Sunday, February 19, 2012

DSC_0907 - Lone SurvivorSo it turns out I am an ambipeeler. Eat that, Derek.

And now I'm trying to remember what my brother said about my ability, or more accurately tendency, to peel citrus fruit in one long spiralling S. It was something along the lines of it being typical me, doing something, but doing in it a more complicated than necessary way, but a more elegant one too. I know it's a Richard Curtis quote, by a bit parter in that still raining film, but I've used it elsewhere to sum up what I do: why be dull?

As for the ambipeeling, I thought something felt wrong, and then when I laid that peel next to the previous one they looked like the holes in a cello. Now to see whether I can do it on demand (and overdose on vitamin C). Oh the joys of chirality.

And in other news I was excited the other day because I thought "Ooh, I can wear my shorts soon". Spot the summer baby being a tad premature (it's not like there was still ice in the butts, well, not much ice, and the snow had nearly all gone). But I like summer, I like spring, I like sun, and find myself grinning and trying not to skip too obviously.

I've not gone the choir social thing, because I'm house-sitting for my brother, thus failing to find anything interesting to do in the greatest city in the world. I'd intended to go back today, for various reasons, but didn't quite move, instead staring at a bright ceiling from a large bed, and then I heard the siren song of la mère, well, the song of the phone caused by her, who said she wasn't going, thus scuppering my transport plans (not irredeemably, just to the extent of having to think about things more than buying a return to a town I'm not going to because it's cheaper than the mandatory two singles to and from the town I am going to, although I've just realised that technically I could have used the remainder to get back, by simply completing the journey, but that relies on the whim of the guys on the gate [how likely is it that people trained to make money for that charming Mr Souter are actually going to know the conditions of carriage if they're not to their advantage?]), and she also dismissed other possible options.

And what's it say about me that I can't think what to do, where to go, who to see, on a sporadically sunny day in Tiredoflife? I didn't do stuff yesterday because half the day was taken up with the BroSIL leaving, and then it just chucked it down, so I worked my way through bits of iPlayer, 4od, the sources nearer US broadcast, and a DVD sent to me for Christmas: Submarine.

I wasn't quite sure what to make of the film, but that's because someone chose it for me, so I was trying to divine the meaning behind the gift (he thinks I'm sunk, in an unwashed cup of hot lemon? That I just need someone to set fire to me? That the biopic of my life won't have the budget it needs? That I'm supposed to notice the anachronistic use of LEDs and modern circuitry and their impact of the film? Or I'm meant to draw parallels with my family life as we too have that rolling board from the set dresser's guide to the seventies [the tray in Weekend uses the same pattern, but theirs has an orange rim, not brown]).

It's quite good, but I just didn't quite know how to approach it, not sure of the context. That and the fade to colour of mood kept making me think of West Side Story.

And I still haven't done anything, other to than talk to my mother, email a friend, write this post, stare out of the window. I just need to do enough that I can class it all as "but that's okay too".

If I'm doing indoors I probably ought edit photographs or work up those ideas for t-shirts (or do actual future planning adult-ery).

That or finish the book I was meant to finish before my brother went on holiday (he'd taken it on holidays, started it on flights, but not read it, and so it was sitting looking read in a bookcase in their spare bedroom, so I borrowed it, as is my wont).

Or watch the DVD I've had for years because I friend lent it to me insisting I should watch a film I'd never heard of, so a while later I started watching it, fell asleep, never tried again, and then managed to move with it (along with another friend's DVD and her ex-flatmate's book [so if you ever lend stuff to me remember, and give me a deadline to get it back by]).

Or watch any of the films where our collections don't overlap and they haven't taken the disk with them.


PS. Fake cherry blossom. Hell has frozen over. Bristles through the snow of the dry ski slope.

Those were my notes from a train in winter. The channel that isn't the river, that runs the other side of the valley, gives the name for the middle one.

It's odd how surgingly of the moment I become, wondrous, beguiled by details. I don't know if it's the drugs or if it's me (but the drugs are me; just a better fed, more comfortable me). Did I mention that my brother said talking to me during the initial euphoric placebo surge was like talking to me when I was a teenager? Kind of galling. I don't think he knows he nearly made me cry. What is squandered is gone. What will be sera; was ist los, not what is lost.

Oh, and don't hold the computer there when you pick it up, because you end up holding the DVD drive as it tries to come out.

'Squandered'? I hope you don't really feel that way - it's a strong word in this context. Whilst there's never been a moment in my adult life I wouldn't have jumped at the chance to be fourteen again, that's not because I would wish to do anything differently.

Would the green-bespectacled one have been at the choir social?

I'm pretty sure yours is the only review of Submarine to invoke West Side Story.
How else to describe remarkably little? It was existence, not life. My twenties were not well spent.

The little green man: don't know. Probably not. No idea if he'll even be back.

And surely all film reviews ought to invoke West Side Story?
I sometimes ponder on the way people look back at their lives - one person's regret at time wasted would sometimes seem to be another's fond recollection of happier times. That's not at all to question your viewpoint - in fact, all that matters is what you think about that time and what you have taken from it. Well, not quite true actually: what also matters is where you go from here. (Please don't respond to that with one of those heart-wrenching one-liners you do so well. I simply couldn't bear it.)

I'm pretty sure my twenties might be viewed as a slightly pitiful affair to the casual observer, and I'd probably consign them to the status of 'least successful decade of my life so far'. But without any even loosely defined goals or ambitions, what the hell did I expect? On the other hand, us late bloomers are mysterious and enchanting creatures.

I'll shelve mentioning the little green man for now, but I demand updates if you judge them appropriate.

Mentioning West Side Story in every film review sounds like fun - I'm in!
Still quibbling, but generally thank you.

This film is gritty, oh so gritty, gritty and shitty and gray, and I pity anybody who sees it today.
I was tempted to lol then, but I'm not much given to lolling.

Another WSS link into Submarine could be through social disease, or somesuch.
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