Sunday, August 31, 2003
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?
But how can anyone who has seen Robert Mapplethorpe's portraits claim than the male body is unappealing?
Saturday, August 30, 2003
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.
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.
Friday, August 29, 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, August 22, 2003
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.
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.
Thursday, August 21, 2003
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
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.
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.
Monday, August 18, 2003
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?
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?
Saturday, August 16, 2003
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?
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?
Friday, August 15, 2003
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.
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.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
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!
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!
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
And somehow life goes on.
Not that I'd notice, if it wasn't because my computer is working again (knock on wood) and I am yet again able to surf the internet. It feels like a bit of a chore, though. I go back to my book-marked sites but I only briefly read anything properly. My favorites are still favorites, but I can't seem to get into the mood of blogging or reading other people's blogs.
I read the paper but I don't really care.
I watch TV but I don't really pay attention.
I don't feel like socialising much.
Is it because of the void in which I'm left, somewhere stuck between education and work? - Probably.
Is it because of the heat? - Very likely.
- I guess I'll just have to sit it out, drinking white wine and eating fruit, until the temperature drops and I'll be reawakened by some sort of divine intervention.
Not that I'd notice, if it wasn't because my computer is working again (knock on wood) and I am yet again able to surf the internet. It feels like a bit of a chore, though. I go back to my book-marked sites but I only briefly read anything properly. My favorites are still favorites, but I can't seem to get into the mood of blogging or reading other people's blogs.
I read the paper but I don't really care.
I watch TV but I don't really pay attention.
I don't feel like socialising much.
Is it because of the void in which I'm left, somewhere stuck between education and work? - Probably.
Is it because of the heat? - Very likely.
- I guess I'll just have to sit it out, drinking white wine and eating fruit, until the temperature drops and I'll be reawakened by some sort of divine intervention.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
So last night I finally went to see Matrix Reloaded, months after everybody else. However, it was not your average cinema-experience; it was at the BFI Imax. Image if you will, the film blown up on a massive screen, with a sound of...well, fury. It was pretty, f*cking cool, if you ask me. Okay, so there were problems in the film - clearly nowhere near as iconic and plain awesome as the first one, but maybe that's too much to ask. I recall reviewers here complaining that 'just because they've made the fight-scenes bigger doesn't mean they're better', which is true - most fight-scenes were overly long and subsequently a bit silly: 255 Agent Smiths as opposed to one, does not a better film make. I still thoroughly enjoyed it - Trinity is definitely my heroine although I am aware that she speaks in a way that I could never pull off without being considered a true twat. Oh and that reaching inside to touch her heart-thing? Please.
Ordered my graduation-gown today and I hope I got my measurements right. And the graduation details. Imagine me in a wrong gown, the wrong size, with a hat stupidly perched on top of my head because my head's just too big, trying to hide among all the right-robed, small-headed students.
Ah, it'll be all right, I know it will.
Or not.
Ordered my graduation-gown today and I hope I got my measurements right. And the graduation details. Imagine me in a wrong gown, the wrong size, with a hat stupidly perched on top of my head because my head's just too big, trying to hide among all the right-robed, small-headed students.
Ah, it'll be all right, I know it will.
Or not.
Thursday, August 07, 2003
And the heat goes on.
We've been hit by a heat-wave and that's all we can talk about. The 'top-stories' in the news all involve the weather - how hot is it going to be, are we going to break any records? Never mind what goes on in Liberia, Iraque and Indonesia, to name but a few countries with problems greater than not breaking records. The only paper with a vaguely different angle, is The Independent, urging Vladimir Putin to sign the Kyoto-agreement.
I don't care about the weather anymore. It's hot, it's humid, it's not nice - I stay indoors. That's all I need to know by now. I don't need some depressingly cheery woman sitting by the water's edge somewhere in the English countryside, to tell me over and over again that "it's going to be a scorcher" and "the mercury is rising". I know that.
Oh well. Computer still out of order, so I'm wasting my savings in an internet-cafe.
Soon I'm off to a floatation-session - I do hope they have air-conditioning.
We've been hit by a heat-wave and that's all we can talk about. The 'top-stories' in the news all involve the weather - how hot is it going to be, are we going to break any records? Never mind what goes on in Liberia, Iraque and Indonesia, to name but a few countries with problems greater than not breaking records. The only paper with a vaguely different angle, is The Independent, urging Vladimir Putin to sign the Kyoto-agreement.
I don't care about the weather anymore. It's hot, it's humid, it's not nice - I stay indoors. That's all I need to know by now. I don't need some depressingly cheery woman sitting by the water's edge somewhere in the English countryside, to tell me over and over again that "it's going to be a scorcher" and "the mercury is rising". I know that.
Oh well. Computer still out of order, so I'm wasting my savings in an internet-cafe.
Soon I'm off to a floatation-session - I do hope they have air-conditioning.
Sunday, August 03, 2003
I'm aware that blogging on this site gets more and more scattered. It must be like this at the moment for fairly obvious reasons: summer, heatwave, unemployment and DIYing, as well as computer break-down which means that at the moment I am blogging on an almost useless lap-top. This also means an inability to link to anything, for which I must apologise.
Last episode of the Story of the Novel concentrated on the differences between the American and the British novel. Where the standard of the British plummeted rapidly, the American rose to greatness, culminating in the authorships of Ralph Ellison (well, not authorship, strictly speaking, since he only wrote one novel) and Saul Bellow, significant in the way in which they underlined that the Great American Novel was more likely to rise in the outskirts of white America, being written, as it were, by the so-called minorities; the African-Americans, the Jews, the women. From the wonderful, pain-inducing language of Ellison's Invisible Man to Philip Roth's humorous, eloquent Zuckerman-trilogy, it is the gender, race and class differences that lie at the heart of the post-war American novel.
In contrast, Evelyn Waugh did not care for the working class (just like Virginia Woolf didn't) and set his novels among the rich and privileged. The program went on to look briefly at the Amis' (Kingsley and Martin), and Angela Carter, who returns to an interest in Modernism that has otherwise been ignored for a couple of decades.
It has been an interesting trip through the novels of four decades - some have been missed, some I could have done without - and there has obviously not been room for any kind of in-depth analysis. TV may be superficial and easy to dismiss, but in capable hands, as introduction and interest-awakener, TV is one of the best media. As long as there is an awareness of its limitations and manipulations, TV-programmes like this can only be educational and inspirational and hopefully it will raise awareness in more people of the wonderful history of literature.
Things I Don't Know, 6:
Why people like Kingsley Amis so much.
Last episode of the Story of the Novel concentrated on the differences between the American and the British novel. Where the standard of the British plummeted rapidly, the American rose to greatness, culminating in the authorships of Ralph Ellison (well, not authorship, strictly speaking, since he only wrote one novel) and Saul Bellow, significant in the way in which they underlined that the Great American Novel was more likely to rise in the outskirts of white America, being written, as it were, by the so-called minorities; the African-Americans, the Jews, the women. From the wonderful, pain-inducing language of Ellison's Invisible Man to Philip Roth's humorous, eloquent Zuckerman-trilogy, it is the gender, race and class differences that lie at the heart of the post-war American novel.
In contrast, Evelyn Waugh did not care for the working class (just like Virginia Woolf didn't) and set his novels among the rich and privileged. The program went on to look briefly at the Amis' (Kingsley and Martin), and Angela Carter, who returns to an interest in Modernism that has otherwise been ignored for a couple of decades.
It has been an interesting trip through the novels of four decades - some have been missed, some I could have done without - and there has obviously not been room for any kind of in-depth analysis. TV may be superficial and easy to dismiss, but in capable hands, as introduction and interest-awakener, TV is one of the best media. As long as there is an awareness of its limitations and manipulations, TV-programmes like this can only be educational and inspirational and hopefully it will raise awareness in more people of the wonderful history of literature.
Things I Don't Know, 6:
Why people like Kingsley Amis so much.
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