solitary_summer: (Default)
12:30 at work is when my brain decides to have thinky thoughts about everything from random trivia to Life, the Universe and Everything. Not when M. or B. are there, because then if you aren't working you're socialising, but when I'm alone, when there isn't any work to be done except dusting which can wait for the next day, and not too many customers to distract me, my brain tends to wander. During M.'s last holiday I -- not exactly wrote, except for a few sentences or fragmented phrases here and there, but plotted a good part of the never-to-be-finished-but-fun-while-it-lasted TW fic.

When I come home in the evening there is barely anything left; mind wiped blank, no real will (or need) to write, words slip away or suddenly lack conviction and whatever thoughts I had before seem stale and a bit alien. No longer quite true, or quite me. Language and thoughts/feelings drifting in different directions...

~



Watched The Tempest a couple of days ago; didn't dislike it, but didn't find particularly inspiring or compelling either. Too short maybe, just barely telling the story? Or perhaps I've missed the point? But then, I remember almost nothing of Peter Greenaway's version (even the title only when The Tempest didn't turn up what I was looking for on imdb.com) beyond having seen it (before The Baby of Mâcon put me off Greenaway's films for pretty much forever), so maybe the play just doesn't strike the right note with me...

I've also started to reread Modern Nature, which I originally read when I was around 20, 21ish, while working on an excavation in Enns in summer, shocking one of the other students (I still remember her saying how The Crying Game had made her want to throw up, so I thought she deserved another shock or two) who wanted to know what I was reading on the train, and probably pretty much convinced her I was a lesbian. Which I wish I could be more certain about after all this time, instead of just not being very interested in anyone. Er, tangent.

I think I actually like the journals better than the films, the poetry of them, interweaving memories, art, sex, death, love, illness, film, politics, and always returning to the leitmotif of the sea and the sky, the landscape at Dungeness, and the garden he builds against the elements and against time.


Admittedly my fascination with the garden is probably the romantic escapism of a city person who managed to kill all but the hardiest potted plants, and types away at her computer listening to the noisy grasshoppers (?) in the yard. Still though, the descriptions of the garden always seduces me, and make me vaguely long for something like that, because it seems such a real thing, in touch with life...
solitary_summer: (candles (© clive barker))

Meh.Last Wednesday I took the last of the meds for that stomach/nausea problem; Thursday still was okay, but by Friday the nausea was back again, and still is, in varying degrees. Might have something to do with the fact that I had the worst first (and second) day of period I've had for a very long time, which, considering my periods are normally pretty mellow isn't saying all that much, but I still I felt awful, crampy, dizzy, etc... Then again, it might not. I suspect another trip to the doctor will be in order this week. I'm starting to get a little worried, but also a lot annoyed. I'm going to fly to Madrid in a week's time to see [livejournal.com profile] soavezefiretto, which I'm looking forward to, damn it, and I kind of thought I'd be okay by then. Not distracted by vague and undefined sickness. Normal state of things. Able to, you know, have a glass of wine with her instead of ask for camomile tea and dry bread. ::frustrated sigh::

I'm not pleased with this. Ever since last summer my body has been throwing a series of minor yet irritating-as-hell fuck-ups at me; I'd like to feel really healthy for once.


As a result of this, and the cold rainy weather (today he sun has come out; I should get dressed and go out for a walk, I really should. but. tiredness. lethargy. provokingly cheery sunshine) nothing of any importance happened or got done over the weekend. Saw BBM and Derek Jarman's Sebastiane on dvd (the former I've said enough about already, the latter, which I hadn't seen before, I rather liked -- I like his visual language; it's not the more linear, easier to translate into words storytelling I usually prefer, but it contributes, it's not superficiality or empty form). Caught most of Rosenstraße on tv, and that two part movie about Catherine the Great, which mainly consisted of Catherine Zeta Jones looking pretty and (in the second half) Potemkin pitching a fit of threatened masculinity about how he wasn't equal in this relationship every quarter of an hour or so. Perhaps I'm a bad feminist (bad, as in opposed to good feminist, not feminist=bad, obviously) to mock that, but the whole thing seemed so much more concerned with placating modern male viewers' sensibilities than with historicity that it felt faintly ridiculous. On the whole, rather bland.

Finished Orhan Pamuk's Rot ist mein Name, which was a little too... formal? focused on the art of miniature painting? for me to really get into it emotionally, and just perhaps a little too Name of the Rose in some ways, and I kept feeling I was missing certain details and shades, not reading carefully enough and with sufficient attention to detail, because for a while I found it difficult to keep the different characters/voices apart, but compelling enough to finish it, and it made some things clearer to me than they were before. The problem of perspective in painting, the development of the realistic portrait, and, on the other hand, possible reasons for rejecting either, all this I've touched upon repeatedly, especially during research for my diss, but I've never fully understood it, because when you're so deeply immersed in the western tradition of art (and, perhaps, individualism), the quest for the perfection of naturalism seems so entirely natural a progression that it is hard to grasp emotionally, even if you understand it theoretically, that this could be undesirable in other cultures. Interesting.

Also [livejournal.com profile] naominovik's His Majesty's Dragon, which I found very enjoyable, and, although I've no idea how to say this without making it sound unduly light-weight, because it does have its dramatic moments, is the cutest thing ever just incredibly sweet. In a good way, that brought a happy smile to my face more than once while reading, I hasten to add. Charming, is that the appropriate word? And, if it weren't a (albeit male, and so far disinterested in the females of his species) dragon we're talking about, I would say very slashy indeed. There's affection and possessiveness and cuddling and Laurence buys books he doesn't understand to read to Temeraire, and I did mention the cuteness?

Already ordered Throne of Jade. What credit card bill?


Speaking of which, sort of, I also picked up tool's 10 000 days Saturday after work, which I'm not going to review after listening to it only two times, but so far it doesn't impress me like Lateralus did. It sounds good enough, but also a little too familiar. Less disappointing than WT, but come on, someone surprise me?

I wonder if my teenage Bowie fangirldom spoiled me forever and makes it impossible to stick to a single artist through more than a few albums.

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