a bit. Having just seen Britten (portrayed, not quite so dirty an old man as Auden, but dirty enough) in the Bennett last week, it was quite appropriate.
And today I went to work. Yes! Saturday at the office! Damn this illness which stymies my attempts to stay on top of my inbox - which, by the way, I always am. More than ten items in my inbox sends me into a panic. Upon reflection, and with a positive outlook in mind, I think that the illness was just the knock I needed. You know when you just keep on pushing yourself until you burst? And then one is forced to recoil for a spell to right oneself again. What is right. I don't know. But, it's been a week sans wine, I haven't fallen over once or made any silly decisions and I think I might just try to lay off it for a while. Again. Wish me luck, Lord knows, I'll need it.
I'm listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees singing The Beatles.
And, with such an uneventful week as this has been, and unless I set out the details of my feverish dreams that I had in my mammoth sleeping sessions - none of which are particularly interesting, but all of which were set in my parent's backyard for some reason - I really can't see that this post should go on any longer.
Why don't you set me a topic to muse about. Like cabbages. Why cabbages? Well, have you read Mrs Dalloway? Only the best of writers can use the phrase "musing amongst the cabbages" on the first page of their novel and still sound sonorous.
Long live Virginia in a posthumous manner!
But, we could imagine that my week actually went according to plan and I went to the Pie and Mash store with Andy on Thursday night for some real Eel Pie. It's down on Royal College Street and it's one of those traditional English style places where you all sit together on these stalls and demolish great plates of pie and, well, mash. And then I lifted a great wad of mash atop my spoon (because I imagine I have a spoon) and I say to Andy, "I'll ssss...mash you" or perhaps, "I'll give you the mash". And he guffaws and starts churning out a host of awful puns that wouldn't bear repeating (thank goodness, because I can't think of any - what an excellent escape from a sticky pun situation).
There's another Pie and Mash outfit that's acclaimed down on Goldhawk Road but, although I lived there for at least a year, I never tried it. Perhaps my time will come soon. Then I'll get ss...mashed.
I'm not even going to apologise for that one, even though I acknowledge how horrendous it is.
And so, Friday. Again, I managed work and Sandra made me promise her that I would take it easy this weekend. This is probably because she is sick of hearing my hacking old hag's cough ringing in her ears all day. I'm feeling much better, but for the cough. I even managed to stay awake last night long enough to use my ticket to the orchestra down at Cadogan Hall. And I'm so pleased that I did. Two very enthusiastic young men - one on the cello and one on the piano playing all the best songs written for the two instruments. Yes, they played the Chopin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnYYM_DMeOU
Love, Nelsova... just look at her billowing dress... But this man (Guy Johnston) was brilliant too. He actually broke a string in the Polonaise and threw up his hand to stop Mr Piano, (Finghin - what an exquisite name!) and turned to the audience with such a polite "I'm terribly sorry"... oh, the English. So refined.
And they played Mendelssohn which I adore! And the real thrill of the night happened to be, of all things, the Britten. It was very, very enjoyable to watch him plucking away whilst the piano banged a bit. Having just seen Britten (portrayed, not quite so dirty an old man as Auden, but dirty enough) in the Bennett last week, it was quite appropriate.
And today I went to work. Yes! Saturday at the office! Damn this illness which stymies my attempts to stay on top of my inbox - which, by the way, I always am. More than ten items in my inbox sends me into a panic. Upon reflection, and with a positive outlook in mind, I think that the illness was just the knock I needed. You know when you just keep on pushing yourself until you burst? And then one is forced to recoil for a spell to right oneself again. What is right. I don't know. But, it's been a week sans wine, I haven't fallen over once or made any silly decisions and I think I might just try to lay off it for a while. Again. Wish me luck, Lord knows, I'll need it.
I'm listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees singing The Beatles.
And, with such an uneventful week as this has been, and unless I set out the details of my feverish dreams that I had in my mammoth sleeping sessions - none of which are particularly interesting, but all of which were set in my parent's backyard for some reason - I really can't see that this post should go on any longer.
Why don't you set me a topic to muse about. Like cabbages. Why cabbages? Well, have you read Mrs Dalloway? Only the best of writers can use the phrase "musing amongst the cabbages" on the first page of their novel and still sound sonorous.
Long live Virginia in a posthumous manner!
Monday, 10 May 2010
10 May 2010
I've been duly admonished for not posting a blog of late. Thank you, Tom. It's nice to know that someone out there minds enough to mention it.
Today is a Monday, but I'm not at work. I've got remote access which is wonderful and means that I can email and draft in my slippers which is just a hoot. At the moment, I'm listening to the Magnetic Fields... another hoot. Just call me an owl...
Or don't, because I'll probably forget that I said that and it will perplex me.
Last week I picked up the easel! I took Friday afternoon off to bus myself up to Seven Sisters and actually finally managed to drop that amplifier back to Andy. It was heavy and awkward and I'm just so glad to be rid of it. The easel, on the other hand, was heavy and awkward and I love it to pieces. Andy found it at an antiques store once in the distant past. It has a little cardboard note dangling from it which says "Lady Bonham Carter with grateful thanks for the loan". Another hoot. Who knows whether it's a truthful representation as to the easel's past, but doesn't it touch up a nice story so well.
So, where are we at. I've sanded my pre-stretched canvas and I've applied two coats of gesso. Then, I managed to lay my first undercoat. This morning, now that the paint is mildly dry, I've sketched a charcoal of the vase and flowers which are my subject and then I mixed up the colour of one of the stripes on the vase but the undercoat wasn't dry and I had to abandon it. I can reuse the paint that I've mixed, so it's no matter. But I think that I've mixed the paint too thick and with too much oil. We'll see. I don't want the layers to come away from each other.
When will it dry? I hope soon. As with any of these hobbies, I need to start fast and enthusiastically. If the past is anything to judge by, as my enthusiasm wanes the hobby becomes a memory, an interesting talking point and another string on a rather useless bow.
Yesterday I started my "fruit diet". I'm interested to prove the theory that one need only sleep four hours a night on such a diet. I'll keep you updated on my progress. I would assume that it will take a few weeks to settle in and I'd base this assumption on the fact that I slept for nine hours last night. I had ruined myself with wine for the days running up to the diet so there's little more to be expected.
On Thursday I went to see The Habit of Art as I've mentioned. Oh... it was so good! Thomas has a couple of tickets for us so that I can go see it again in the extended season. Very, very enjoyable. I think I'll be purchasing a copy so that Daddy can have a read. Not the same as seeing Mr Griffiths in the flesh, but probably a fine enough way to experience it. I experienced Stoppard for the first time on the page, not to mention Wilde, and I don't feel any worse for it. I love them both. Even when Raymond Hawthorne stomps all over it with his direction. Yes, I'm referring to Rosencrantz at the Maidment all those years ago.
Back home from the lonely theatre, the election results were running up a storm. In fact, yesterday I lazed about, waiting for paint to dry, and watched the BBC, waiting for people to emerge from their respective houses. That's right... all-day door-watching and reports of people opening and closing them. Very boring. Everyone is so excited about forming a majority government. We do this all the time in New Zealand and we're fine. No riots. Sometimes it can take a couple of weeks to settle the numbers, ministers and such. MMP is the most democratic way, of course, and much more civilised.
Back to Friday afternoon, Andy and I had a greasy spoon. Actually, it wasn't greasy spoon breakfast but lunch, and we had lasagne and chips. My inside's are so terribly unhappy with me. I had tapas and cake for dinner that night at Raj's birthday and followed it on Saturday morning with Bloody Mary's and G&T's at the Hawley Arms. I chased it up with dinner at Satuma with Nicola. I love that place but you can see why the fruit diet is called for.
Poor little body.
And, really, that's why I haven't been blogging. Busy, busy, busy... as Vonnegut says. But, he refers to coincidences on a universal scale rather than the fact that I've been running helter skelter around the city falling, dancing, falling again... The dancing took place at Notting Hill Arts Club on Friday night after the tapas. It wasn't quite the same as our last visit. The live band was finishing up and the crowd was messy. I fought off an attempted rape by some drunken man whilst trying to get to Raj to say goodnight.
I've uploaded a photo because there's no reason to believe me without evidence. Not of the attempted rape which I could never prove because I'm using hyperbole in the first place, but of the painting. Hopefully you can make out the beginnings of an attempt at shading. I've used yellow ochre and cadmium yellow mixed with a large amount of titanium white and mineral spirits. Then I added some more of both colours to the palette to make the corners and shadows ready for the figure. I think I'll add some grey hue to the recesses because I can see some grey in the line of the walls meeting.
Incidentally, this is atop our heating unit - there is a boiler underneath it. Nick purchased the spoon that graces our wall whilst he was travelling in South America. Why did he buy a large spoon and cart it around South America with him? I'm still unsure.
Until the next riveting instalment of my life and times, adieu.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
2 May 2010
My love affair with the pavement continued this week. This time, I was on Oxford Street marching quickly to keep up with others. And there were these road works. Well, I caught my foot on a bollard, didn't I, and as I was none too steady on my stiletto, down I went. Face down. Ha! Hilarious.
I'm sporting a pretty little bruise on my chin, and some large grazes on my knee and hands. Oh, and I bemoan the loss of another pair of stockings! Life is such a struggle between trying to stay upright and laying oneself out flat. Next time I might actually do myself a mischief. It's almost reason not to venture out of the house at all. It's like the man who said that he would no longer own Siamese cats because, although he loved them dearly, the heartache was too much when they died. Who was he? I don't remember.
But, we must keep on! Taking care not to throw ourselves into the road as we hazard the world.
In other news, last night we all had tapas on Holloway Road. It was scrumptious! I am definitely going back there. Raj pretended that it was my birthday by striking up a song and the whole place started singing along. Isn't it nice when that happens? It's like living in a musical. I'd prefer it if everyone burst into Like a Prayer the way they did in the most recent episode of Glee.
I was flicking channels not watching it. I don't mind if you don't believe me.
And then we played foosball. Argh! I have to admit it. I've been to the local twice in as many days. I love that place. I need to take two wine glasses back to them though. If only people wouldn't insist on leaving when I haven't finished my drink, then I wouldn't have to borrow them.
In some ways, my birthday has been a little spread out this year. Yesterday Nicola gave me a present and it was David Foster Wallace. It's so brilliant! I can't wait to read it just as soon as I've finished the Muriel Spark that Chloe posted. I've been meaning to read Infinite Jest for so long now. Have you read it? Is it just as amazing as I imagine it is?
Stephen's present also arrived, having been delayed by the volcanic ash cloud, no doubt. He sent me the two Nudie Suits albums and by this point I was completely overcome. I'm blessed to have the best presents ever this year.
Tomorrow is a bank holiday. I think the plan is to sit inside tonight, watching the rain and the two DVDs that arrived in the post. Quiet and nice. And fair enough because this week will prove quite active. I had better watch my step lest I fall again. I've got two tickets to The Habit of Art and no one to go with. So, I'll take a big bag. Does anyone want to join me? Bag won't mind if you do.
I'm sporting a pretty little bruise on my chin, and some large grazes on my knee and hands. Oh, and I bemoan the loss of another pair of stockings! Life is such a struggle between trying to stay upright and laying oneself out flat. Next time I might actually do myself a mischief. It's almost reason not to venture out of the house at all. It's like the man who said that he would no longer own Siamese cats because, although he loved them dearly, the heartache was too much when they died. Who was he? I don't remember.
But, we must keep on! Taking care not to throw ourselves into the road as we hazard the world.
In other news, last night we all had tapas on Holloway Road. It was scrumptious! I am definitely going back there. Raj pretended that it was my birthday by striking up a song and the whole place started singing along. Isn't it nice when that happens? It's like living in a musical. I'd prefer it if everyone burst into Like a Prayer the way they did in the most recent episode of Glee.
I was flicking channels not watching it. I don't mind if you don't believe me.
And then we played foosball. Argh! I have to admit it. I've been to the local twice in as many days. I love that place. I need to take two wine glasses back to them though. If only people wouldn't insist on leaving when I haven't finished my drink, then I wouldn't have to borrow them.
In some ways, my birthday has been a little spread out this year. Yesterday Nicola gave me a present and it was David Foster Wallace. It's so brilliant! I can't wait to read it just as soon as I've finished the Muriel Spark that Chloe posted. I've been meaning to read Infinite Jest for so long now. Have you read it? Is it just as amazing as I imagine it is?
Stephen's present also arrived, having been delayed by the volcanic ash cloud, no doubt. He sent me the two Nudie Suits albums and by this point I was completely overcome. I'm blessed to have the best presents ever this year.
Tomorrow is a bank holiday. I think the plan is to sit inside tonight, watching the rain and the two DVDs that arrived in the post. Quiet and nice. And fair enough because this week will prove quite active. I had better watch my step lest I fall again. I've got two tickets to The Habit of Art and no one to go with. So, I'll take a big bag. Does anyone want to join me? Bag won't mind if you do.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Running out of reason...
No! Not reason to blog. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you with my latest title. I thought it was titularly titillating, that's all.
How do you titillate an ocelot?
...
Why, you oscillate its tit a lot, of course.
But, really, the reason that I'm running out of reason is all on account of Twitter. Now, I signed up to Twitter with a purpose. I use to trawl through my daily websites that I'd bookmarked, trying to keep up with the news, the gigs, the comment, et al...
But, I now find myself trawling through the last 24 hours events searching for something to read but being stymied by the fact that, in actual fact, the facts can be emitted through these two line headlines which still manage to fit in an incomprehensible link icon. There's no need to read on, mostly.
Good news for the busy woman. Bad news for anyone else. Surely a normal person wants to read an article? A "normal person". This isn't a rant blog. James hosts a rant blog. Read editingtheherald@blogspot.com. Or, if you've been following closely enough, you can go to the "Rest and Rant". They'll have you. Someone is bound to be ranting there.
I passed it again on the bus today. I pass it everyday, but today I found myself taking closer inspection. I should have been a detective. The place is an Ethiopian Restaurant or at least it appears to be for all intents and purposes, until you realise that the place has no windows. No - it has little to no windows. As in, the windows are little. They creep up the wall and they are spindly. What's happening in the Ethiopian Restaurant? I should try to obtain a meal from them in order to find out. Something terribly illicit. Something desperately illegal. Perhaps I'm missing out on the best Ethiopian in London. But, I doubt it because the best Ethiopian food has already apparently been acclaimed by Timeout magazine and it's on the other side of Camden. Do you disagree? What's the best Ethiopian you've had? I'm dying to know. Reading the Timeout makes me such a pseud, no?
Incidentally, and back to an idea I had at the top of the page, we already know that I started the blog without reason. I embrace the irrational every time I strike the keyboard. There was never a reason to start. There is equally no reason to stop. Have you ever seen The Holy Mountain? It's a film. Don't bother. Once shocking - once when it was made(Sorry Jon)- now, I'd argue vehemently that it's very closed-minded. Attacking something (organised religion) that should never exist for someone who was "open-minded" enough to bother sitting through the film. Artistic endeavour here is fraught with the limitations of the human condition. Here, the human condition is evidenced in the fact that the writer is so angry at humans. Oh, come now. If you're bigger than humans, be bigger than humans. The film takes us nowhere. You're lost? Perhaps you should see the film and then revisit this paragraph. Or better yet, see it and then give me a call. But first consider this: The argument propounded by the film is, to me, almost as closed-minded as positivism, I dare say. And we all know how vehemently I would argue that point. And if I was completely honest (because usually, I'm a flagrant liar), the argument bores me...
I forgot to mention. Something extraordinary happened on Saturday morning. I've lost the will to straighten my hair! What a surprise! I never thought it would happen. It's like a burden was lifted from my shoulders. Another set of burdens begins though. My hair is disfigured and wiry and never had any charm and now I have to consider it whenever I pass a mirror. I forced charm into it with the straighteners everyday until I realised that straightening had actually waned in fashion and insouciant and wild locks were on the wax. Waxing insouciance! I've embraced it but there is a lingering feeling of loss. Loss of a time when straight hair was acceptable and even demanded. I've also noticed the wedge heel return to fashion. If you knew me ten years ago, you'll remember that I would sport the wedge. I'd sport the platform. Oh, the days... The days!
I follow the fashion by purchasing a Vogue every now and again. I read a brilliant short story in the magazine whilst at the hair dressers one time... or perhaps I was at home on the couch... it doesn't matter. The story ends in two rather rich wives of old money sitting at an extremely expensive restaurant where a large bowl of chocolate mousse is placed in front of them in the centre of their table, once they've finished their salads, and they take a small bowl each of the mousse, then take another, then throw away the bowls and take large spoonfuls straight from the source. That cruel waiter! Oh, remember the days when you could order a torte with your tea and never see it on your hips the next day?! If life insists on ageing us, where is the reason to go forth into it... life wanes in the same way that straight hair does... Consider this: Penny used to straighten my hair on the ironing board before we went to a party. We were sixteen. My goodness, life wanes.
I should spout a verse. Goodness knows, it's been I while since I've written one - even a limerick! I've been working rather avidly at my screenplay, so in order to satiate your desire to read some poetry - as we all know, it should be consumed at regular intervals so as to remind ourselves of progress and hope in a despairing climate - I'll just cut and paste a little that I wrote last year after I went to see Waiting for Godot. Some fools, of course, walked out at half time, which reminds us of how despairing the climate truly is. It's just a trick to see the play in the flesh and, boy, did they do it by the book! Flailing on the ground and so forth. Here goes...
When I said goodbye
And went to the Beckett,
I exited to the right but
Returned later on the left
And you were still there
Drinking, but you’d switched
From vodka to gin and
I knew something was awry, but
I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Yada, yada... You don't want more from me tonight, do you? I've never reflected on my absent audience overtly. Until now, perhaps. It's a sad wonder that I can go on like this, and nothing ... ever ... comes ... back.
How do you titillate an ocelot?
...
Why, you oscillate its tit a lot, of course.
But, really, the reason that I'm running out of reason is all on account of Twitter. Now, I signed up to Twitter with a purpose. I use to trawl through my daily websites that I'd bookmarked, trying to keep up with the news, the gigs, the comment, et al...
But, I now find myself trawling through the last 24 hours events searching for something to read but being stymied by the fact that, in actual fact, the facts can be emitted through these two line headlines which still manage to fit in an incomprehensible link icon. There's no need to read on, mostly.
Good news for the busy woman. Bad news for anyone else. Surely a normal person wants to read an article? A "normal person". This isn't a rant blog. James hosts a rant blog. Read editingtheherald@blogspot.com. Or, if you've been following closely enough, you can go to the "Rest and Rant". They'll have you. Someone is bound to be ranting there.
I passed it again on the bus today. I pass it everyday, but today I found myself taking closer inspection. I should have been a detective. The place is an Ethiopian Restaurant or at least it appears to be for all intents and purposes, until you realise that the place has no windows. No - it has little to no windows. As in, the windows are little. They creep up the wall and they are spindly. What's happening in the Ethiopian Restaurant? I should try to obtain a meal from them in order to find out. Something terribly illicit. Something desperately illegal. Perhaps I'm missing out on the best Ethiopian in London. But, I doubt it because the best Ethiopian food has already apparently been acclaimed by Timeout magazine and it's on the other side of Camden. Do you disagree? What's the best Ethiopian you've had? I'm dying to know. Reading the Timeout makes me such a pseud, no?
Incidentally, and back to an idea I had at the top of the page, we already know that I started the blog without reason. I embrace the irrational every time I strike the keyboard. There was never a reason to start. There is equally no reason to stop. Have you ever seen The Holy Mountain? It's a film. Don't bother. Once shocking - once when it was made(Sorry Jon)- now, I'd argue vehemently that it's very closed-minded. Attacking something (organised religion) that should never exist for someone who was "open-minded" enough to bother sitting through the film. Artistic endeavour here is fraught with the limitations of the human condition. Here, the human condition is evidenced in the fact that the writer is so angry at humans. Oh, come now. If you're bigger than humans, be bigger than humans. The film takes us nowhere. You're lost? Perhaps you should see the film and then revisit this paragraph. Or better yet, see it and then give me a call. But first consider this: The argument propounded by the film is, to me, almost as closed-minded as positivism, I dare say. And we all know how vehemently I would argue that point. And if I was completely honest (because usually, I'm a flagrant liar), the argument bores me...
I forgot to mention. Something extraordinary happened on Saturday morning. I've lost the will to straighten my hair! What a surprise! I never thought it would happen. It's like a burden was lifted from my shoulders. Another set of burdens begins though. My hair is disfigured and wiry and never had any charm and now I have to consider it whenever I pass a mirror. I forced charm into it with the straighteners everyday until I realised that straightening had actually waned in fashion and insouciant and wild locks were on the wax. Waxing insouciance! I've embraced it but there is a lingering feeling of loss. Loss of a time when straight hair was acceptable and even demanded. I've also noticed the wedge heel return to fashion. If you knew me ten years ago, you'll remember that I would sport the wedge. I'd sport the platform. Oh, the days... The days!
I follow the fashion by purchasing a Vogue every now and again. I read a brilliant short story in the magazine whilst at the hair dressers one time... or perhaps I was at home on the couch... it doesn't matter. The story ends in two rather rich wives of old money sitting at an extremely expensive restaurant where a large bowl of chocolate mousse is placed in front of them in the centre of their table, once they've finished their salads, and they take a small bowl each of the mousse, then take another, then throw away the bowls and take large spoonfuls straight from the source. That cruel waiter! Oh, remember the days when you could order a torte with your tea and never see it on your hips the next day?! If life insists on ageing us, where is the reason to go forth into it... life wanes in the same way that straight hair does... Consider this: Penny used to straighten my hair on the ironing board before we went to a party. We were sixteen. My goodness, life wanes.
I should spout a verse. Goodness knows, it's been I while since I've written one - even a limerick! I've been working rather avidly at my screenplay, so in order to satiate your desire to read some poetry - as we all know, it should be consumed at regular intervals so as to remind ourselves of progress and hope in a despairing climate - I'll just cut and paste a little that I wrote last year after I went to see Waiting for Godot. Some fools, of course, walked out at half time, which reminds us of how despairing the climate truly is. It's just a trick to see the play in the flesh and, boy, did they do it by the book! Flailing on the ground and so forth. Here goes...
When I said goodbye
And went to the Beckett,
I exited to the right but
Returned later on the left
And you were still there
Drinking, but you’d switched
From vodka to gin and
I knew something was awry, but
I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Yada, yada... You don't want more from me tonight, do you? I've never reflected on my absent audience overtly. Until now, perhaps. It's a sad wonder that I can go on like this, and nothing ... ever ... comes ... back.
Monday, 26 April 2010
26 April 2010
There have actually been a couple of things on my mind lately. I'm just about to pick the pen back up and smash through a little more of this screen play - or the whole of the rest of it, hopefully. How likely it is that I'll ever finish something that I've started is an unknown but using past experience to generalise, I'd say it's about as likely as some really unlikely analogy...
Finding the man of my dreams at a speed dating night?
I use that analogy because I was talking about speed dating with Andy the other night. I think, as a result, I'm going to use the idea as the basis for the next scene that I write. Speed dating offers a lot of comic possibility and though I'm sure that I'm not writing a comedy, it's a realistic enough premise. I mean, there are a lot of people doing it and even more people signing up for internet dating.
These simply are not activities within the sphere of my reality. In order to write the scene, I'll probably have to do some field work. I only hope I have the gumption to go to a speed dating night. That would be mighty fun - especially with Mr Bird. Lordy, he is hilarious.
Kite flying. It's similar to speed dating in that it contains the same amount of syllables per word and uses a participle? Oh, it's been a long day. I can't get excited about grammar right now - I know you're shocked. It's also similar to speed dating in that it's been on my mind lately. An odd pastime? I think it is. The benefit? Well, Mary Poppins found it was good for the soul. But, probably it was more that it had a nice ring to it when it was laid next to the score of the film... much like spoonfuls of sugar. Since kite flying has been on my mind, and I've gone and written it down on the same post-it as speed dating, I think I'll just go ahead and bung it in my screen play too. It gives the director a chance to draw some lean, leaden cinematography out of the script. It might suit the tone.
Or they might just cut the scene altogether and overthrow the tone whilst they're at it by making it a comedy. That's okay. I'll still get a pay cheque... I haven't invested much love into the work. I think it's best not to. Investing love will only lead to heartache and that's true across the board of life, no? 'Tis a good block.
I was watching Gomorrah last night. That's a well-made film. There's been no end to well-made films lately, it seems. It drove me to write down a further idea on that aforementioned post-it. This time it was "enigma stripping".
Enigma stripping is the act of pole-dancing to Enigma and it's featured in the film. Boy, has it been a long time since I've heard Enigma. It never fails to bring a smile to my face. I'm not sure if that's the response that the musicians responsible were trying to elicit from me, but it's the one that they'll get. When I saw stripping coupled with Enigma, I thought "Of course! Enigma is the most appropriate music for stripping ever made!" Do you agree? You'll never think of Enigma in the same way. Goodness knows how you thought of Enigma in the first place. I'm sure that they can only elicit strange responses.
My voice is still absent. When I have to say something it resembles the honk of a goose. The rest of the time it's sotto voce. Or nada voce. Perhaps this is good for me? I don't know. I'm not too frustrated. Until someone tries to bait me. Or someone says something interesting and I want to engage. Sigh.
I'm listening to Mi Ami. They're punk-tastic. They're playing at Barden's Boudior next month and I have a couple of tickets and no one to take.
I think that's all I've got for you today.
For now...
Finding the man of my dreams at a speed dating night?
I use that analogy because I was talking about speed dating with Andy the other night. I think, as a result, I'm going to use the idea as the basis for the next scene that I write. Speed dating offers a lot of comic possibility and though I'm sure that I'm not writing a comedy, it's a realistic enough premise. I mean, there are a lot of people doing it and even more people signing up for internet dating.
These simply are not activities within the sphere of my reality. In order to write the scene, I'll probably have to do some field work. I only hope I have the gumption to go to a speed dating night. That would be mighty fun - especially with Mr Bird. Lordy, he is hilarious.
Kite flying. It's similar to speed dating in that it contains the same amount of syllables per word and uses a participle? Oh, it's been a long day. I can't get excited about grammar right now - I know you're shocked. It's also similar to speed dating in that it's been on my mind lately. An odd pastime? I think it is. The benefit? Well, Mary Poppins found it was good for the soul. But, probably it was more that it had a nice ring to it when it was laid next to the score of the film... much like spoonfuls of sugar. Since kite flying has been on my mind, and I've gone and written it down on the same post-it as speed dating, I think I'll just go ahead and bung it in my screen play too. It gives the director a chance to draw some lean, leaden cinematography out of the script. It might suit the tone.
Or they might just cut the scene altogether and overthrow the tone whilst they're at it by making it a comedy. That's okay. I'll still get a pay cheque... I haven't invested much love into the work. I think it's best not to. Investing love will only lead to heartache and that's true across the board of life, no? 'Tis a good block.
I was watching Gomorrah last night. That's a well-made film. There's been no end to well-made films lately, it seems. It drove me to write down a further idea on that aforementioned post-it. This time it was "enigma stripping".
Enigma stripping is the act of pole-dancing to Enigma and it's featured in the film. Boy, has it been a long time since I've heard Enigma. It never fails to bring a smile to my face. I'm not sure if that's the response that the musicians responsible were trying to elicit from me, but it's the one that they'll get. When I saw stripping coupled with Enigma, I thought "Of course! Enigma is the most appropriate music for stripping ever made!" Do you agree? You'll never think of Enigma in the same way. Goodness knows how you thought of Enigma in the first place. I'm sure that they can only elicit strange responses.
My voice is still absent. When I have to say something it resembles the honk of a goose. The rest of the time it's sotto voce. Or nada voce. Perhaps this is good for me? I don't know. I'm not too frustrated. Until someone tries to bait me. Or someone says something interesting and I want to engage. Sigh.
I'm listening to Mi Ami. They're punk-tastic. They're playing at Barden's Boudior next month and I have a couple of tickets and no one to take.
I think that's all I've got for you today.
For now...
Sunday, 25 April 2010
25 April 2010
I lost my voice last night. Which is fine, mostly. Until I find myself listening to Hole and wanting to sing along in an angry shouty fashion and I can't. I can merely internalise it.
Argh, it's torture. She's screaming; I'm screaming on the inside. It's enough to make you burst. I'm hopeful that the next song on the playlist is a quiet one.
I've got whisper capabilities but I think I'll avoid all forms of voice communication today. I have a meeting tomorrow at which I'd prefer not to sit in the corner quietly.
Last night, I went to Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes. I actually think that it is too cheesy for me. And, I'm generally a fan of cheese. But, this was on another level.
Speaking of cheese, I've threatened Andy that I'll sneak into his apartment and put stilton under his pillow and leave a note in his fridge to advise "the cheese is under the pillow". We were discussing ways in which we could repel each other so much that the friendship wouldn't be able to stand it. It's an impossibility - the friendship will even outlast clandestine stilton antics. That's love.
Nick is making a spaghetti bolognese this weekend. It's taken him quite a few hours already. He took a break to go to the Bowling Lanes and now he's back at it. It's at least another six hours apparently. I've had a craving for it for weeks. I even picked up one of those meal for one spag bols at Waitrose, but my conscience got the better of me and I put it down again. I've really gotten funny about animal products...
But, my lentil salad is just a dream, so...
Why is this spag bol taking so long? It's Heston's recipe - you know, Mr Science-meets-food. I threatened to make a regular bolognese in order to compare. I wonder if Heston's really outdoes Mother's bol in twenty minutes?
Hopefully, after a little bowl of bol, I'll have quenched this little craving and I can move onto the next one, which incidentally is fish. Having mentioned this, it seems that I can look forward to a fish stew replete with chorizo. It's a charmed life, living with an experimental chef.
There's nothing else. I'm supposed to have just arrived back in London from Las Vegas. Lover sent me a charming and lascivious photo of himself reclining in what was to be our hotel in the City of Lights. It's okay, I've come to terms with it. I hope he avoids the tornadoes in the South as he heads across the country. His journey is truly beset by nature's adversity. Between ash clouds and floods and being airlifted out of Machu Pichu, it really does seem as if something is throwing obstacles in his path. But, as I follow certain gnostic tendencies, obstacles are what bring us closer an understanding of the whole. He's leaping towards the zenith in great bounds.
And, as much as could go on, tangentially because I have no further news, I'm starved for breakfast and I've just cleaned up the juicer. I have a brilliant array of vegetables, including my favourite vegetable of all time - beetroot! Oh how I love thee!
Have a juice-tastic day! I know I will.
Argh, it's torture. She's screaming; I'm screaming on the inside. It's enough to make you burst. I'm hopeful that the next song on the playlist is a quiet one.
I've got whisper capabilities but I think I'll avoid all forms of voice communication today. I have a meeting tomorrow at which I'd prefer not to sit in the corner quietly.
Last night, I went to Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes. I actually think that it is too cheesy for me. And, I'm generally a fan of cheese. But, this was on another level.
Speaking of cheese, I've threatened Andy that I'll sneak into his apartment and put stilton under his pillow and leave a note in his fridge to advise "the cheese is under the pillow". We were discussing ways in which we could repel each other so much that the friendship wouldn't be able to stand it. It's an impossibility - the friendship will even outlast clandestine stilton antics. That's love.
Nick is making a spaghetti bolognese this weekend. It's taken him quite a few hours already. He took a break to go to the Bowling Lanes and now he's back at it. It's at least another six hours apparently. I've had a craving for it for weeks. I even picked up one of those meal for one spag bols at Waitrose, but my conscience got the better of me and I put it down again. I've really gotten funny about animal products...
But, my lentil salad is just a dream, so...
Why is this spag bol taking so long? It's Heston's recipe - you know, Mr Science-meets-food. I threatened to make a regular bolognese in order to compare. I wonder if Heston's really outdoes Mother's bol in twenty minutes?
Hopefully, after a little bowl of bol, I'll have quenched this little craving and I can move onto the next one, which incidentally is fish. Having mentioned this, it seems that I can look forward to a fish stew replete with chorizo. It's a charmed life, living with an experimental chef.
There's nothing else. I'm supposed to have just arrived back in London from Las Vegas. Lover sent me a charming and lascivious photo of himself reclining in what was to be our hotel in the City of Lights. It's okay, I've come to terms with it. I hope he avoids the tornadoes in the South as he heads across the country. His journey is truly beset by nature's adversity. Between ash clouds and floods and being airlifted out of Machu Pichu, it really does seem as if something is throwing obstacles in his path. But, as I follow certain gnostic tendencies, obstacles are what bring us closer an understanding of the whole. He's leaping towards the zenith in great bounds.
And, as much as could go on, tangentially because I have no further news, I'm starved for breakfast and I've just cleaned up the juicer. I have a brilliant array of vegetables, including my favourite vegetable of all time - beetroot! Oh how I love thee!
Have a juice-tastic day! I know I will.
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