Oh no. Not what I wished for the New Year.

*Bows and leaves quietly*
posted by charlotte at 18:26 - comment

Go, Gary Jules! Kick some Christmas no. 1-arse!

And Raveonettes were on Jonathan Ross last night. Everyone thought they were Dutch. The single is not that great. Sharin Foo looks lovely, though. And Sune Rose Wagner is developing into some sort of Robert Smith look-alike, bouncy hair and loads of make-up.


Well, I'll soon be off to good old Dane-land (as ignorant people would have it). This is followed by a grand time in Beerland, but I may return sporadically over the holidays (although I wouldn't count on it). A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all!
posted by charlotte at 14:21 - comment

They found a dead man in one of the lakes a couple of days ago. How do someone suddenly turn up dead in a lake? Did he jump? Was he pushed? Did he fall into the lake on the way home from the pub? Did he fall, trying to hand-feed one of the many ducks and geese? Did he lose his wife and all will to live? Or did he think he could walk on water?
It's a gorgeous lake, by the way, full of wildlife, just across the road from the beautiful mosque. How could someone die there?

A year ago someone set fire to a man walking home from work at night. Why would you set fire to another human being? Because they had an outstanding no-one knew about? Did he sleep with someone else's wife? Had he shouted at someone, for doing something at an earlier stage? Or did they just want to watch someone burn?

There are so many things I don't understand.


posted by charlotte at 18:59 - comment

What I have missed throughout December, mainly due to illness:

Kitty Cartier
Bill Viola at National Gallery
Kill Bill
The dentist
Work
Duckie - C'est Barbican!

And for Tinka:

Ulysses
Vangede Billeder
Catch-22
The Pillow Book
The Metamorphosis

(Or:
Good Morning Midnight
Lolita
Damned to Fame
Dubliners
Ja)
posted by charlotte at 22:25 - comment

Well, I'm still ill (oh, yes I am), so much so, that I had to leave early today. There's a certain something in my personality, that makes me feel guilty for doing so, something that tells me that I'm an impostor and that, if I really wanted to, I surely could have stayed until the end of the day. Nature or nurture? Is it perhaps a typical Danish thing to overdo the work ethics and feel that one must perform at all times, at optimum speed? Or is it typical for my family, that we only stay home from work if two feet from the death-bed? (Not that I'm two feet away as I'm writing this; more like 50 years and a heart-attack.) Or is it just me? Should I try to lighten up a bit? Or do I just worry too much?

I think I'll go to bed with a book. I'm planning on reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything Is Illuminated, so perhaps now is the time.
posted by charlotte at 15:58 - comment

BBC finally found its best-loved book, and unsurprisingly the honour is bestowed on Tolkien.
The program was fairly boring, the Harry Potter-people wildly annoying and the Top 5 unsurprising, unexciting and uneventful. I would have voted for Pride and Prejudice, had it not cost me an absurd amount of money and had I not been largely impassionate about this entire excercise by now. The Harry Potter-voters kept claiming that eveyone had read the Harry Potter books and loved them. I haven't read Harry Potter. Harry Potter can go **** himself, for all I care. The only mildly exciting thing was His Dark Materials, a trilogy of which I know absolutely nothing, but it does sound quite exciting, albeit a bit Sophie's World-ish. I like the title, though. It lies well on the tongue.

Yes, I'm grumpy. Been holed up all day, in the flat, with a cold.
posted by charlotte at 00:24 - comment

...And I'm going to be even duller...

1. Do you enjoy the cold weather and snow for the holidays?
- I love snow, that's crisp and white and virginal. I love the air sharp and clean and fresh.
So winter in London pretty much sucks.

2. What is your ideal holiday celebration? How, where, with whom would you celebrate to make things perfect?
- I like spending my holidays with my family, because we are otherwise, physically, far apart. I like going for walks and eating. I like being back at my parents' house.

3. Do you do have any holiday traditions?
- Ach, too many to mention. Although the older we all get the more we forget about them. And make new.

4. Do you do anything to help the needy?
- No, nothing seasonally determined.

5. What one gift would you like for yourself?
- World peace, happiness for all and a Rose Body Cocoon treatment at SpaNK.


Friday Five
posted by charlotte at 17:09 - comment

Okay, so I'm ill, or at least getting there, and the flat's going to be full of people this weekend and I still haven't done any Christmas shopping whatsoever.

But at least Duran Duran knew how to have fun.

Especially compared to the Danish government, that keeps going on about the so-called hippie-commune in Copenhagen, Christiania. Just leave them alone, guys. I know some people are awfully jealous of the fact that the hippies have a beautiful view and water, and that this option should be open for all. But even if the commune is demolished and flats are build, it won't be, of course. Since when would I be able to live in a loft in Butler's Wharf? Jealousy is the root of all evil. Just ask Piers Morgan.

Oh, and I'm sorry for being dull. My body is punishing me sufficiently.
posted by charlotte at 18:44 - comment

- Hello, Christmas spirit? Charlotte here. I was wondering if you would mind sprinkling a bit of your magic over me?
Hello?
Hello?
posted by charlotte at 20:38 - comment

A room full of doctors.
'You'll be given a pencil and a rubber.'
Room erupts in giggle-fits. Muted hilarity ensues. Someone said 'rubber'.
My life in their hands?
posted by charlotte at 18:18 - comment

In the beginning it was this thing, not quite relevant to me and my life in the suburbs. It was called 'gay cancer' and since I didn't know anyone who was gay or anyone who had cancer, I wasn't too bothered.

Then I saw two films, that changed my perspective.
The first was An Early Frost, with Aidan Quinn, he of the gorgeous stare, and Gena Rowlands, she of utter divinity. The other was Longtime Companion, with Bruce Davison and Campbell Scott. These films showed the complexities of being gay in the 1980's, life not made easier by this disease, which made gays an easy taget for homophobes, who could blame the disease on homosexuals and at the same time use the disease to stigmatise gay people.
Later on came a greater sympathy for AIDS-sufferers, especially those who got the disease through blood-transfusions and the like, but there were still a sense that the homosexuals somehow brought it on themselves. This is why Philadelphia was good in the sense that Tom Hanks' character was indeed gay - and he died in the end.

Now we believe ourselves educated and sympathetic and gay men know how to protect themselves, so for a while we have rested assuredly, knowing that all is well. But AIDS and HIV is still a massive problem and difficult to solve; so when the Vatican decides that condoms don't stop AIDS, it is an act of high irresponsibility that should be publicly punished. This is something my children should never learn.

"In sub-Saharan Africa, donor support provided an average of three condoms per man per year." Three condoms. Per year. Would you abstain?
I didn't think so. But you can make a point by sending your MP a condom.

While Kofi Annan feels that the world is losing its fight against AIDS and Nelson Mandela thinks that South Africa's greatest enemy now is AIDS, I know it is difficult for us to relate to something we don't know. But do try - if only by following one of the links below and having a read.

WHO
United Nations
Marie Stopes
Medical Foundation and Sexual Health
AIDS Fondet Danmark
HIV-Danmark

Link and Think
posted by charlotte at 18:52 - comment

I will be blogging tomorrow as part of the World AIDS Day. Unfortunately I won't be able to do it until sometime after 6, but it will happen.

And I must apologise for the odd links on my blogspot-bar - I don't think that I'm particularly smelly, although who am I to say?!

Just one little comment for today: how can Piers Morgan possibly get to host a program on TV? And does he not find it remotely ironic that the program he is hosting is about people who want to be famous only for being famous? And is he employing his usual sneering contempt for the celebrities, whilst coming through as envying them so much that he seems incapable of thinking straight? Does Piers Morgan really want to become dead famous and live the charmed life of the famous - is that why he has decided to become a host on TV?
No, you're right: I'm sure Piers Morgan is trying to do the nation a favour, by exposing the celebrities and showing them the way they really are.

Footnote:
The 'David Blaine: Above the Below'-DVD. Like watching paint dry?

posted by charlotte at 17:56 - comment

Some Danish writers - more than English and American, I believe - are interested, not so much in change, nor in preserving the status quo, but simply everyday life. I've been reading Suzanne Brøgger, and while she certainly is travelled and, I suspect, considered an ambassador of so-called alternative life-style, she also has respect for and curiosity about people who never travel, the conservative (in a non-party political sense) small-town 'folks' who milk their cows and bake their bread and are happy with their station in life.

I find this interesting. The older I get, the greater lust I get, for growing my own vegetables and raising kids.

Søren Ulrik Thomsen, a Danish poet, writes beautifully about going to the supermarket, with the kids, at the end of the day, when the days are short and chilly. The mundane gains value.
See also Dan Turell's poems - expressing feelings and situations so close to the bone, that it hurts.

In that sense I think that the Irish and the Danish have more in common, with roots in the bogs and potatoes and, again, the home made bread. I think about Seamus Heaney.

I want a herb garden. And carrots and potatoes and peas to pull out of the earth and give back to the earth. Is it because I live in a busy major city that I feel this need to connect and feel part of the chains of events that make the world go 'round?
posted by charlotte at 19:05 - comment

Just got off the phone with the BBC. 'Employ me, employ me!' I wanted to scream. But I didn't. And so am still stuck here.
posted by charlotte at 12:20 - comment

Sometimes I'm such a drama queen. I'm still crossing my fingers and hoping for the best, though.

Anyway, the cinema-thing yesterday really rocked.

John Cage's Prepared Piano delivered a genius piece of minimalist music, accompanying Marcel Duchamp's Discs segment of Dreams That Money Can Buy.

Man Ray, Erik Satie and Marcel Duchamp were jumping vigorously up and down in Entr'acte

Sad and erotic: Un Chant D'Amour. Continually balancing on the edge of the abyss that is cliche, but managing to evoke empathy and pain. Wonderful.


posted by charlotte at 10:28 - comment

There may be big trouble looming ahead.
Supposed to go see some Jean Genet, but not sure if I'm up for it.

Must try to stay sane.
posted by charlotte at 11:25 - comment

1. List five things you'd like to accomplish by the end of the year.
- Not lose my job, not lose my mind, to succesfully cancel my gym membership, not gain weight, remember the rules of Backgammon

2. List five people you've lost contact with that you'd like to hear from again.
- There's usually a reason why I lose contact with people, so I think things are fine the way they are

3. List five things you'd like to learn how to do.
- Use Dreamweaver, sleep less, play violin, dance ballet, speak ALL languages in the world

4. List five things you'd do if you won the lottery (no limit).
- Travel, give to charity, quit job, shop, watch the wind blow

5. List five things you do that help you relax.
- Meditate, hibernate, digest...touch, watch...

Friday Five


posted by charlotte at 20:07 - comment

When I was a teenager, with pain in my heart and Cure in my head (!), I would spend most of my time listening to music, pouting. This was before the emergence of the fabulous CD-player (God, that makes me feel old), not to mention the internet, so I would record music onto tapes from the radio. In a sea of sugar-coated and mindblowingly stupid rubbish, on Sunday nights, there was a program on the radio called P4 in P1, a night dedicated to all sorts of people, but mainly the young, a youth program, full of stories and music and helplines and things that was relevant and interesting and often heart-breakingly painful. Kids would pour their hearts out to the best agony aunt ever, the divine Ms Tine Bryld, and the music would make you spin with delight and wonder. Part of this evening would be Det Elektriske Barometer (the electric barometer), a hitlist of sorts, voted for by listeners, along with tasters of new songs, not necessarily the kind played on mainstream radio.
Perhaps this program even saved me from the fickle world of pop?

Anyway, apparently there are now talks about killing off this hitlist, much to my dismay. Who is now going to educate the Danish kids?
- So go on, sign the petition here.
(As seen on CPHBlog)



The Queen and the Bush for dinner at the ambassador's house, preventing me from walking freely in Regent's Park. Wonder if they had Ferrero Rocher. And definitely doing their bit for individual freedom.

And Johnny Depp has been named The Sexiest Man Alive. As if we didn't know.
posted by charlotte at 18:39 - comment

I'll be taking part in this: Link and Think

- As seen on More a way of life...
posted by charlotte at 19:38 - comment

The thing about Champagne:

It builds up gradually, making you drunk without making you aggressive, tired, moody, whiney or otherwise. Champagne makes you friendly and giggly and gives you a buzz in the head and a spin in your feet.
Great combinations are:

Champagne and oysters
Champagne and strawberries
Bellinis
Champagne and cigarettes
Champagne at the Aquarium




The Guardian has named the 40 best directors in the world now. See for yourself if you agree. I feel largely positive, although not surprised (The Guardian is quite predictable sometimes).
posted by charlotte at 11:49 - comment

Aaah.

Exercise.
posted by charlotte at 19:16 - comment

Well, what can I say?

Or, rather, where should I start?

I'm trying to cancel my gym-membership, which is harder than one should think, although I had heard rumours...

Charlotte: - Hi, I would like to cancel my membership (smiles)

Receptionist: - We need that in writing (pouts)

Charlotte: - Oh, but yes, I've brought a letter, is this okay? (Hahaha! Gotcha!)

Receptionist: - Did you put your phone number on it? (triumphant glare)

Charlotte: - Ehm...no...what do you need that for? (becomes suspicious)

Receptionist: - Well, someone is going to ring you sometime next week (sniggers)

Charlotte: - What for? I just want to cancel my membership...?

Receptionist: - Anyway, it is too late for December, we can only cancel you in January, now. (Gets bored, starts flirting with man on treadmill)

Charlotte: - But...why??? (Lower lip aquiver)

Receptionist: - You have to give notice before the 7th November

Charlotte: - But it doesn't say anywhere in the contract...

Receptionist: - She'll ring you next week

Charlotte: *ponders*, pulls out a large gorilla from inside pocket, lets him loose on unsuspecting receptionist...(No...too disgusting...)

- pulls out large automatic weapon and shoots everybody in gym (No...I'm a pacifist...)

- pulls out Pop Idol CD and plays very loud until all have surrendered (No...too cruel...)

- nods quietly and leaves, defeated.


So, that was Saturday. Later Saturday I was the witness to a sad, sad incident;
The Matrix Revolutions.
It's long. And boring. And a complete anti-climax. So there.


I miss reading.
More.
Than I do now.


And what do we want for Christmas?
- Radiohead in complete control of the BBC. As it is now, we must settle for a week on BBC 6 Music.


I just knew he was a friendly guy: Hi Jon!



posted by charlotte at 18:44 - comment

There are things to be bought and clothes to be washed. I've got to cancel my gym-membership and say goodbye to good friends. There's lunch to be eaten (although I may just skip that and go straight to dinner) and showers to be had and people to call and trains to be caught.

Somehow working seems to take life away and leave you with a condensed life in the weekend, in which you have to do all the things you can't when you work. I was never meant for working life.

Gotta rush.
posted by charlotte at 16:38 - comment

The Friday Five:

1. What food do you like that most people hate?
- Baked beans in tomato sauce (although most Brits like that, so I guess that doesn't really count)

2. What food do you hate that most people love?
- I generally don't hate food, although I can easily do without coriander and celery

3. What famous person, whom many people may find attractive, is most unappealing to you?
- Tom Cruise

4. What famous person, whom many people may find unappealing, do you find
attractive?
- Steve Buschemi

5. What popular trend baffles you?
- Most popular trends baffle me. Text messaging. Carrying your key in one of those back-stage pass-y things. Reality TV. Christina Aguilera. Orlando Bloom.

A proper post will follow tomorrow.

*Falls asleep over keyboard, wakes up drenched in drool, short circuits computer, explodes*

posted by charlotte at 19:25 - comment

Tomorrow night is bonfire night (or Guy Fawkes) and I can be found at The Bull & Gate in Kentish Town, where my boyfriend's band is playing.

Drop by, if you fancy a night of fun! (Except that we are all part of the great British work-force, and must go home in order to get up early Thursday morning, and be productive.)


posted by charlotte at 20:18 - comment

I've got an Oyster-card!

Not really reason for jubilation, I hear you say, but for a lazy person, who loves gadgets, the Oyster-card is a blessing. Not only can you now use public transportation without having to lift more than a finger, but it is fun at the same time - and it makes you look cool.

Compare, if you will, the old days of pocket-fumbling, finger-twisting, hand-chafing misery, more often than not resulting in weird ticket-paper-cuts, to the slick technology of today. Grab the plastic pocket, swish it swiftly across the electronic thingy and whoops - you're free to go. No friction, no bending, no sweaty palms.

Public transport, here I come!

posted by charlotte at 18:25 - comment

Last night, Later With Jools Holland, Jane's Addiction.

Mind-numbingly cool.
posted by charlotte at 11:02 - comment

Winter's coming on and my blog is suffering. (Thankfully it doesn't seem to be mine only, there is a certain...tiredness to be detected pretty much all over the place.)

I don't have much to say at the moment, I guess I have cuddled up for the winter, to re-emerge sometime next spring.

'Cause, see, I love winter.
I enjoy the cold, when it bites the nose and smells so wonderfully chilly. I adore coming into the house, and it's all warm and cosy. I revel in baking and making tea or hot chocolate. I love smelling spices from cakes and gluh wein. I grow fat and lazy and smug.

So there might not be too much to see around here for the coming months, but keep checking in, because I'm sure that I won't be able to stay away for long.

Oh, and I got a job. Which is nice.
posted by charlotte at 17:58 - comment

Well, I had been warned.

The film The Scarlet Letter is the worst pile of s*** I've almost seen in a long time. I write almost, for after Arthur Dimmesdale's skinny-dip (sacrilege! The good Reverend would never - never, I tell you - swim naked), I simply gave up in exasperation and fell asleep. And so missed the apparent happy ending (Yet again sacrilege! What were they thinking?)

What happened to the masterpiece of American Gothic that is the novel? Okay, so you decide to rearrange and reimagine, but in this case it has been done on a scale that truly begs for a title-change. It has been turned into a Romance!

Hawthorne is spinning in his grave.

*Shakes head, walks off, plans to torture Roland Joffe and Demi Moore with an array of spiked and painful instruments.*
posted by charlotte at 11:32 - comment

Although I'm not really a great fan of reality TV, this is a must-see:

Jade Goody from Big Brother and the cheating Major Charles Ingram from Who Wants To Be A Millionaire in a special celebrity edition of Wife Swap.


posted by charlotte at 17:13 - comment

Well, I was actually considering a longer rant on adoption, due to a silly review of a forthcoming program, but then I bumped into this: 50 Years of Bodies 1953-2003. And especially this caught my eye:

1997 Kevin Wright becomes the first person to have a healthy leg amputated on the NHS. He suffers from a condition called apotemnophilia, causing the patient to be so repelled by a limb he wants it removed.

This Apotemnophilia, which at first sight seems only deeply disturbing and sad, turns out to be a sexual paraphilia which makes it even weirder.

There's interesting things to read here and here.


Re. the Observer-article: check out also in 2000:
Emma Richards, 16, has her legs broken and stretched on the NHS at a cost of £12,000 to make her tall enough to be an air hostess.



posted by charlotte at 19:26 - comment

Splendid.
posted by charlotte at 15:44 - comment

The thing about London Film Festival is, that it is so darn friendly. The atmosphere is lovely, people are really up for it and dress up for the occasion. There is no competition as such, although awards are given out for outstanding achievements. The best shows are obviously in the evenings, where there usually is a Q&A with directors, actors, and whoever else decide show up.
One of the highlights was good, old Danish actor Henning Moritzen, who crawled on stage aided by a walking stick to thunderous applause by the delighted Festen-audience.
Then there was Roger Avery leading a riotous crowd, who just loved Rules of Attraction.
And of course Ed Harris and Amy Madigan, who were both incredibly graceous and interesting.

It quite difficult to get tickets to the most high-profile films at the festival, so this year I've not even bothered trying. (Although Lost in Translation looks ever so cool).
Instead I've opted for the lesser-known films, which means that tonight I'm going to see Life Kills Me, of which I know nothing else than what has been written in the program. The trick, I guess, I to try to watch films that are good, but unlikely to go on general release. I'd like to see Sylvia (although the reviews have been less than kind), but I'm pretty sure that will be possible soon anyway.
Next week it's Off The Map, mainly because I'm terribly fond of Campbell Scott, and whatever else the Festival newsletters throw my way.

I'm ever so excited.

posted by charlotte at 12:35 - comment

The TV Edition:

I completely forgot to mention that I was watching Pornography: the Musical the other night. The things you can learn from television!

1. Bukkake (oh dear)
2 Watersports: not of the surfing-variety
3. Porn stars should not really sing
4. There's a musical waiting to happen in every profession

Which brings me to: Men in Tights
Weren't they sweet?

Which swiftly leads me to the the opposite, the most appalling thing I've ever seen:
Racism in the police force.
Obviously the most chilling moment was when a PC pulled a hood over his head, pretending to be a member of the Ku Klux Klan, but also the way these men spoke to each other and defended themselves, was a sure sign that many people in this and many other countries think like they do. Hopefully they will never become part of any police force.

Finally: whatisname is out of the box. Whatever. Adding to the surreal carnival taking place in front of this box and his girlfriend throwing eggs at the people who were thowing things at Blaine, was Harmony Korine filming the entire thing, this film having been show to mark the grandeur of the feat. Or something like that. The film was typical Korine, grainy, handheld and full of naked women. I'm not sure what these women had to do with the brilliance of Blaine, especially as he didn't really do anything with them other than show them card-tricks. Come to think of it they weren't even tricks, he was just flipping cards and grinning, while the women were swaying and cooing in an appreciative manner. Great.

- If anyone wants to come with me at a two-for-the-price-of-one deal at the Film Festival to see Wonderland tomorrow night, let me know (although it's quite late and I'll probably fall asleep).
posted by charlotte at 11:42 - comment

Annoying things:
People who consequently refer to themselves as "crazy". As in: "Don't mind me, I'm just crazy," or "I was never like everyone else, I was always a bit crazy," or "crazy me, dancing in the moonlight".

Why would you want to be crazy?
I believe it is linked to the misconception that if you're crazy, you're different, and if you're different, you are not like everyone else. And everybody want to be an individual as opposed to disappearing in the crowd.
Except that I suspect that if you have to draw attention to your alleged craziness like that, you're not crazy at all. And you have an inferiority complex.
Hey, it's Catch-22 all over again: if you're sane enough to realise you're crazy, you're not crazy at all.

So there. Rest in yourself. Forget about what other people think. Be as boring as you like, or as interesting as you like, but stop telling me what you're like. 'Cause it's likely that I won't believe you.
posted by charlotte at 12:57 - comment

I don't really like living in a country in which I have to have a carbon-monoxide alarm.
Mine just started making a weird sound, I think the one related to in the manual as a 'chirp' - this is not dangerous, only means that the batteries need changing. (As opposed to a full-blown alarm, due to the loudness of which, "we suggest you place your fingers over the sounder opening when testing". I hate loud noises.)

"What To Do If The Alarm Sounds:

Immediately move to fresh air outdoors or by an open door/window. Do a head count to check that all persons are accounted for. Do no re-enter the premises nor move away from the open door/window until British Gas has arrived, the premises have been aired out, and your alarm remains in its normal condition."

Anyway, mine was just a chirp, but now I feel faint and dizzy and is that a headache building up?
- Ohmygod! I live in a death-trap -


posted by charlotte at 15:56 - comment

Can that really be the 21 best loved books in Britain?

Since they have a rule that no author can be represented twice in the top 21, obviously this list is not entirely truthful. Surely, there would be at least a couple more Harry Potters in there?! Anyway, this is after all a poll for the best loved titles, not the best, and so the scope of the excercise changes and the winner will surely be on par with Robbie Williams being voted the best singer/musician/whatever of the millenium. Which is just rubbish.

I mean, Captain Corelli's Mandolin?

So I have decided to forget about reason and Britain and the communal best-loved tag and have voted for my favorite in this sea of (mainly) entertaining, but mediocre blah, Catch-22, which I think is a fantastic, intelligent, poignant tale of human suffering the need to question status quo. I did consider The Catcher in the Rye, which is also wonderful, Winnie-the-Pooh, which is unfortunately marred by the publishing of Benjamin Hoff's double whammy of existential, philosophical bestsellers, that is actually a behavioural conduct code, Great Expectations, if nothing else because of Ms Haversham's barmy old maid and To Kill A Mocking Bird because it has a certain significance, but out of these 21, my best loved book, is Catch-22.
posted by charlotte at 12:10 - comment

Hmmm...who to vote for....


posted by charlotte at 12:49 - comment

I love games.

Tinka asks about romantic films, and has had me obsess about these for a while now. An entirely romantic film, that is also, well, good? What constitutes a Romantic Film?
Does it have to be romantic through and thorugh?
Is it a person-meets-person, persons-go-through-troubles, persons-get-back-together traditional structure type thing?

I can think of many films with romantic scenes in them, but an entirely romantic film, that I also like, is difficult to find. I wholly stand by Tinka's choices (Moulin Rouge, The English Patient, Roman Holiday, Breakfast at Tiffany's), have come up with A Room With A View as well, can see John's point of Beautiful Girls and Say Anything, but can mainly think of romantic parts of films that are not necessarily romantic. Such as:
* Robin Williams and Amanda Plummer having dinner in The Fisher King.
* Jake Gyllenhaal and Jena Malone walking down a set of stair in tune to the music in Donnie Darko.
* Rutger Hauer saying goodbye to Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner.
* Woody Allen and Diane Keaton chasing lobsters in Annie Hall.

And then there's the films which I probably would, in the end, shove into the Romantic Film category:
My Own Private Idaho, Out of Sight and True Romance.

There must be more. Must try to come up with others.

posted by charlotte at 12:29 - comment

Something for the weekend:

1. Name five things in your refrigerator.
- Milk, oranges, fennel bulb, Jamaican jerk, ketchup

2. Name five things in your freezer.
- Minced lamb, bagels, frozen peas, ice cream, chicken stock

3. Name five things under your kitchen sink.
- Plastic bags, bin, empty bottles, a piece of wood, pipes

4. Name five things around your computer.
- Speakers, stamps, 1 medium-sized Kenny-doll, Linux Complete, cables

5. Name five things in your medicine cabinet.
- It's not really a medicine cabinet; toothbrush, toothpicks, electrical shaver, aftershave, facial cream



posted by charlotte at 15:01 - comment

This, that, and the other. (And a little bit of this and a little bit of that.)

It's been a good week.



Oh, and Teen Big Brother is hilarious and infuriating at the same time. They are crap, minging creatures, but I guess that's what it's like to be a teenager.
Grande finale tonight and I predict lots of tears, a great deal of swearing and perhaps even fisticuffs. Yay!
posted by charlotte at 13:37 - comment

Mrs. Parker cynical:

Theory:

Into love and out again,
Thus I went, and thus I go.
Spare your voice, and hold your pen -
Well and bitterly I know
All the songs were ever sung,
All the words were ever said;
Could it be, when I was young,
Some one dropped me on my head?


Mrs. Parker light:

Superfluous Advice:

Should they whisper false of you,
Never trouble to deny;
Should the words they say be true,
Weep and storm and swear they lie.


Mrs. Parker essential:

Big Blonde


posted by charlotte at 13:59 - comment

The Guardian has investigated the Danish theatre-world and found it wanting. Today's paper has a scathing review, that transforms into an exploration into the Danish mentality.

Life is good in Denmark, they write, which is why it can't produce any decent drama.

The gist of the article is that although Danish plays address many serious subjects, such as terminal illness and (especially) suicide, Denmark is actually a thoroughly ordered, homogenous, conservative, affluent, bike-riding (...) society in which Danes do not, in actual fact, have anything to complain about. Furthermore, in order to maintain this slice of efficiency that Denmark is, Danes are underlying strict rules and regulations that, in the end, restrict more than they liberate.
Perhaps this is why we cannot produce anything other than highly stylised bubblegum pop and, ehm, bacon? (This is not true, I know, I know, Kashmir and jazz music and Arne Jacobsen and Day and all that stuff, but roll with it for a moment.) Is that why the ending of Shake It All About disappears into a cloud of magic? And why Okay happily ends with a cheery sing-song? And why the web-site for new Danish film 2 Ryk og En Aflevering is full of happy, horny willies, not exactly subtle and definitely neither cute nor funny?

That said, I'm happy with the Danish system. Because of this, I have been given a grant for many years, so that I can study and eat at the same time. If I'm in Denmark, I don't have to worry about getting ill, because I can go to the hospital for free. The streets are clean and the food is not full of all sorts of shit that I have no control over whatsoever.
And Denmark produces some of the best design in the world.

Danish theatre is not all rubbish, but it does seem that edgy, inventive stuff is lacking. Perhaps it can be found on the fringes or perhaps the Danish mentality is just not meant for intense, heart-wrenching plays.
We do after all have a long tradition for variety shows (link in Danish, sorry).
posted by charlotte at 16:21 - comment

I used to love Duran Duran. I caught them when they were coolest, the boat and the colours of Rio catching my eye. I went back to 'Girls on Film' and didn't mind that too much. I followed them through Seven and the Ragged Tiger and Arena, but lost interest a bit 'round about the James Bond theme. I've even got the wedding album on vinyl. I had a calender, which I ordered via mail order and impatiently expected for weeks. I started out fancying Nick the most, but moved on to John as I got older. (Can you blame me?) I followed their adventures with the girls and the drugs. I envied Danish model Renee Toft Simonsen, who dated John Taylor for zillions of years and presumably had sex with him too (which I presumed was nice, but who knows?).

They weren't the greatest musicians or even the most gorgeous boys around. But they were sooo naughty and looked so rich and glamourous, that I just wanted to hang out with them.

So I'm pleased to see that they've still got it.
posted by charlotte at 16:55 - comment

But...but...what are they??? - They're scaring the bejesus out of me! Are they alive?

(Runs behind couch, peeks through fingers.)
posted by charlotte at 15:23 - comment

A bit of poetry on National Poetry Day.

'Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, ' What is it? '
Let us go and make our visit.'
(...)
'I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.'

Not strictly British, but...so lovely.


posted by charlotte at 18:49 - comment

I was brought up in a household that adored the royal family. And not just the Danish royal family, but any family that was the least bit royal. We would be glued to the screen whenever somebody got engaged/married/had a baby/died/wore a new dress. Magazines were bought and photos dissected.
In my family it was never considered to get rid of the entire thing and give the money to the poor. Robin Hood would have been outraged.
So, as much as my social conscience tells me that it is wrong, I still like the royal family. I can't tell you why, as I don't know any of them personally. I couldn't justify their existence if my life depended on it. I grew up 'with' them, in surroundings that celebrated their existence, and I don't mind. I fancied the Crown Prince when I was a child, for Christ's sake! (Later I realised that he was kinda short and spotty and prone to really crap jokes.) So good on him, this wedding business. I'm no less thrilled because I'm out of the country and in safe distance from the Danish media.

And only two words about this: RONALD REAGAN. So history, I guess, is doomed to repeat itself.
posted by charlotte at 16:18 - comment

A good time was had by all.

Ingredients:
1 DVD (Pirates of the Caribbean)
1 Caribbean lamb curry
1 aubergine stew
1 okra fried rice dish
2 different kinds of Rum Punch

Unfortunately Johnny Depp could not attend, as he was pillaging a medium-sized vessel in the North Sea. Allegedly.
posted by charlotte at 13:30 - comment

Had a coffee with the lovely S. C., who's off to South America next week.
Notting Hill is wonderful, even on a Saturday, and today wasn't too bad - tourist-wise, I mean.

Buying groceries in the market.
Popping in at Electric Cinema to book tickets for next week.
Investigating herbs and spices outside The Spice Shop.
Checking out Mr Christian's , Neal's Yard Remedies, and The Grocer on Elgin next to Graham and Green (and Graham and Green).

I wonder if there's such a thing as an EU relocation grant, for people who deserve to live in a certain part of London?

Later: Tycie and the boys are playing at The Catapult Club - you should definitely drop by.
posted by charlotte at 16:08 - comment

Word of the week:
SHINDIG

A strange word, neither here nor there, doesn't seem to allude to anything in particular.
Late 19th century. Origin uncertain.
It's not really a likeable word, way too sharp and smug to be admired.


Up until now, I haven't been following BBC's 're-imagining' of The Canterbury Tales. The first episode was starring Billie Piper (Evans?) and James Nesbitt, which was enough to keep me away. However, last night I caught The Sea Captain's Tale, with the wonderful Om Puri. I like the fact that British television has embraced the different nationalities and cultures that are present in this country and does not veer from using (in this case) Indian actors in a story taking place entirely in the Indian community. What is even better is that this story is not particularly Indian - it could happen anywhere and the themes are universal. Indian actors are not (always) typecast but are allowed to carry a story on their merit. I have been away from Denmark for a long time and maybe things have changed, but I seem to remember only few actors who were not born and in bred in Denmark on the Danish TV screens (the occasional Eastern European, mainly). TV should reflect the society in which it functions and by now there are people from so many different cultures in Denmark that these should not be ignored or patronised.

Anyway, next week Jonny Lee Miller in The Pardoner's Tale. Should be good.
posted by charlotte at 15:01 - comment

Winter's in the air.
As much as I like the sun, there something about dark winter mornings, where lights from sleepy high street shops gleam quietly through. The streets are a bit chilly and a bit wet and they smell different - fresh and frosty.

Yoga in the morning is great. A great deal of stretching and energising, a calm way of waking up - I like feeling my body that way.

And then: home for a cup of tea and a read through the newspaper. Preferably while it rains outside and bread is baking in the oven.

On an entirely different note:
Britons fall short on their knowledge of art.

7% thought Australian TV presenter and artist [Rolf] Harris had painted Monet's Water Lillies.
...one in 10 thought Botticelli had painted David Hockney's A Bigger Splash.

What is the world coming to? Can this not be rectified?
As quickly as possible, please!
posted by charlotte at 12:17 - comment

My local cinema is just around the corner from here. It's one of those big, fancy monster-things, that I found great when I just moved here, and that I now despise.

In the beginning it was cool. It had a student discount, that applied every weekday and not only in the morning.
I do like a little snack (read: giant size popcorn and medium coke + occasionally Haagen-Daaz and chocolate, especially M&M's) and this cinema caters really well for people with the munchies.
They have the newest films and a variety of show-times, so there's usually room for everyone.

However!

1) There's always a massive ticket-queue which means that if you haven't pre-booked - or pre-bought, actually - you'll have to turn up almost an hour in advance in order to catch the beginning of the film.

2) The cinema is really dirty - we're not just talking about abandoned rubbish on the floor, NO, we've got popcorn and milkshakes (or whatever it is - I don't want to think about it) smeared on the seats. Do they not even tidy A LITTLE BIT inbetween shows?

3) Many of the cinema-goers are teenagers, who seem to use the cinema as dating-agency or club or the like - walking in and out of shows at random.

4) In all cinemas there are usually problems with people's mobile phones ringing. This cinema is no different. However, even more appaling is the fact that many people seem to RING OUT of the cinema. 'Hi, it's me, the film is finishing in 5 minutes, I'll meet you in the carpark'-kind of thing. WTF?!?!

This weekend we went to see Once Upon A Time in Mexico. It's a great film - the story sucks, but who cares? Plenty of iconic Antonio and Salma-postures as well as a film-stealing Johnny Depp (and so beautiful he is too), lots of pining and shooting. It even managed to make Enrique Iglesias look good (hm, I guess that was never really the problem - look capable, I mean) - his style of soppy romantic Latin lover happens to fit well in. There's Willem Defoe, not doing much,but lending casual cool creepiness to the entire thing, and Mickey Rourke, appealing, in spite of the many beauty operations that have left his face looking rather Tussaud-ised.

So, in short, the film kicked ass and I was giggling like a child and suddenly, towards the end (I presume), the film stopped and on came adverts for the 'joy' of going to the cinema.
That was it and we did not get the ending of the film. But we did get free tickets! One each! To use for any film of our choice! Even The Matrix! (They actually said that.) The cinema-employer-twat was full of Butlins-gesturing and employment-course-speech and didn't quite understand why everybody were so upset, as 'there's not that much left anyway.'

It's over.
I shan't come back.

Great cinemas in London that,among others, I'll be frequenting more from now on:

Electric Cinema
Gate Cinema
Curzon Soho

posted by charlotte at 15:37 - comment

So Byron.
Now, I'm not a great fan of Lord Byron's, nor can I claim to have much knowledge of his works. I've read a little bit here and a little bit there and mainly a bit from Don Juan, which, I must say, I enjoyed, in the same way that one enjoys The Darkness. Briefly, for a laugh.(*ducks, hides*)

Anyway, the miniseries on BBC this weekend was not bad. Jonny Lee Miller is a god and Vanessa Redgrave is always a pleasure to watch and the first part was largely entertaining. Miller captured Byron's crash and burn attitude greatly, although he at times reminded me much of a 19th century Michael Hutchence (but maybe that isn't bad) and the series definitely looked great, golden hues for Greece, cold, blue light for a frosty England. However, the writing left a lot to be desired - there was hardly any mentioning of Byron the poet - his works were never really discussed. Miller tried hard to evoke both sympathy for and displeasure with the man himself, but the script never really dug into the personality of him. Since I am not that familiar with Byron I cannot vouch for the historical accurancy of the details, but it seems that while many question if Byron did or did not have an affair with his half-sister, this series took the relationship for granted and built the entire story on this. Part two seemed to jump from event to event - left by wife, child by Claire Clairmont, death of child, death of Shelley, without any soul and any real reaction from Byron to these events. Perhaps a four-parter would have been more appropriate?

However, the good thing about this series is that I've now gained an interest in Byron that extents beyond his rock-star qualities.

And why do we not see more of Jonny Lee Miller?
posted by charlotte at 12:02 - comment

I love buying vegetables at markets.
There, they come in all shapes and sizes, not moulded to some directive dictating lenght and colour. There, they still smell of the ground and the earth and the air. There, they are proper vegetables.

I love the entire ritual of it all; going to the market, browsing the stalls, checking the groceries - do they look fresh, are they cheap? There are some great bargains to be had, a scoopful of oranges and another full of onion, for only a pound or less each. Even when it is not cheaper, it is still somehow worth it, to get vegetables that has actually experienced rain and soil and cow-dung. Then carry the groceries home, in anonymous blue plastic bags that by now have become synonymous with shopping at markets and therefore almost fashion statements for the food-conscious. 'I shop at markets, me (it says), I'm concerned with the health of my body and the world.'
At home I put my fruits and vegetables into a cupboard and the fridge, in which they smell wonderful for many days still to come. Fruit and vegetables bought in the supermarket, while not at all bad, are often strangely shiny and sterile, but these ones, bought in the market, have lumps and bumps and seems so alive that it is almost a shame to cut them up and eat them. With these vegetables a continual growth can be felt, a history, a development that I try to honour the only way I know how to - by cooking them into a wonderful, tasty dish, to be cherished and lingered over for hours.

The best market in London is Borough Market, closely followed by all the smaller farmer's markets that pop up locally at various times of the week.
posted by charlotte at 16:44 - comment

Have I written about my love for this man?

I know there is limits to the honesty of one's emotions for someone one doesn't even know and I know that he wouldn't even look my way once (and I'm not even sure that I'd want him to, frankly) but I'm in awe of the kindness that exudes from him. He is clever and wicked and eloquent! He knows everything about everything! He would be my perfect dinner-guest and the one person with whom I'd most like to share a bottle of champagne and a cigar.

Until that day, I'll settle for this. And do try the Splendidiser, which will make any dull web-site read like...well, have a look for yourself, jolly old chap! How marvellous!
posted by charlotte at 23:29 - comment

Must get job.

WILL SING FOR SUPPER
posted by charlotte at 15:36 - comment

Should I cancel my gym-membership? I rarely go these days and when I do I just want to leave as quickly as possible.
Or should I get my act together and get back into a routine of going a couple of times a week? I could do with loosing some weight and getting fitter.

I could also start yoga-ing a couple of times a week (Ashtanga, dahling!) and perhaps squeeze in a dance class at Pineapple, but does that make sense economically?

At the moment I am frankly most inclined to sit back on my fat - behind - and munch on liquorice while listening to French music. In rotation at the moment is Edith Piaff, as well as North African music flavoured with French rap. The French language and rap just suit each other really well.
posted by charlotte at 18:18 - comment

Mike over at Visible Monsters has signed up for this wildly interesting project called Skin - which is a mortal work of art.

Each participant must agree to have one word of the story tattooed upon his or her body.

The full text will be known only to participants, who may, but need not choose to establish communication with one another.

...participants will be known as "words". They are not understood as carriers or agents of the texts they bear, but as its embodiments.

Only the death of words effaces them from the text. As words die the story will change; when the last word dies the story will also have died.

I have written earlier of my fascination with the body as a text, and in this project not only the body but the entire person becomes a word. However, although I briefly thought of signing up for this, I also realised that exactly this - that the person becomes a word - is what ultimately makes me decide against it. I would like my body to be a text in itself, a fully rounded, independent, self-contained unit of language. In this project, the body is part of a whole, to an extent depending on other body-units to perform its function satisfactory.

But it's an interesting proposition. And good luck to all involved!
- I hope to see the finished product some time.
posted by charlotte at 17:04 - comment

Back from an extended weekend in Beerland.
As usual, plenty of chips, chocolate, alcoholic drinks and mayo.

Here, rain for the first time in a long while.
I came back to a South Bank Show featuring the gorgeous Ewan McGregor, clever and articulate, and so, so cheeky. The program briefly ran through McGregor's career and largely overlooked all the tabloid gossip, which was nice. Interesting was also the differences between McGregor's point of view and Danny Boyle's, with regards to how Trainspotting was shot and the entire The Beach bruhaha-thing. It was furthermore interesting to compare Boyle's excitement about turning Trainspotting sequel Porno into a film with McGregor pretty much rejecting to reprise the part of Renton. So no film sequel there, I presume, since Boyle stated that the film will only be made with the original cast. I hope he stands by his word.

Exactly one month 'till the London Film Festival kicks off. I count my pennies and try to be strategic in my planning. Nothing can be left to chance. I'm sharpening my elbows.
posted by charlotte at 17:40 - comment

Man comes in. Kindly wipes feet on mat. Asks a few questions. Walks around the flat with a little thingummy that says beep. Raps on walls with knuckle. Goes out on balcony. Comes back in. Sighs. Hums. Walks around some more.
Meanwhile I stand around, a prisoner in my own flat, tidying things that don't need tidying, shifting magazines from A to B and back again. Do my hair.
I am very uncomfortable.

Should one offer a cuppa?
Should one chat chirpily?
Should one start doing something without regard to the man?

I really don't like having strangers in my house, be it plumbers or gas-meter readers or, as in this case, someone who determines the value of flats. I don't know why it is I feel so awkward and kinda too big. Too big for the flat, that's it. As if the flat has tried me and decided that I don't fit in, not when there are strangers present. I become stranger than the stranger. And then, as soon as the stranger leaves, the flat becomes mine again and we settle comfortably together.

posted by charlotte at 16:48 - comment

So there's quite a few of us, craned necks and all, using our hands to prevent the sun from getting in our eyes and obstructing the view. Quite a few are tourists, but quite a few are locals too. It is Saturday, a beautiful, sunny September afternoon.
The setting is lovely, green grass and the bridge as back-drop, people selling hot dogs and knick-knacks on the pavement.
Photos are taken and filming done, with nifty, little video-recorders. Many people wave.

The man in the box doesn't do much. He's put up a white sheet to protect him from the sun and moves slowly around in his cage, sometimes waving back with a feeble movement of hand.
Nothing happens.

This must be the dullest stunt in the history of stunts, yet I am strangely fascinated by the entire thing. Is he actually up there? Or is it a cleverly devised illusion and he is in actual fact eating hamburgers in Arkansas? Does he have a stack of invisible provisions hidden behind an invisible wall? Is it really water running through the tube? Does he do it for the honour or the publicity? Is he a cleverly cunning business-man or a half-mad idealist, craving for attention?

But nothing happens.
I begin to understand this newfound activity of Blaine-baiting, the English does after all have a history of baiting big, hairy creatures; in Shakespearean times, they used to bait bears before, during and after performances. Suddenly I too fancy throwing something at the man in the box, he just stands there! So boring! Are we supposed to feel satisfied by a wobbly wave? Dance for us! Take your clothes off! Do something outrageous!
But nothing happens.

And so we move on to bigger and better things, me feeling embarassed that I wanted him so to perform (like a hamster), yet feeling strangely ripped off, as if he owes me something, for pestering my life with endless TV adverts and newspaper columns. And somehow he doesn't deliver.
posted by charlotte at 11:09 - comment

Not only did Johnny Cash die, but also John Ritter - not quite funny enough (in my books anyway) and never quite cute enough, but I really, really liked him (the way that you can like someone you've only seen in a bad sitcom and two straight-to-video movies) and am saddened by his untimely death.
posted by charlotte at 17:13 - comment

Oh, okay then.

1. Is the name you have now the same name that's on your birth certificate? If not, what's changed?
- That's my name alright -

2. If you could change your name (first, middle and/or last), what would it be?
- I'm quite happy with my name (first, middle and/or last), thank you very much, but if I should change anything, I'd probably make the entire thing quite a few letters shorter. For signatures, Bo Peep would be ideal.

3. Why were you named what you were? (Is there a story behind it? Who specifically was responsible for naming you?)
- Well, my parents were planning on something else, but there were just too many of those in the family, so they settled on Charlotte, on the condition that I would never, ever be called just Lotte, which is otherwise common in Denmark.

4. Are there any names you really hate or love? What are they and why?
- I don't hate names. But I'm really fond of old-fashioned names. And biblical names. And Swedish names. Dunno why.

5. Is the analysis of your name at kabalarians.com accurate? How or how isn't it?
-Yeah, whatever. Like, the same way that my horoscope makes sense.



posted by charlotte at 14:27 - comment

Am now obsessing about The Games. I have otherwise cut drastically in my reality TV intake, but there's something about these games that I can't resist. From Bobby Davro's heartcrumbling wish for his children's admiration (bless 'im) to Harvey's sudden joy of curling, it is all a load of crap, yet strangely fascinating.

I feel very sorry for Miss World, however, for being continually referred to as, well, Miss World. I guess it's something contractual, but still! She must have a name!
Well, I decided to right the wrong, albeit on a slightly smaller scale:
AZRA AKIN, is her name. And she's from Turkey.

What else have we learned?
I still don't really know who Terri Dwyer is and why so many people find her shagable (but she seems quite nice), Lee Latchford Evans actually looks rugged, but maybe that's just my TV, James Hewitt, who briefly looked as if he had been done wrong all these years, really is a wanker, the French chef tries to woo all the women but forgets about the most important of all: the underwear - and Melanie Chisholm seems like a really nice person.

I'm a sucker for celebrities fallen from grace and will always like Mark Owen more than Robbie, Mylene Klass more than Kym Marsh and, yes, Mel C more than Vicki B. Better to be Z-list than C-list?!
posted by charlotte at 15:46 - comment

Invisible Stranger has some interesting observations on the death of Leni Riefenstahl. Like the Stranger I don't think that one can ignore her significant influence on film-making or the fact that she was a fantastically talented director. Like the Stranger I also have a problem with her nazi-sympathies - although Gitta Sereny has been defending her on the news, I find it troublesome that some people can hide behind ignorance, as in: She insisted that she was never a Nazi and that "Triumph of the Will" and "Olympia" were inspired only by her desire to create works of art.
Is it okay to indirectly support the killing of innocent people as long as it's in the name of art?

This reminds me of the story of Diana Mosley, who died in August. She too claimed ignorance when confronted with her friendship with Hitler.
Despite unabating criticism of her fascist sympathies, she never apologised for her fascination with Adolf Hitler, who attended her secret wedding to Sir Oswald, held at Joseph Goebbels' Berlin home in 1936.
So maybe Hitler seemed like a pleasant man, and maybe Ms. Mosley never saw any reports of the killings and confinements of Jews, but does that mean that she is entitled to ignorance?

While I do understand that for a young person, who is not politically inclined, Nazi Germany could have been fascinating and attractive, I also believe that at some point in one's life, one must start taking responsibility for one's own actions. I am more than willing to accept explanations to the above effect, but this stubborn insistence that they 'didn't notice what was going on' or it 'wasn't important' to their cause or whatever, I find, like Francis, rather unacceptable.

posted by charlotte at 12:22 - comment

Gorgeous poetry over on Mike's site:

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.


And, appropriately: the arrival of an e-mail heralding a new useful web-site from The Poetry Library.

...And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the metal-bin.
posted by charlotte at 11:00 - comment

What I have learnt the last couple of days:

* It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing (doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah)

* Some people actually live in the airport

* I'm getting older = physical deterioration, loss of memory, heightened sensitivity

* Have tap shoes, will dance (anywhere)

* The wheels on the bus really do go 'round and 'round

posted by charlotte at 15:18 - comment

In little more than 30 minutes, I'm off to retrieve the mothership from the airport. Oh, and the father, ehm, boat, is there too. I'm all up for a bit of parental concern and care, especially when the ship is full of liquorice and other assorted groceries.

And maybe we'll even go and have a look at this - although watching a man slowly killing himself while publicly pissing in a tube is not really my idea of fun.
posted by charlotte at 15:50 - comment

So I'm wearing this robe, which has got the golden brown stripe of University of London on the hood, and the hat is too big, so it keeps falling off whenever I nod my head.
I feel stupid.

People's parents are endearingly cute, snapping photos, proudly touching their children, who are not really children anymore. My parents are not there, as they don't speak English and I didn't have the heart to force them to sit through 90 minutes of speeches that to them would only be incoherent blabbering.

The ceremony begins with a procession of the podium party - I still don't know what qualifies to become part of this, but impressive they look in their (fancier) robes and hats. We stand.
Then there are speeches and we form a line in order to shake somebody's hand (such a soft hand! Still don't know who he was!) and I am gripped by sudden nerves, although all I have to do is shake and smile and not trip.
Then more speeches. Graham Swift is given an Honorary Degree and I must shamefully admit to never having read any of his fiction.
More speeches.
Then the national anthem (during which we stand) and then we proceed out of the hall into the green, quite appropriately to the sound of the Prince of Denmark's March.

Everything is very ceremonial but the atmosphere is friendly. There is a 'rod' of sorts, something to do with the council. There are two white-gloved men who move a chair back and forth. I don't know the significance of half of this, but it is still quite fun.

Then I got drunk. And decided that I really fancy doing a postgraduate course. Then I went home. And slept all evening.
posted by charlotte at 15:14 - comment

Well, I had decided beforehand not to get drunk, which I did and I had decided beforehand not to make a fool out of myself, which I (think I) didn't, so all in all it was a good day.

I have now thoroughly graduated from Goldsmiths College, in robe and tassels and all, applauded other students 'till my palms bled and munched on fingerfood with the enthusiasm of of a starved child.
Their wine is still shit, though.

I'm gonna go for a lie-down and shall return shortly with an in-dept analysis of the English and their ceremonies.
posted by charlotte at 20:08 - comment

I am yet again spending too much time on the internet. Now, I love the internet, but it's just time wasted - not quality time spent. I maniacally click links and blogs and sites over and over again without reading.

It's that obsessive behaviour again. Can't do something just once. Must do it all the time or not at all.

Washed my windows today for the first time in more than a year. Sometimes it's good not to think too much.
posted by charlotte at 23:31 - comment

My prayers have been heard!

(Yeah, right!)

Today's Evening Standard (usually not a high standard, though) has an article by Nikki Bayley, who was adopted when she was two months old.
The headline reads: 'Why don't desperate IVF couples go for adoption?' - a question I have asked many times. The reason for the article is that the British government is considering making IVF treatments free on the NHS. But is that really necessary?

'...I can't help but feel dumbstuck when people argue that they "need" IVF treatment because "having someone else's child just wouldn't be the same as having your own."
Well, hang on a moment. The day I split my chin going over the handlebars of my bike and mum rushed me to casualty and sat for hours at my bedside, was that not being a proper family? Or the day mum and dad drove me to university in Leeds and on the way home had to pull into the nearest lay-by because they were both crying so much?'

I can't say it better.

posted by charlotte at 17:42 - comment

The body is considered admirable only in a "pure" state, the state of passive non-movement. A sterile life drawing will often garner more compliments than for example a photographic close-up of skin in all its realistic fleshiness. Ron Mueck's 'Dead Dad' can invoke sadness, compassion, even disgust, but will never be considered beautiful. And usually only women's bodies are acknowleged as being beautiful; most people seem to think that men's bodies are weird and ugly.
But how can anyone who has seen Robert Mapplethorpe's portraits claim than the male body is unappealing?


posted by charlotte at 11:56 - comment

People such as Marilyn Manson and Leigh Bowery are splendid at changing their bodies. The body becomes a work of art, a text, so to speak, that is read and interpreted and helps the viewer form an opinion on the soul of the owner. Manson especially manages question set but unsaid rules in society through his gender-bending masks and costumes.

On a smaller and even less subtle scale comes tattoos and piercings and branding. From Beckham's love letters to his family to even the smallest rose perched on a buttock - people want to make statements and be noticed and, most importantly to be seen as originals, one-of-a-kinds. Writing on their bodies means that the statement can be carried with them wherever they go, and that it truly has become part of themselves. In the case of tattoos and branding there is furthermore the added intensity of being unable to remove said item and it is therefore for life.

I have a tattoo, on my lover back, in the shape of some tribal mark. Originally, it was meant exactly like this; something that would make me stand out from a crowd - not necessarily in the eyes of the crowd, but in the eyes of me. Now it is just there, part of me, part of what I (think I) am.

That said, often non-self-inflicted diversions from the norm are much more interesting. A crooked nose, a lazy eye, a bendy finger - these traits are truly part of you and much more charming than a pierced upper lip.

In Dangerous Liaisons, Valmont writes a letter to one woman, using another as writing desk. In this instance, words are, in a heightened state, used to woo an innocent, 'pure' woman, while the flesh takes a subordinate position. Words are passive, flesh is active. The ideal state would be a combination of the two.
posted by charlotte at 14:06 - comment

Have you ever seen The Pillow Book?
It is a beautiful story of two people who meet in a woman's desire for writing, or rather, her desire to be written on.

Peter Greenaway (for it is indeed he) writes: 'We are speculating about an erotic fantasy that combines two limitless fascinations, flesh and literature.'

The film is loosely based on Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book, which is full of lists and thoughts and dreams. Greenaway makes his own lists, including:

"Elegant Things.
A white coat worn over a violet waistcoat by a lover
on his second night-time visit.
Duck eggs..."
(...)
"Shaved ice mixed with liana syrup and put in a new
silver bowl.
Wistaria blossoms.
Plum blossom covered with snow.
A pretty child eating strawberries."

I'm in awe of the film and the text. The relationship between body and text is a bottomless pit. And if one reads the body as a text (and the text as a body), marvellous, surprising discoveries can be pulled out of that pit.

A friend of mine has a body like a cage. He is short and dark and bony, albeit with a bit of a beer-belly on him. He doesn't move much, so he is not very muscular, but when you hug him, you can feel his rib cage clearly through the skin. He feels like a box full of secrets that cannot be guessed through the bones.
Another friend is broad and big - but very muscular and there is a sense of all his organs when hugging him, even carefully.

"[The main female character] misses authorship, and lovers who might be authors, and the touch of the inkbrush and the pen on her flesh."

More about this later.

posted by charlotte at 14:42 - comment

Been off-line for a while.
Felt strangely good.
Just wanted to pop by to let you know that there's life and blogging will be resumed shortly.
Am expecting a sofa any minute now, so got to tidy the living-room, which looks wildly unappealing, scattered debris of..stuff...lying around everywhere.

And to the person who left me a recipe for Danish "leverpostej" (that would be liver-pate to the English-speakers) - thanks! To what do I owe the honour? And I shall attempt to make this one day, at which point in time you are welcome to drop by for a taste.
posted by charlotte at 09:48 - comment

The last couple of days I have been testing games for mobile phones.

Mmm. Slight exaggeration. Let's start again.

The last couple of days I've been playing games on a mobile phone.

Better...not entirely true, though. Again.

Yesterday and today I have obsessively been playing a couple of games on a mobile phone. I have been testing one game for a game-selling company, as well as playing "snake" until my fingers bled. My arms are still stiff, my thumb is numb and I can't seem to focus properly.
I am not very games-savvy, which is why I was entrusted with this fine job, I suspect. And I have a wildly obsessive personality.

When I smoked, I couldn't just smoke one cigarette and then leave them be. I had to smoke until I couldn't breathe anymore.

When I eat sweets, I can't just eat one piece and then leave the bag alone. It's all or nothing.

I can obsess about a certain type of food (pasta, pork, tomatoes, grapefruit etc.) and eat pretty much only that for a long time. And then I get sick of it and won't touch it for years.

I am a passionate fan of a band for perhaps a week, perhaps two, and then I completely lose interest.

And so, although not really into games, I can spend an entire day in a locked embrace with some sort of technical equipment.

Please help.
posted by charlotte at 16:13 - comment

Slowly resurfacing from a Dawson's Creek marathon. Only now able to communicate in ways other than being obnoxiously self-conscious, brandishing long sentenses of existential angst coupled with self-depricating, dry wit-slash-irony, with plenty of pop-cultural references thrown in for good measure.
Someone once told me that I look like Michelle Williams, which I really liked, although in actual fact it's a rather absurd observation, given that I am short, bespeckled & thoroughly oriental-looking.

I shall now go on to read any old Mills & Boon-novellette, just to somehow clear my mind.
posted by charlotte at 10:37 - comment

Hello.
I just came by to say that I think I love Giovanni Ribisi.
Can't say why.
(One of the reasons could be that he completely steals the show every time he appears on Friends - as does Jon Favreau, Tom Selleck, and the divine Elliot Gould)
Can't say I should.
But if you're reading this, Giovanni - please give me a call.

That's all.
Thanks for your time.
posted by charlotte at 12:09 - comment

I don't believe in God. Not in any god, as a matter of fact.
I don't believe in "fate". The trust in fate as determining a person's life pattern is, in my opinion, merely an updated version of Calvinism, just without, you know, God. It is usually used by people who are relatively well off to justify that they have more than others, and by people who have little to justify their perpetuation of status quo. Not that all the people who aren't as well off as others perpetuate status quo. But it is very easy to sink into some bizarre state of inertia and procrastination while blaming everyone else - I know this from myself. I think that's why there's still such a great class division in England. I believe in taking life in your own hands and making something from that. Not that I am a Thatcherite, mind you. Some people have more luck, or greater ambitions or personalities better fit for fight than others. Which is also why it is so important with a social system (both officially and personally) to help and support and give a little push, where necessary.

So, what do you believe?
posted by charlotte at 15:00 - comment

At the tender age of approximately 6 months, I was adopted from South Korea by Danish parents. I have never since been to South Korea and have no contacts there whatsoever. I don't speak Korean and have no recollection of what it is like there.

Most commonly asked questions:
- Are you not curious as to what it is like there?
- Very. It seems like a beautiful, mysterious country. It must be weird being in a place where everyone looks like you. I am, however, equally curious to see North America, South America and Australia + all the other places I have never been. South Korea has no specific importance to me, strange as it may sound.

- Don't you want to find your real parents?
- As far as I'm concerned, my parents are my real parents. I don't need other parents. I have no need to meet people who probably had a perfectly good reason to give me away and who probably don't need me in their lives. If they are alive at all. I came from an orphanage, which is as far as my history goes. It's just doesn't seem worth it.

- Are you not grateful to your parents that they adopted you?
- Well, yes, I am aware that my life is much better now than it would have been, had they not. On the other hand, I do not spend my time being grateful for escaping something which I do not know what is. The human mind (and heart) doesn't work that way. Are you eternally grateful for your parents deciding to have you?

- What is your real name?
- My real name is Charlotte. I was given another name, which was written on my papers when I arrived in Denmark. I don't know who gave it to me or under which circumstances, but I do know that my parents decided upon Charlotte, the name with which I am baptised, a name which they cherished and have called me ever since. I am Charlotte.

- Have you ever come across racism?
- Sometimes. Up until I was a teen, I never noticed anything - both because I was too young to know, I guess, and also because things weren't that bad then. When more asylum seekers came to Denmark and they were more obvious in the streets, racism came too. People have shouted at me in the street. A guy I went to school with, told me once that he thought I was a nice person, but unfortunately it was very difficult for him to be friends with me, because he didn't like foreigners. He wasn't very clever but it still hurt. Both because he didn't want to be friends with me because of the way I looked but also because he saw me as a foreigner. However, I mainly encounter ignorance. I don't like when people refer to my parents as my adoptive parents. How they got me has nothing to do with anything.

In London, most people assume that I am Japanese. That's cool, Japanese people are cool people. Although I don't understand why men (and it is usually men) feel the need to address me in "my own language", greeting me with "Konichiwa" (which it, by the way, took me quite a while to find out what actually meant.) But that's not really a race-issue. That's just weird. What's different is also that people over here don't really seem to understand it when I say that I'm adopted. I think most people here who are adopted, are adopted from England itself.

Most people seem to think that being adopted is ultimately going to be a problem for the adoptee. But it doesn't have to be. I think that the problems (for me, anyway) only occur when people want to make them into a problem. I never saw myself as being a troubled child (on account of adoption) until many people started pointing out that it must be. Must. Then I started thinking about it, too much I think. I think it can be a problem especially if you are adopted late in life and have some sort of recollection of the life you left behind. That doesn't mean that I don't endorse adoption; I think under most circumstances, having parents is better than not having any. No matter where in the world they are. Which is also why I thoroughly endorse adoption by gay and lesbians. A gay parent is as competent in the parenting field as everyone else. What about the people who have kids and then come out of the closet? Not all adoptive parents are great parents, I know. But not all so-called "real" parents are either.

What I find weirdest is that whenever the adoption-debate rears its head in the media, adoptees are never asked for their opinions. There are interviews with so-called specialists and psychiatrists and agencies, but never do they speak to a well-rounded assortment of adopted children. Wouldn't that be the first place to go?


posted by charlotte at 12:14 - comment

I am aware that I am very lucky, though. It is a privilege to be allowed to live and work in another country. Would I be happier if I had stayed in Denmark? - Maybe. It's impossible to tell, but I do know that I am and have been very happy here and I do believe that I've had more breaks and chances in London that I would have had in Denmark. And that's the reason why I left in the first place: to seek happiness and a better way of life. Isn't that why everybody else leave their home countries too?

I am also quite fortunate that my chosen partner is from another EU country and that he is therefore able to go back to Denmark with me, should we choose to do so. He can work there and live there as much as he wants, without having to marry me. He does, however, have to be able to support himself, but Danes are kind to English-speaking IT people, so I'm not too worried. Different is it for my Danish friend, who married a non-EU person, which makes it worlds more difficult for them to return. Is it fair, that just because he was born a bit further away, they have to go through tonnes and tonnes of procedures every time they want to go away on holiday, let alone relocate? Will they have to stay in Sweden for the next couple of years? Or will they qualify for a 'love-visa' or whatever it's called, this grand idea of the Danish government?

And if one of the reasons for the tightened refugee law is that asylum seekers may bring their entire families, who says that my beloved is not eventually going to bring his mussel-eating, beer-guzzling family to Denmark? Life is not fair.

However, as I am an expat, and my bank statements say that I have emigrated, just as they would say that another person is a banker or a teacher, I cannot possibly have any realistic idea of what it is like to live in Denmark at the moment. Maybe the country is flooded with weird-looking, incomprehensible, smelly foreigners, who steal the Danish girls and the Danish money and the Danish houses and the Danish jobs. Maybe they all rape Danish women and kill Danish men and only wait for one opportunity to make the country theirs.
But I don't think so. I think that if you keep telling someone, throughout his or her life that s/he is different, or 'other', then one day they'll start believing it. I also think that even though asylum-seekers are deported, you will not automatically get a new washing machine. Or a better car. Or whatever else it is that makes you so jealous that you can't spare a thought for another human being.
posted by charlotte at 16:09 - comment

It's strange, this expat-thing.It's amazing how different countries are, even though they from the outside look fairly similar. Okay, so England has hooligans and Denmark has 'roligans'. (Translates to something like 'calm-igans' or 'peaceful-igans', something we have taken pride in for many, many years now. We don't get into fights at football-games. Hu-f*cking-rrah.) The English have cottages and the Danish have summerhouses. Other than that it doesn't look that different at all. Both countries are part of the so-called western civilisation, fond of democracy and designer fashion and beer.
But there is such a big difference, when you get to peel layer after layer and see what people really are like, outside the holiday resorts and the celebrities and the one-week school trips. One thing I've noticed about myself whenever I go home, is that I'm wildly suspicious of other people. The so-called 'stranger' hasn't got a chance with me.
I visited friends in the second-largest city in Denmark. They live on the third floor of a house downtown - not a rough area, but still - downtown. And they leave their windows open in summer. Always. Also when they go out.
- Are you not going to close the windows?
- Nooo - nobody's going to climb up the wall here!
- Are you sure?
- Don't be stupid.
The things is that clearly, anyone in his/her right mind would never climb up a very exposed wall on an ordinary sunny afternoon. However, many people in London are not in their right minds.
Exhibit A: The week we moved into this flat, my boyfriends bike was stolen off our balcony, which is very exposed, on an ordinary sunny Friday afternoon.
Exhibit B: The guy upstairs from a couple of friends of mine was burgled by people who climbed upon scaffolding 500 metres down the road and climbed the roof all the way down to his open window.

There are many things like that. I never accept anything from anyone in the street, even though they claim it's free, because it usually never is, in the end. I feel guilty, though, when I then go back home and dismiss kind people who only want to bring me a bit of joy. But we don't believe in free joy here.

That said, I do like living in London. My Danish friends, who are sweet, sweet people, keep asking me when I'm going to come back 'home'. What they don't realise is that this is home. however much I complain about it. I have been living here for so long and so intensely now that I do things the way they are done here, and going back to Denmark is a bigger deal than just deciding to return. I'm not just off on a gap-year trip or a flight of fancy, I live here. I don't see myself as being 'away' - I just am. Here. Now. But thanks for wanting me back, people - and I miss you too.
posted by charlotte at 15:43 - comment

Aaaah...it's getting colder. It's funny, that weather-thing, but as soon as the temperature drops, I'm much happier. I'm even getting into job hunting again. Some people almost thirst for the heat and fly south at the drop of a hat, but me? - I dream of Newfoundland and Iceland and christmas in Greenland.
Not that I mind the sun, mind you. A week without sun is like a week without...well, you-know-what, leaving me grumpy and miserable. It's the heat I can't stand, especially the English variation, which is so so humid. I presume it's with weather like with everything else, moderation is the key.

For some reason unknown to me, I decided to watch Showgirls today. And the reviews were right - it stinks. Bad acting combined with a crap script makes the film, well, not directly unwatchable, but almost and not nearly as much fun as Plan Nine from Outer Space, which is otherwise considered so crap that it is good. This is just crap. Thank God for Gina Gershon, albeit in a thankless role, who makes it all a little bit more watchable.

Nomi [the main character] is so unlikable and, frankly, untalented, that you never buy that all the other characters keep chasing after her. One guy thinks she's selling out her great dancing talent (!), Molly is afraid she'll "become" corrupt, and everyone else, male and female, wants to get her into bed. Frankly, considering the tons of attractive (not to mention naked) women in this flick, Nomi just really doesn't deserve all the attention she's getting.

That pretty much says it all. A film relying this much on its main character fails miserably when the main character is an aggressive bitch, whose actions are incomprehensible and she looks utterly like a fish out of water.

Things I Don't Know, 7:

Why someone doesn't make Joe Eszterhas stop!

posted by charlotte at 17:46 - comment