Tuesday, September 30, 2003
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
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
Monday, September 29, 2003
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?
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?
Friday, September 26, 2003
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.
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.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
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!
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!
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
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.
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.
Monday, September 22, 2003
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
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.
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.
Monday, September 15, 2003
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.
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.
Friday, September 12, 2003
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
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?!
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?!
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
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
* 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
Friday, September 05, 2003
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.
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.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
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.
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.
Monday, September 01, 2003
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.
(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.
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