my heart is sore, my heart soars

As I go to pick up the milk from the doorstep this morning there is an odd collusion of events. As I collect my mail from the mat, there is a knock at the door. Funny, since I have a bell, but then again it hasn't been working too well this week. I check the mail and find that there is something from E., which immediately has me grinning like a village idiot. Then I open the door and there is P., standing there in the rain handing me back a bag full of my stuff.

The girl on the step, the letter in my hand, the rain: what does this moment mean?

For a moment I am in a movie of my own life into which some hack writer has chosen to plot this corny 'poignant' coincidence. What else could it mean? Here is THE girl, the one I thought was THE one, handing me a bag of my things in a final, symbolic gesture: the End of the Affair. And all I want to do is get inside and open up the package in my hand. This person who drove me to the edge of despair, who upended my reason in a near-cataclysmic amour fou seems so insignificant now in relation to all that this envelope promises. I mumble thanks and excuse myself, not forgetting to make the perfunctory enquiry about my missing snare drum.

Can a heart really be that fickle? Was all that I felt over those miserable months even real? If so, is the way my heart feels now just as empty, superficial? Just what exactly is it that I should be feeling?

Whatever happens next in this absurd movie there will at least be a great soundtrack, courtesy of the CD in the package, though I think that this will have to be the theme song.

twenty hours with Miss McConnell

I zoot home early last night from the woefully underattended (and really rather dreary) Wes Anderson Party. Helen, just back from London, awaits me on the steps along with her boyfriend Darren. He saunters, we go inside and a few moments later are joined by Tom and Sarah.

Wine. Cheese. Scrabble.

More wine. Apple crumble. Jimmy Stewart.

Tom and Sarah head off, leaving me and Helen to sit drinking Cocoa and admire the pluck of the two mice who have taken a shine to my kitchen. Suddenly it is 4am and rather than chase Helen into the cold night I offer her the spare room.

The following day brings rain, and so we end up mooching about the flat eating - scrambled eggs, cheese, lentil soup - and drinking a handsome amount of tea. Entertainment comes in the form of classic children's TV (Clangers, Trumpton, Herbs) and Jan Svankmajer's 'Alice'.

Saturdays rarely get better than this. Thanks Helen.

Whither now for cheap CDs?

So long then Fopp.

How will I complete my Sonic Youth collection on the cheap now?

maundering

I should be at the Cube working now - instead I am chain-viewing old cartoons:



In the past two nights I have eaten apple crumble, smoked apple tobacco and drunk too much cider. How d'ya like them apples?

Eat the watermelon, spit out the seeds

Phil:

"For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small-statured cross-faced tribes
And cobble-close families
In mill-towns on dark mornings
Life is slow dying.So are their separate ways
Of building, benediction,
Measuring love and money
Ways of slow dying.
The day spent hunting pig
Or holding a garden-party,Hours giving evidence
Or birth, advance
On death equally slowly.
And saying so to some
Means nothing; others it leaves
Nothing to be said."

- Phillip Larkin, "The Whitsun Weddings"

Eric:

"All who have passed the age of thirty are joyless grotesques, endlessly fussing about things of no importance and staying alive without, so far as the child can see, having anything to live for. Only child life is real life. The schoolmaster who imagines he is loved and trusted by his boys is in fact mimicked and laughed at behind his back. An adult who does not seem dangerous nearly always seems ridiculous."

- George Orwell, "Such, Such Were the Joys"

Scrumped some raspberries this afternoon. Nothing more to be said.

miss daisy

This is the funniest thing I have seen in ages. I can't wait for the film.

morning film festival

I awoke this morning with my flatmate poking her head through my door and saying:

"Hog - there is some sort of animal in our garden"

Intrigue had me out of bed like a jackrabbit, but there was no animal to be seen by the time I got to the kitchen. Apparently it had looked like a baby deer, with the horns just starting to show. My theories are:

1. emaciated fox
2. large ginger cat
3. shereene was hallucinating/still asleep
4. shereene caught a glimpse of the devil keeping tabs on her soul.

I went back to bed and got stuck into a mini Kenneth Anger retrospective, watching 'Scorpiuo Rising', 'Inaugaration of the Pleasure Dome' and a short interview from French TV. I then started on a Jimmy Stewart double bill which I'm not quite done with yet.

[EDIT: the existence of the deer has been confirmed and reported to the RSPCA, who are 'a bit stretched' at the moment and said to just leave a bowl of water out for it. Clearly this sort of thing happens every day in St Andrews. Have named the deer Rambi.]

i'm squeaking

my shoes. my shoulder bag. my knees. all squeaking. I've been squeking for a few days now, but it has become more pronounced.

It occurred to me just minutes before the Nosferatu talk that I had no idea who I was delivering this talk to. Schoolkids, yes, but how old? How many? And why? Why were these kids watching Nosferatu? Did they just pick that film for fun? Are they students of German Expressionism? Of FW Murnau? Were they going to know more about it than me? Despite physical appearances, I was becoming more and more like Rex the Dinosaur from Toy Story by the minute.

So, it transpired that the 22 or so female A-Level English Lit students were studying the Gothic in fiction, and were about to start reading Dracula. A jittery blend of coffee driven nervous energy, and an on-the-spot rethink of my notes meant I was able to render my 10 minute intro to the film useful to their needs and (seemingly) intelligible. I even got some sort of a round of applause, though most likely one of relief. In the silent auditorium the squeak of my shoes was very pronounced. Must get some oil on them...

symphony of groans

Last night I slept for two hours, spending the rest of the time attempting to write up the damn Nosferatu presentation.

When I slept, I dreamt that I was in the projection box of the Phoenix lacing up the film ready to play it, when all these schoolkids came in. I showed them the projector and what it does, then started introducing the film. The informal atmosphere made it easy, and my meticulously prepared notes started tripping off my tongue as if i'd spoken them a thousand times. The kids were impressed - one said that they were shocked, since they thought projectionists were all stupid. One up for me.

Then I went down to the auditorium, and realised that I had to give the speech again to another 100 or so kids. This time I stammered and gulped and made a complete hash of it. What was wrong? I had it all right a minute ago. One of the kids turned to their companion and said 'he's only the projectionist...'

Not only does my subconscious also have anxiety about speaking in front of large groups of people, but seems to share my low self-opinion. I guess it is MY subconscious after all...

back and forth

Was supposed to spend the day preparing a 10-15 minute introduction to the film 'Nosferatu', which I am meant to deliver tomorrow morning to a bunch of 30 or so GCSE kids
at the Phoenix cinema. Instead, I do my usual bunch of assing about.

First up, I go looking for Nosferatu on Stage 6 and find it pretty quick. However, I also find David Lynch's astonishing early short film The Grandmother which I haven't seen in full since my old video copy was stolen along with its host VCR in my first year of university. So naturally I have to sit and watch it. And then that gets me searching for other things I haven't seen in a while...

Before long I am on U B U W E B watching such great things as Billie Whitelaw's original Royal Court performance of Beckett's 'Not I', a 70s documentary on Dada and a 2 hour show featuring Terry Riley being interviewed in a field whilst he milks a goat, followed by one of his typically trippy performances.

Before long friends start to invade the house. Helen drops by for a cuppa and a game of Scrabble. Then Renee shows up and it's two games of Scrabble and more tea. Then I decide to make scones (in the shape of horses no less), and before you can say 'plague of rats' it's time for me to leave for Oxford. Not a jot of relevant work done. Ah well. I'll just do what I usually do - blather on excitedly an incoherently for a few minutes until everyone looks thoroughly bewildered, then throw down two smoke bombs and disappear before they can lynch me...then it's back to the internet for more of this:

wish i had been there

"Scout Niblett (with Todd Trainer) on the ground floor of Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff. The interplay between the two was extraordinary, you can see that they're facing towards each other and sideways on to most of the audience, so they can communicate easily. Todd brought his drumsticks in small coffin, lined with red satin, and he dressed like an undertaker."

(From Mei Lewis Photography - http://www.meilewis.com/)

samuel beckett's 'The Mock Exam'

Today I set Tris and Roz mock A2 film exams in preparation for the real thing tomorrow morning. In order to replicate a suitably uneasy environment, I set up a mini-exam room on the stage of the Cube. A table and chair under a harsh down light. The result looked like a stark, minimalist installation in which I had invited my students to unwillingly participate - a strange samuel becket simulacrum of the real thing. Accordingly, both Roz and Tris felt the stress and the strain of the traditional exam experience and made all the usual mistakes that happen on the day. So, afterwards, then, we were able to sit in the basement of Kino, flag up those mistakes and iron them out.

Fingers crossed for a good result tomorrow.

[NB there will be a picture of said exam scenario just as soon as i manage to get the pix off my camera - til then, gentle reader, you will just have to use your imagination]

listology

I wake this morning with the following list scrawled in my pocket:

" 1. Go to Cube
2. PLay LOUD music in auditorium
3. Dance on stage, seats, etc.
4. Drink, perhaps.
5. Employ whatever musical instruments come to hand."

Sad to say we didn't manage to check off all the points on that list.

I also found an empty packet of cigarette papers of the brand 'Top 5'. Printed on the back was the following:

" Top 5 Smallest countries in the world:

1. Vatican City (0.2 sq miles)
2. Monaco (0.7 sq miles)
3. Naura (8 sq miles)
4. Tuvalu (10 sq miles)
5. San Marino (23 sq miles)"

Informative smoke for someone there.

romantic and catchy

I rediscovered this Fleischer bros short from the golden age of animation recently:



The Fleischers were amongst the first studios to employ the use of colour film - in this instance a strange two-colour process developed by Paramount as a rival to Technicolor. Lush.

I wonder what kind of commision the lion is on...

boundless energy

It's 2am on saturday night/sunday morning, and i'm in the basement of The Crown in Bristol city centre surrounded by dancing fools. I am one of the dancing fools. What am I doing here? By rights I should be in bed, having only had 2 hours sleep since friday - instead I am going wild to the sounds of 60 girlgroups and classic indiepop(tm). As they start to play Belle and Sebastian for the fourth time this evening I decide enough's enough, and collapse in a corner to contemplate the actions of the day.

The afternoon's private hire (bunch of guys on a stag do watching Indiana Jones - at least they didn't hire a stripper) was made paletable by the arrival of Roz, for what became an extended discussion on various topics - mainly the emergence and development of feminist film theory in the 1970s and the significance of the shower scene in Hitchcock's Psycho. All to a soundtrack of Sonic Youth's magnificent Washing Machine which, having rediscovered whilst beating my brother at Scrabble the other day, I picked up in Fopp for a fiver.

Realising that I hadn't enough time to go cook dinner AND be back in time for the evening's entertainment at the Cube, I invariably end up at Cafe Kino eating Thai Green Curry and rinsing the week's abandoned G2 crosswords. Foolishly telling the staff of the cafe my whereabouts for the rest of the evening, I am two hours hence dragged from the Cube (and the fairly dull drone performance that has sent me into a semi-lull) and into the indie basement.

I suspect that when Belle and Sebastian finish I will get up and dance again. I suspect that I will stay til closing time. I suspect that afterwards we will go to the Cube and continue the party til the sun comes up.

I predict that at some point I will collapse from exhaustion - but that's the future. Right now I'm dancing and so long as i'm dancing i'm no longer thinking about the absurdity of living. And, right now, that's what counts...

children of the corn(flowers)

Awaking from a snooze on a whizzing train between Oxford and Bristol, I looked out the window and saw a spectacular field of cornflowers, preumably being allowed to grow in the fallow crop fields as an aesthetically pleasing way of keeping the soil rich.



In folklore, cornflowers were worn by young men in love; if the flower faded too quickly, it was taken as a sign that the man's love was unrequited. How apt.

Breaking from my blue reverie, I looked down and realised that in my brief nap I had drooled over a picture of Robin Williamson. My neighbour looked thoroughly unimpressed. Don't blame him - terrible disrespect to the former Incredible String Band member...

the three worst words in the world?

In a relationship. Obviously not when applied to oneself.

It was contemplation of these very words that led me, whilst walking through St Pauls in Bristol this afternoon, to start singing Pale Blue Eyes by the Velvet Underground. Not at the top of my lungs or anything, but audible. Audible enough to encourage some young scally to hurl his half eaten bread roll at my head - square on. I stared at him increduously for a moment (as he looked back, poised for fight) and then burst out laughing. What else could I do? So absurd.

Later, as I work at the Phoenix cinema projecting meaningless political propagada films for the fashionable left of North Oxford I listen to the original song again. Far from inspiring me to throw my own bread rolls in any direction, it leaves me heartbroken. Again.

Is there anything so heartbreaking as Sterling Morrison's guitar solo on this song? Any comment leavers might wish to take this to be the start of a fascinating thread...

Back in Blog

Is there any purpose to all this blogging, aside from the glories of online oninism? Sure, when I was younger I stuffed my head full of ideas and was itching to put them out there into the wider world for people to see and react to. Now I don't even think I have anything of any use to say. And when I have nothing to say, my lips are usually sealed.

I guess after the near collapse of my sanity earlier this year, it will mainly be nice to have somewhere to record what goes on in my life - rather than sifting through the wreckage of my recent past, trying to make some sort of sense of my ever unfolding present. A place to think out loud. I suspect that this blog will become a catalogue - a detailed minutae of what I do and think, day in day out. An attempt to record the fleeting moments of my life, as much a way of my remembering them as a way of recording that I existed at some time. Like Madeleine in Vertigo, or Roquetin in Nausea.

Except with recipes. Expect recipes.