Friday, October 29, 2004
It was a great night for the sexual. Metrosexual, retrosexual, even the bi-curious had fun.
The kids got a bit hysterical.
It's always better on holiday
So much better on holiday
That's why we only work when we need the money
Warm-up was some bloke in a studded, blue spandex jumpsuit, who was wearing a fighter-pilot helmet and who played some sort of hybrid between blues and redneck-guitar-uhm-stuff. Boobs flying everywhere. If you were there, you'd know what I mean.
And then The Kills, who should get off the PJ Harvey/Siouxie Sioux-diet that they are clearly on, and get a life. And off the stage.
The boys were gorgeous, belting out songs about lust and colour in a most dramatic fashion. Collars up. Tongues in cheeks. And the Ian Curtis movements down to a T.
The kids got a bit hysterical.
It's always better on holiday
So much better on holiday
That's why we only work when we need the money
Warm-up was some bloke in a studded, blue spandex jumpsuit, who was wearing a fighter-pilot helmet and who played some sort of hybrid between blues and redneck-guitar-uhm-stuff. Boobs flying everywhere. If you were there, you'd know what I mean.
And then The Kills, who should get off the PJ Harvey/Siouxie Sioux-diet that they are clearly on, and get a life. And off the stage.
The boys were gorgeous, belting out songs about lust and colour in a most dramatic fashion. Collars up. Tongues in cheeks. And the Ian Curtis movements down to a T.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
I am a pacifist.
I am pro-abortion, environmentally friendly, uncorrupt (!) and pro-freedom of speech.
More importantly, even if I were none of the above, the mere fact that I am a woman would make it impossible for me to ever vote for Bush. Or the Republican party in general.
There's another week until the election and plenty of time of research and decide who to vote for. Do vote, and do vote Kerry and turn USA into a 21st century country, a country equal for all, respectful to all.
I am pro-abortion, environmentally friendly, uncorrupt (!) and pro-freedom of speech.
More importantly, even if I were none of the above, the mere fact that I am a woman would make it impossible for me to ever vote for Bush. Or the Republican party in general.
There's another week until the election and plenty of time of research and decide who to vote for. Do vote, and do vote Kerry and turn USA into a 21st century country, a country equal for all, respectful to all.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
The Guardian poetry moodmatcher gave me this:
Light-winged smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the Gods to pardon this clear flame.
Not a bad match, really (though other comparisons with Henry David may make me queasy).
Try other games on the Guardian website - so far I'm quite stylish and well into music, but haven't got a clue about tennis. Well, I know that.
Alternatively you can submit a topical haiku - I got stuck on "Clinton" and gave up almost immediately.
YES - it's a grim, rainy day and I've got time to spare. So got me a subscription to London Review of Books. Not quite sure why, but hopefully it won't let me down.
Alas! Tomorrow is another working day and I'm knackered by the mere thought. Not sure if I'll be around these shores much next week. (Got a date with Alex Kapranos Thursday night.)
Light-winged smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the Gods to pardon this clear flame.
Not a bad match, really (though other comparisons with Henry David may make me queasy).
Try other games on the Guardian website - so far I'm quite stylish and well into music, but haven't got a clue about tennis. Well, I know that.
Alternatively you can submit a topical haiku - I got stuck on "Clinton" and gave up almost immediately.
YES - it's a grim, rainy day and I've got time to spare. So got me a subscription to London Review of Books. Not quite sure why, but hopefully it won't let me down.
Alas! Tomorrow is another working day and I'm knackered by the mere thought. Not sure if I'll be around these shores much next week. (Got a date with Alex Kapranos Thursday night.)
Thursday, October 21, 2004
I am reading Roland Barthes' A Lover's Discourse. In his introduction he writes: '...the lover's discourse is today of an extreme solitude. This discourse is spoken, perhaps, by thousands of subjects (who knows?), but warranted by no one (...). Once a discourse is thus driven by its own momentum into the backwater of the "unreal", exiled from all gregarity, it has no recourse but to become the site, however exiguous, of an affirmation.'
I was thinking about this as I, a couple of nights ago, was re-watching The Dead and apart from the fact that, given a choice, one should always readThe Dead, this is a lovely film and ever so faithful to the text.
That said, Joyce's characters (in their own streams of consciousness) never love passionately - they lust, they doubt. Perhaps this doubt, this lust, is not a symbol of lack of love, but a symbol of its presence? Perhaps the loneliness and alienation of Gabriel Conroy is not a sign that he never loved Gretta, but merely a sign that he is less passionate a lover than Michael Furey?
Do I have a point?
No. I've spent the day being taught how to change a fluent, fruity language into something antiseptic and neutered. And so I'm off to cut out my tongue, so I can neither write nor speak.
However:
Dubliners gave me the will to read.
Ulysses gave me the will to study.
But that is an entirely different story.
I was thinking about this as I, a couple of nights ago, was re-watching The Dead and apart from the fact that, given a choice, one should always readThe Dead, this is a lovely film and ever so faithful to the text.
That said, Joyce's characters (in their own streams of consciousness) never love passionately - they lust, they doubt. Perhaps this doubt, this lust, is not a symbol of lack of love, but a symbol of its presence? Perhaps the loneliness and alienation of Gabriel Conroy is not a sign that he never loved Gretta, but merely a sign that he is less passionate a lover than Michael Furey?
Do I have a point?
No. I've spent the day being taught how to change a fluent, fruity language into something antiseptic and neutered. And so I'm off to cut out my tongue, so I can neither write nor speak.
However:
Dubliners gave me the will to read.
Ulysses gave me the will to study.
But that is an entirely different story.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Note to self: Post something tomorrow on current reading and revisiting.
(Note to self 2: In the future, don't ever drink before dinner. Please.)
(Note to self 2: In the future, don't ever drink before dinner. Please.)
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
And the winner is...
Only one of the Booker prize nominated books has really ever interested me. Colm Toibin's 'The Master' seems interesting, literary, clever and well worth a read. (Note to self: buy book, read).
Only possibly the Woodward book has otherwise managed to interest me slightly.
But, of course, now I have to reconsider.
In theory, the Hollinghurst is right up my street. The 80's; Thatcher, HIV, The Smiths. But somehow, somewhere, it seems cold and middle-of-the-road and, well, boring.
Anyway, congratulations Alan Hollinghurst, on winning the Man Booker prize 2004. May you be worthy.
Only one of the Booker prize nominated books has really ever interested me. Colm Toibin's 'The Master' seems interesting, literary, clever and well worth a read. (Note to self: buy book, read).
Only possibly the Woodward book has otherwise managed to interest me slightly.
But, of course, now I have to reconsider.
In theory, the Hollinghurst is right up my street. The 80's; Thatcher, HIV, The Smiths. But somehow, somewhere, it seems cold and middle-of-the-road and, well, boring.
Anyway, congratulations Alan Hollinghurst, on winning the Man Booker prize 2004. May you be worthy.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
'As I trundle dutifully round with my list, saucer-eyed shoppers cloaked in Nightclub Fug buy 900 tubs of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food, then sculpt the whole lot into an effigy of Shiva in the car park.'
Jacques Peretti has been late-night shopping.
'Round where I live, we have a 24-hour Tesco (although what exactly constitutes 24 hours for the dear Tesco people, I do not know, as the shop actually closes early on Sunday afternoon).
Rarely, admittedly, have I shopped late, mainly because I prefer to actually do interesting stuff (such as sleeping) at night, but when I have, it is as interesting an experience as Perettis, albeit not quite as, it seems, fun.
We don't have that many clubbers, mainly, I believe because we a) don't have any clubs in the area and b) chavs prefer to go to pubs, hang in the streets, and stab innocent people.
What we do have is the odd nutter, you know the kind, unwashed male who mutters to himself whilst staring at you wildly in the frozen foods section, because you may just steal the last pack of breaded fish fingers from under his nose. Alternatively, you may bump into unwashed female, size XXX, who will strike up a conversation with you about the price of spam, moving on to regeneration of the area, the government, and finally homosexuality (and the unacceptability thereof), all the while seemingly friendly, but you just know that she would take your eye out in a second if you let down your guard.
As Peretti rightly observes, you can never find the things you actually want to buy. (Not that I can ever find the things I want to buy in the daytime.) Even basics such as carrots will only be available in packs of seven, of which two have been taken out of the vacuum pack and probably munched by a greasy nutter (see above).
This being England, you cannot buy any booze after 11. This is obviously incredibly stupid, given that the majority of people who shop past midnight will inevitably want to get (even more) pissed.
'It's clear that late-night shopping has little to offer the normal consumer, ie who isn't squatting, Italian or off their tits on drugs. So why on earth do it? Well, I believe that a nocturnal visit to the supermarket offers a crack in the space-time continuum. Basically, it's an opportunity to pursue consumerism into the exotic dimension of night, embarking on what pseudy French philosophers call a voyage of dissonance.'
In spite of all this, in a weird way I kind of enjoy late night supermarket shopping. It is as if time stops and allows you to lose all kind of inhibition - do you want to play with the giant teddy? Fine! The miniature tea-set that has been torn out of its wrapping by an over-eager child? Go for it! Do you want to munch on a bunch of half-mouldy grapes (the only ones left) and not care if anyone sees? You can! Want to run naked down the aisles, whilst slapping yourself with a week-dead fish, singing your national anthem? Good!
It is so quiet and the staff so disengaged that once a man ran amok with an axe in Sainbury's in New Cross and no person was harmed. He did kill a half eaten apple and the top shelves full of toilet paper, though.
Jacques Peretti has been late-night shopping.
'Round where I live, we have a 24-hour Tesco (although what exactly constitutes 24 hours for the dear Tesco people, I do not know, as the shop actually closes early on Sunday afternoon).
Rarely, admittedly, have I shopped late, mainly because I prefer to actually do interesting stuff (such as sleeping) at night, but when I have, it is as interesting an experience as Perettis, albeit not quite as, it seems, fun.
We don't have that many clubbers, mainly, I believe because we a) don't have any clubs in the area and b) chavs prefer to go to pubs, hang in the streets, and stab innocent people.
What we do have is the odd nutter, you know the kind, unwashed male who mutters to himself whilst staring at you wildly in the frozen foods section, because you may just steal the last pack of breaded fish fingers from under his nose. Alternatively, you may bump into unwashed female, size XXX, who will strike up a conversation with you about the price of spam, moving on to regeneration of the area, the government, and finally homosexuality (and the unacceptability thereof), all the while seemingly friendly, but you just know that she would take your eye out in a second if you let down your guard.
As Peretti rightly observes, you can never find the things you actually want to buy. (Not that I can ever find the things I want to buy in the daytime.) Even basics such as carrots will only be available in packs of seven, of which two have been taken out of the vacuum pack and probably munched by a greasy nutter (see above).
This being England, you cannot buy any booze after 11. This is obviously incredibly stupid, given that the majority of people who shop past midnight will inevitably want to get (even more) pissed.
'It's clear that late-night shopping has little to offer the normal consumer, ie who isn't squatting, Italian or off their tits on drugs. So why on earth do it? Well, I believe that a nocturnal visit to the supermarket offers a crack in the space-time continuum. Basically, it's an opportunity to pursue consumerism into the exotic dimension of night, embarking on what pseudy French philosophers call a voyage of dissonance.'
In spite of all this, in a weird way I kind of enjoy late night supermarket shopping. It is as if time stops and allows you to lose all kind of inhibition - do you want to play with the giant teddy? Fine! The miniature tea-set that has been torn out of its wrapping by an over-eager child? Go for it! Do you want to munch on a bunch of half-mouldy grapes (the only ones left) and not care if anyone sees? You can! Want to run naked down the aisles, whilst slapping yourself with a week-dead fish, singing your national anthem? Good!
It is so quiet and the staff so disengaged that once a man ran amok with an axe in Sainbury's in New Cross and no person was harmed. He did kill a half eaten apple and the top shelves full of toilet paper, though.
Friday, October 15, 2004
/rant/
Unable to log on to Blogger, unable to get to my email...a conspiracy to keep me away from the world???
/end rant/
/breathe/
but now everything seems to be back to normal - this looks more and more like a weekend of soup and tea and pyjama bottoms and DVDs - the weather sucks and the light has gone and central heating has been turned on
Unable to log on to Blogger, unable to get to my email...a conspiracy to keep me away from the world???
/end rant/
/breathe/
but now everything seems to be back to normal - this looks more and more like a weekend of soup and tea and pyjama bottoms and DVDs - the weather sucks and the light has gone and central heating has been turned on
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Life is a bit tiresome at the moment - I feel like the only sane in the asylum.
A bit of linkage to save the day, perhaps, bookmarks to (possibly) reveal my state of mind:
Yoga at The Drill Hall: to de-stress.
Wedding preparation in Danish: to get into the lingo for the invites.
A list of famous cemeteries: because cemeteries are beautiful peaceful places; good for walking, browsing, eating lunch and hanging out.
And a lovely poem by e e cummings:
here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and
let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)
here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon)
Oh, and my email server is all over the place - or rather, nowhere to be found.
Grrr! My only lifeline! Damn you all!
A bit of linkage to save the day, perhaps, bookmarks to (possibly) reveal my state of mind:
Yoga at The Drill Hall: to de-stress.
Wedding preparation in Danish: to get into the lingo for the invites.
A list of famous cemeteries: because cemeteries are beautiful peaceful places; good for walking, browsing, eating lunch and hanging out.
And a lovely poem by e e cummings:
here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and
let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)
here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon)
Oh, and my email server is all over the place - or rather, nowhere to be found.
Grrr! My only lifeline! Damn you all!
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Maggie Cheung knows how to smoke a cigarette. It is not clumsily stuck between her lips, cheeks desperately sucked in, in search of the great hit. Maggie Cheung determinedly puts the cigarette between her teeth in one, swift movement, closing her lips around the filter in a perfect match.
Some actors are very good at smoking. De Niro. Penn.
Some actors, you can tell, don't smoke but pretend to.
Some actors, you can tell, smoke, but pretend to be people who don't and then do.
And some actors not only smoke convincingly, but ever so attractively. One of these actors is Maggie Cheung.
Clean is not a bad film. But it doesn't know what it wants and how it wants to do it - what's the point of Tricky? Having him in the film, 'playing' himself is neither tongue-in-cheek nor does it enhance the film in any way.
Nick Nolte is obviously brilliant - I guess that's what he does - and the storyline with Cheung, Nolte and the boy is very, very good - I wish they would have explored that more, and celebrity cameos less.
Anyway - Mike writes about these things much better than I, so check out what he has to say about Raindance and LFF over at Cinema Minima.
Some actors are very good at smoking. De Niro. Penn.
Some actors, you can tell, don't smoke but pretend to.
Some actors, you can tell, smoke, but pretend to be people who don't and then do.
And some actors not only smoke convincingly, but ever so attractively. One of these actors is Maggie Cheung.
Clean is not a bad film. But it doesn't know what it wants and how it wants to do it - what's the point of Tricky? Having him in the film, 'playing' himself is neither tongue-in-cheek nor does it enhance the film in any way.
Nick Nolte is obviously brilliant - I guess that's what he does - and the storyline with Cheung, Nolte and the boy is very, very good - I wish they would have explored that more, and celebrity cameos less.
Anyway - Mike writes about these things much better than I, so check out what he has to say about Raindance and LFF over at Cinema Minima.
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Horror movie? Comedy (black)? Badly concealed Jesus-analogy? Meditation on the Father, the Son & the Holy Spirit? Theatre of the absurd?
Calvaire is all of the above, yet none completely. Raindance is almost over, but for me it started yesterday with a film that I, as a non-horror buff, found in equal parts funny, confusing and disturbing (and a bit long, but, you know, whatever). Amid bestiality, buggery, cruxifictions and the most amusing/just plain odd bar scene I have seen in a long time, there is a story of loneliness and loss and I just really liked it (although I am still feeling weird).
I shall never, I tell you, never, live in the south of Belgium.
And last night, just past midnight, I saw a fox in the parking lot. He looked me right in the eye and quickly ran away.
I like that we have foxes here, a sign of the leafy area we live in, reminding us that there is still a purity in nature that you don't have to get outside zone 2 to find.
Calvaire is all of the above, yet none completely. Raindance is almost over, but for me it started yesterday with a film that I, as a non-horror buff, found in equal parts funny, confusing and disturbing (and a bit long, but, you know, whatever). Amid bestiality, buggery, cruxifictions and the most amusing/just plain odd bar scene I have seen in a long time, there is a story of loneliness and loss and I just really liked it (although I am still feeling weird).
I shall never, I tell you, never, live in the south of Belgium.
And last night, just past midnight, I saw a fox in the parking lot. He looked me right in the eye and quickly ran away.
I like that we have foxes here, a sign of the leafy area we live in, reminding us that there is still a purity in nature that you don't have to get outside zone 2 to find.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Quite a while ago I went to see Dodgeball, lusting for something non-intellectual, non-polically correct to delve into. After having seen the film (which was quite sweet), my cinema-companion expressed surprise that this game actually exists, and not only in the sick minds of American film-makers. I duly found the International Dodge Ball Federation's web-site, which maps out a long tradition of human beings (grown-up and children, male and female alike) slamming balls into each others' body parts. Last week (I believe, or was it the week before?) the film premiered in Denmark and I read a Danish review of the film.
And suddenly it struck me!
In Danish it's called høvdingebold! And I have been exposed to this many a time in school, being forced onto the court, being (inevitably) picked last, after the asthmatic, bespectacled girl and the really short guy, who cried if he forgot his lunch box. Then I'd be pelted with orange, foamy balls (at least we didn't use basket balls), while my team makes would bemoan my lack of aim, dedication and forcefulness.
And this is why, to this day, I hate ball games.
I do not just not enjoy them, or would not just rather do without, nay, I hate them. Hate them, hate them, hate them.
They remind me of smelly feet and sour gym-floors, or rippled asphalt and boyish elbows which, since I'm rather short, would end up in my face. They remind me of the mysterious virus, the prettiest girls always would end up with, just when the games were about to begin, and the sheer stupidity of teenage boys in gym shorts. Overzealous teachers in sweatpants.
The only types of sports I can deal with these days (actively, I mean, I can watch all sorts of sport without breaking into a sweat) are badminton (God knows why), er...and that's pretty much it. Sometimes I go for a run (last time, 2002) and a swim (preferably in an outside pool somewhere tropical), but other than that -
I can see the functionality of sports; they keep you fit, they're good for you. But I guess I just don't have that killer mentality. And I partly blame dodgeball.
And suddenly it struck me!
In Danish it's called høvdingebold! And I have been exposed to this many a time in school, being forced onto the court, being (inevitably) picked last, after the asthmatic, bespectacled girl and the really short guy, who cried if he forgot his lunch box. Then I'd be pelted with orange, foamy balls (at least we didn't use basket balls), while my team makes would bemoan my lack of aim, dedication and forcefulness.
And this is why, to this day, I hate ball games.
I do not just not enjoy them, or would not just rather do without, nay, I hate them. Hate them, hate them, hate them.
They remind me of smelly feet and sour gym-floors, or rippled asphalt and boyish elbows which, since I'm rather short, would end up in my face. They remind me of the mysterious virus, the prettiest girls always would end up with, just when the games were about to begin, and the sheer stupidity of teenage boys in gym shorts. Overzealous teachers in sweatpants.
The only types of sports I can deal with these days (actively, I mean, I can watch all sorts of sport without breaking into a sweat) are badminton (God knows why), er...and that's pretty much it. Sometimes I go for a run (last time, 2002) and a swim (preferably in an outside pool somewhere tropical), but other than that -
I can see the functionality of sports; they keep you fit, they're good for you. But I guess I just don't have that killer mentality. And I partly blame dodgeball.
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