I spend alot of time watching people go about the business of living, people fascinate me, enthrall me and often make me proud, so I called this Watching from the Hill.
I stole the lines, I write as Ned; the lines are used out of context but they fitted.
Please go and visit the story to learn the context.
This song has always been pretty special to me, its beautiful and harsh and tells a story of a mans fight for freedom, Cromwell v the Catholics.
Freedom means everything.
This speech has always summed it up so beautifully.
No dictator, no invader, can hold an imprisoned population by the force of arms forever. There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom. Against that power governments, and tyrants, and armies can not stand. The Centauri learned this lesson once. We will teach it to them again. Though it take a thousand years, we will be free.
J. Michael Straczynski
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Colds and Films and Things
Sunday was the last day of the Sydney Film Festival and I finished with About Elly. I have been unashamedly disappointed with the content of this year’s festival, I was hard-pressed to fill my 10 ticket flexiplass, and still ended up with more duds then I was hoping for.
John Hurt introducing 44 Inch Chest on Saturday was a pleasant surprise, though he didn’t do a Q&A afterwards which was a shame. Rowan Woods did stick around after his film Winged Creatures, and I really don’t know what was more boring, watching this sadly underwhelming film or listening to one of the dullest men in Australian film speak ?
Whilst I was lining up for 44 Inch Chest, there was a middle aged couple behind me in the queue, I had Summerteeth blaring though the headphones as I’m not good in queues or crowds, but even with Jeff Tweedy drowning my ears with sound, I could hear this really strange loud sucking lip smack noise, I turned around and saw it was this couple – in their 40s, going at it with the loudest sucky slurping noises in a crowded queue (you can kiss someone without making that noise, I tested it when I got home, really you can). I mean it was so crowded in the queue that if I stuck out my tongue I would of licked the back of her bottle blonde hair. I turned up the music louder and stood there staring at them making fools of themselves ???? Saturday night movie crowds are not the classiest - middle aged couple PDAs are inappropriate where there is space to run away from them, when you are all jammed together middle aged PDAs are just plain DISGUSTING, mind, any aged PDAs in confined spaces are disgusting – have some class people, please . She even kissed him on the nose, I was staring with my mouth open, he was slurping her face, but watching me over her shoulder – creepy guy, sad desperate woman, I felt ashamed for them, pity for them and very embarrassed (the boy thinks they were probably just wakers, end of - he has a way with words). Once my shock had lightened, I got my phone out to take a photo of them so I could post it here, but they stopped, then the doors opened, I was disappointed. A photo of a couple of 40somethings dressed liked 20somthings standing in a queue just wouldn’t of had the same impact.
I slept threw a collection of shorts earlier that day too.
Here are the other films I’ve seen, and a few notes.
Treeless Mountain – see earlier post about this delightful little treat.
Altiplano – yawnfest in the Peruvian Andes that was too arty farty for its own good. Great female leads though but with that material it was hard work.
Cleo at 5 and 7 – a delightful re-print of an Agnès Varda 1960s classic with just the right amount of darkness.
Wanda – another vintage one, the print was really grainy and I struggled with it a little
Native Dancer – a real pleasant surprise, Russian gangs v a real life shaman in the steppes of Kazakhstan.
The Missing Person – modern day Film Noir, not quite reaching where it wanted to go, but not a bad effort.
DOQ was my pick of the venues too.
I hope there is a new festival director next year.
Anyways, I have a cold.
Not the flu, not the swine flu, nope, just a plain ordinary cold – running nose, stuffed head, a little sore throat and just generally feeling blah from my neck up.
We have a global pandemic, with my country having the second largest number of confirmed cases outside of Mexico, and all I get is a common cold.
I spent the day at home yesterday on the lounge rugged up in front of the heater watching Doctor Who episodes with the 9th Doctor, and probably my favourite. More tonight I think, after my pedicure, as Captain Jack has just joined the fray and there’s always a jolly old romp when Captain Jack is in town – and I’m feeling too miserable to do anything else.
It rained all day Sunday, I did my grocery shopping early Sunday afternoon and as I’m sensible and prepared, I had my umbrella with me - someone stole my umbrella from my trolley when I was in the fruit & vege section of Woollies – some people are just mean.
So there you have it – I saw some films, I got a cold and I had something pinched.
John Hurt introducing 44 Inch Chest on Saturday was a pleasant surprise, though he didn’t do a Q&A afterwards which was a shame. Rowan Woods did stick around after his film Winged Creatures, and I really don’t know what was more boring, watching this sadly underwhelming film or listening to one of the dullest men in Australian film speak ?
Whilst I was lining up for 44 Inch Chest, there was a middle aged couple behind me in the queue, I had Summerteeth blaring though the headphones as I’m not good in queues or crowds, but even with Jeff Tweedy drowning my ears with sound, I could hear this really strange loud sucking lip smack noise, I turned around and saw it was this couple – in their 40s, going at it with the loudest sucky slurping noises in a crowded queue (you can kiss someone without making that noise, I tested it when I got home, really you can). I mean it was so crowded in the queue that if I stuck out my tongue I would of licked the back of her bottle blonde hair. I turned up the music louder and stood there staring at them making fools of themselves ???? Saturday night movie crowds are not the classiest - middle aged couple PDAs are inappropriate where there is space to run away from them, when you are all jammed together middle aged PDAs are just plain DISGUSTING, mind, any aged PDAs in confined spaces are disgusting – have some class people, please . She even kissed him on the nose, I was staring with my mouth open, he was slurping her face, but watching me over her shoulder – creepy guy, sad desperate woman, I felt ashamed for them, pity for them and very embarrassed (the boy thinks they were probably just wakers, end of - he has a way with words). Once my shock had lightened, I got my phone out to take a photo of them so I could post it here, but they stopped, then the doors opened, I was disappointed. A photo of a couple of 40somethings dressed liked 20somthings standing in a queue just wouldn’t of had the same impact.
I slept threw a collection of shorts earlier that day too.
Here are the other films I’ve seen, and a few notes.
Treeless Mountain – see earlier post about this delightful little treat.
Altiplano – yawnfest in the Peruvian Andes that was too arty farty for its own good. Great female leads though but with that material it was hard work.
Cleo at 5 and 7 – a delightful re-print of an Agnès Varda 1960s classic with just the right amount of darkness.
Wanda – another vintage one, the print was really grainy and I struggled with it a little
Native Dancer – a real pleasant surprise, Russian gangs v a real life shaman in the steppes of Kazakhstan.
The Missing Person – modern day Film Noir, not quite reaching where it wanted to go, but not a bad effort.
DOQ was my pick of the venues too.
I hope there is a new festival director next year.
Anyways, I have a cold.
Not the flu, not the swine flu, nope, just a plain ordinary cold – running nose, stuffed head, a little sore throat and just generally feeling blah from my neck up.
We have a global pandemic, with my country having the second largest number of confirmed cases outside of Mexico, and all I get is a common cold.
I spent the day at home yesterday on the lounge rugged up in front of the heater watching Doctor Who episodes with the 9th Doctor, and probably my favourite. More tonight I think, after my pedicure, as Captain Jack has just joined the fray and there’s always a jolly old romp when Captain Jack is in town – and I’m feeling too miserable to do anything else.
It rained all day Sunday, I did my grocery shopping early Sunday afternoon and as I’m sensible and prepared, I had my umbrella with me - someone stole my umbrella from my trolley when I was in the fruit & vege section of Woollies – some people are just mean.
So there you have it – I saw some films, I got a cold and I had something pinched.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Adventures of Sid James
There are some strange little things that I’ve noticed in my last two weeks on the buses.
I used to catch a bus into town, I now catch a bus across the ‘burbs to a University. I’ve never worked it the ‘burbs before and not caught a bus across the ‘burbs since the school days ended.
So I’m now out in the crowds, on the buses: watching, noticing, recording. The kids are more free with their behaviour then the suited and booted, cleaned and groomed, city bound folk
My nose has noticed a change in the bus - is it the bathing practices of the student, the clothes changing practices of the student, the hair care practices of the student ??
I wonder when the change happens, what sparks the epiphany moment? Is there a point when the student wakes one morn and throws down the shackles of dirt and grime and instead of stepping into yesterdays clothes, they step into a shower?
I don’t know, but I think we can debate that at another time, lets instead watch the creature of the student in its public transport bus bound glory.
Three times in the last week I’ve had girls with long hair sit in the seat in front of me. Boys have long hair too, but I scare them with my sleepy growls and immaculate grooming, so they huddle next to the factory workers, with whom we share the bus. The girls are braver, they take the seats in front of Ned. Now, the seats on the bus are pretty close together so when someone sits in front of you with long hair, the hair that tumbles down the back of the seat is usually only 30cm from your face. I’m not keen on such an intimate relationship with a stranger but this is the bus and I do the dance of the Sydney public transport juggernaut and shit happens.
I am not precious and can be comfortable with hair that close if the hair is clean, but these three ladies had long, messy, wild hair that hasn’t been close to a bottle of shampoo or a feisty brush, for well over a week. Did I tell you when I was talking to my grandmother about my niece recently, I described her as a feisty three year old, my grandmother didn’t know what feisty meant and I had to explain it to her, English is all she known in her 84 years.
I sat on the bus one evening, wired for sound (Cliff Cliff be still my mother’s beating heart), I am mesmerized by a girl in her early twenties in the seat in front of me. She kept on playing with her long knotty smelly hair: she was caressing it, and fondling it and moving it around like it was clean and shiny and full of sexy fresh smelling goodness (instead I get the aroma of slept in sweaty socks in the shape of Dali's most creative birds nest).
She was silently pushing it all to one side with grand sweeping gestures with a badly manicured hand, then patting it down again with a delightful grin. Then after preening in the buses window reflection, she swept it all to the back for a just stepped out of the salon flick of the foul mess. Then up came both hands and trowel trowel trowel through the hair scrapped the claws till she was pleased with what she caught, she then mounted it on top with patty cake slaps for grand dame / go-go dancer appeal. More twists and turn preening in the window and down it tumbled again with the echoed stench of those foul socks. She repeated this dance of the dying follicles a number of times before her stop arrived and she climbed off the bus.
I sat slightly dazed for the rest of my trip, Jeff Tweedy serenading me as he has done 24*7 since Jay died. Wicked wench, how could I be enticed by such a slovenly attitude to cleanliness, by such a foul stench....though there is something a little disturbing and perversely attractive in the sexual play of a slob.
Who was her target?
Was it the left over imprint of a recent playful encountered or was it some sort of fascinating solo foreplay?
I have never seen her again.
Disclaimer: Ned has long, shiny, clean, brushed, straight black & red hair.
I used to catch a bus into town, I now catch a bus across the ‘burbs to a University. I’ve never worked it the ‘burbs before and not caught a bus across the ‘burbs since the school days ended.
So I’m now out in the crowds, on the buses: watching, noticing, recording. The kids are more free with their behaviour then the suited and booted, cleaned and groomed, city bound folk
My nose has noticed a change in the bus - is it the bathing practices of the student, the clothes changing practices of the student, the hair care practices of the student ??
I wonder when the change happens, what sparks the epiphany moment? Is there a point when the student wakes one morn and throws down the shackles of dirt and grime and instead of stepping into yesterdays clothes, they step into a shower?
I don’t know, but I think we can debate that at another time, lets instead watch the creature of the student in its public transport bus bound glory.
Three times in the last week I’ve had girls with long hair sit in the seat in front of me. Boys have long hair too, but I scare them with my sleepy growls and immaculate grooming, so they huddle next to the factory workers, with whom we share the bus. The girls are braver, they take the seats in front of Ned. Now, the seats on the bus are pretty close together so when someone sits in front of you with long hair, the hair that tumbles down the back of the seat is usually only 30cm from your face. I’m not keen on such an intimate relationship with a stranger but this is the bus and I do the dance of the Sydney public transport juggernaut and shit happens.
I am not precious and can be comfortable with hair that close if the hair is clean, but these three ladies had long, messy, wild hair that hasn’t been close to a bottle of shampoo or a feisty brush, for well over a week. Did I tell you when I was talking to my grandmother about my niece recently, I described her as a feisty three year old, my grandmother didn’t know what feisty meant and I had to explain it to her, English is all she known in her 84 years.
I sat on the bus one evening, wired for sound (Cliff Cliff be still my mother’s beating heart), I am mesmerized by a girl in her early twenties in the seat in front of me. She kept on playing with her long knotty smelly hair: she was caressing it, and fondling it and moving it around like it was clean and shiny and full of sexy fresh smelling goodness (instead I get the aroma of slept in sweaty socks in the shape of Dali's most creative birds nest).
She was silently pushing it all to one side with grand sweeping gestures with a badly manicured hand, then patting it down again with a delightful grin. Then after preening in the buses window reflection, she swept it all to the back for a just stepped out of the salon flick of the foul mess. Then up came both hands and trowel trowel trowel through the hair scrapped the claws till she was pleased with what she caught, she then mounted it on top with patty cake slaps for grand dame / go-go dancer appeal. More twists and turn preening in the window and down it tumbled again with the echoed stench of those foul socks. She repeated this dance of the dying follicles a number of times before her stop arrived and she climbed off the bus.
I sat slightly dazed for the rest of my trip, Jeff Tweedy serenading me as he has done 24*7 since Jay died. Wicked wench, how could I be enticed by such a slovenly attitude to cleanliness, by such a foul stench....though there is something a little disturbing and perversely attractive in the sexual play of a slob.
Who was her target?
Was it the left over imprint of a recent playful encountered or was it some sort of fascinating solo foreplay?
I have never seen her again.
Disclaimer: Ned has long, shiny, clean, brushed, straight black & red hair.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Why Am I On The Buses
I’ve hit a wall at work, I’m no longer that interested in being here at the moment, and as this contract is just biding a little time whilst I’m leading up to one or two more events that are more important to me, I really should stick around here for a few more months longer. The job is fine, the people I work with are dull but fine, I am treated with respect and appreciated so I shouldn’t complain, but I am BORED !!!!
So, the sensible side of me decided how can we jazz it up a bit by making it a little less boring so I stay here for a little longer (the easier/convenient option) or find something else (completely do-able but more complicated option) – how’s about we……. catch the bus.
I’ve been driving to work, I’ve never driven to work before and it was making me grumpy – idiot drivers, traffic, idiot drivers, no time for day-dreaming, idiot drivers etc. I’ve always taken a bus or a tram, and find public transport annoying at times when the bus/tram doesn’t turn up, but in the most part it’s a pretty civilized and pleasant way to travel. Driving used to be convenient, especially when you could duck out to places at lunch, but this year since the university students came back, the car park situation has gone crazy, and unless you are here before 9, you are stuck on the 7th floor of the car park and there is no elevator – I’m used to stairs, I usually park on the 4th floor but I’m not dying of heart attack climbing 7 flights of stairs (in a suit and heels) just to get my car (???)
Ducking out at lunch time to go to the gym or shopping is now out of the question as well, because if you leave, it’s unlikely you can get a spot at all let alone one on the heart-attack floors – there is no on street parking.
The things I liked about driving – getting here at 9.30 and missing the peak hour traffic, going to the gym during the day, ducking out to meet friends at the beach for lunch – have gone. So I thought I’d try catching the bus.
So far it’s been fine, there is the usual timetabled phantom buses, late buses, crowded buses, but its seem to have lifted my mood a little. You see it’s the getting out of bed in the morning and going to work thingy that I’ve had trouble with, it’s a little easier now. Yes I know it’s only a temporary solution but it might just get me over the hump till the nice things I’m working toward happen in a few more months.
My daydreaming quota has gone up, I like this, I listen to more music, I like this even more. There is something warm and embracing about having something new blaring through your headphones, being able to hear the little tiny intakes of breath that you miss out on listening through speaker, the little words and phrases you don’t pick up when you are distracted with driving. It makes me smile in a contented and cherished way.
Reading: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
Listening: Audio of Ashes of American Flags
Watching: Cleo from 5 to 7
So, the sensible side of me decided how can we jazz it up a bit by making it a little less boring so I stay here for a little longer (the easier/convenient option) or find something else (completely do-able but more complicated option) – how’s about we……. catch the bus.
I’ve been driving to work, I’ve never driven to work before and it was making me grumpy – idiot drivers, traffic, idiot drivers, no time for day-dreaming, idiot drivers etc. I’ve always taken a bus or a tram, and find public transport annoying at times when the bus/tram doesn’t turn up, but in the most part it’s a pretty civilized and pleasant way to travel. Driving used to be convenient, especially when you could duck out to places at lunch, but this year since the university students came back, the car park situation has gone crazy, and unless you are here before 9, you are stuck on the 7th floor of the car park and there is no elevator – I’m used to stairs, I usually park on the 4th floor but I’m not dying of heart attack climbing 7 flights of stairs (in a suit and heels) just to get my car (???)
Ducking out at lunch time to go to the gym or shopping is now out of the question as well, because if you leave, it’s unlikely you can get a spot at all let alone one on the heart-attack floors – there is no on street parking.
The things I liked about driving – getting here at 9.30 and missing the peak hour traffic, going to the gym during the day, ducking out to meet friends at the beach for lunch – have gone. So I thought I’d try catching the bus.
So far it’s been fine, there is the usual timetabled phantom buses, late buses, crowded buses, but its seem to have lifted my mood a little. You see it’s the getting out of bed in the morning and going to work thingy that I’ve had trouble with, it’s a little easier now. Yes I know it’s only a temporary solution but it might just get me over the hump till the nice things I’m working toward happen in a few more months.
My daydreaming quota has gone up, I like this, I listen to more music, I like this even more. There is something warm and embracing about having something new blaring through your headphones, being able to hear the little tiny intakes of breath that you miss out on listening through speaker, the little words and phrases you don’t pick up when you are distracted with driving. It makes me smile in a contented and cherished way.
Reading: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
Listening: Audio of Ashes of American Flags
Watching: Cleo from 5 to 7
Friday, June 5, 2009
Treeless Mountains, Shorts and Little Girls
I’m in the middle of the Sydney Film Festival, I don’t know how much of that I will share.
I saw this movie last night, its was delightful in its cutesiness and the young actors were superb, especially in their portrayal of emotion - loss, pain, bewilderment and determination. Disappointly though, it lost momentum slightly at around the 3/4 mark but picked it up again when the girls got to the farm - its 90 min film; its not slick and needs some editing and it just sort of stopped rather than ended, though its still a lovely film and those girls are amazing. There was no applause (or is that just a Melbourne Film Festival thingy, clapping at the end of film – I dont know, this is only my second Sydney one and as I missed most of it last year because of pilgrim flu).
TREELESS MOUNTAIN: Movie Trailer
The film was preceded by a short that I found most interesting – a young Chinese woman is selling cheap knock-off DVDs in London, she is sharing a room with 4 other Chinese men. She has one DVD she treasures but we dont know whats on it, you see a little of her life in London and it doesn’t look great but she is earning so she can send money home to her family, but she seems miserable, living in horrible conditions, doing a job that it looks like she could be arrested and deported over – I think she is an illegal (this isn’t gone into but implied).
She gets taken to the place where the DVDs are copied (wall of disk drives and pc in a backroom somewhere), she is left in this room whilst the copying of a movie is going on, she stops the copying and puts in her DVD, it’s a recording of her daughter who is back in China and she misses her terribly, she watches the footage with tears silently streaming down her face, she is interrupted viewing this and is taken away to sell more DVDs, but she doesn’t get to take her DVD out, so instead of making 10 copies of the movie, it makes 10 copies of her DVD and nobody knows this.
They are distributed to the street sellers and sold on, the film then switches to a family watching what they think is a cheap knockoff of a popular new release but it turns out to be the footage of the Chinese girls daughter – bugger that, heres the link, watch the thing yourself, it goes for 15 minutes.
THE END.
I saw this movie last night, its was delightful in its cutesiness and the young actors were superb, especially in their portrayal of emotion - loss, pain, bewilderment and determination. Disappointly though, it lost momentum slightly at around the 3/4 mark but picked it up again when the girls got to the farm - its 90 min film; its not slick and needs some editing and it just sort of stopped rather than ended, though its still a lovely film and those girls are amazing. There was no applause (or is that just a Melbourne Film Festival thingy, clapping at the end of film – I dont know, this is only my second Sydney one and as I missed most of it last year because of pilgrim flu).
TREELESS MOUNTAIN: Movie Trailer
The film was preceded by a short that I found most interesting – a young Chinese woman is selling cheap knock-off DVDs in London, she is sharing a room with 4 other Chinese men. She has one DVD she treasures but we dont know whats on it, you see a little of her life in London and it doesn’t look great but she is earning so she can send money home to her family, but she seems miserable, living in horrible conditions, doing a job that it looks like she could be arrested and deported over – I think she is an illegal (this isn’t gone into but implied).
She gets taken to the place where the DVDs are copied (wall of disk drives and pc in a backroom somewhere), she is left in this room whilst the copying of a movie is going on, she stops the copying and puts in her DVD, it’s a recording of her daughter who is back in China and she misses her terribly, she watches the footage with tears silently streaming down her face, she is interrupted viewing this and is taken away to sell more DVDs, but she doesn’t get to take her DVD out, so instead of making 10 copies of the movie, it makes 10 copies of her DVD and nobody knows this.
They are distributed to the street sellers and sold on, the film then switches to a family watching what they think is a cheap knockoff of a popular new release but it turns out to be the footage of the Chinese girls daughter – bugger that, heres the link, watch the thing yourself, it goes for 15 minutes.
Five Pound Hollywood from Westminster Arts on Vimeo.
THE END.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Quasi School Reunions
I had a quasi school reunion on Friday night, I caught up with three chaps I went to school with, one of them I hadn’t seen in 15 years, so I was looking forward to catching up with the three of them, and them with each other.
Two are married, one has kids, one works early shifts so is up at 3.30am, I wasn’t expecting more than a meal, a few drinks and be home by 10pm.
I stumbled home in the rain at 2.00am
It was really nice to see them, catch up with them, hear what they have been doing with their lives, no that’s not true, there wasn’t more than a quick summary of this is what I’ve done since I left school stuff. Instead we caught up on how each of us feels about things, live music, views on gays, marriages, annulments, raising children, working – corporate ladder via following dreams etc etc. With a little bits of reminiscing and where are they nows filling up the quieter moments.
An Artist/Teacher, a Corporate CEO, a Dog Walker/Driver and me – a mix of directions and situations and views, an entertaining evening, a challenging evening, a warm evening. It’s refreshing to be honest and open, having, at times, quite heated discussions with three people I once knew very well and cared about but hardly know now.
One of them said to me that night that he has never really had friends as close as he had at school, and that really, he doesn’t have friends at all, just lots and lots of acquaintances and casual friends – that made me sad. I did ask him what about his wife, but he said she’s my wife, I thought that was interesting, she is wife no 2.
I feel asleep that night in the arms of a dream I thought had left me a long time ago.
Music – I’ve moved onto Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
Reading – I’ve picked up Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man again. I like Joyce, he uses commas, alot.
Watching – Babel (it put me in a melancholy mood last night that hasn’t lifted)
Two are married, one has kids, one works early shifts so is up at 3.30am, I wasn’t expecting more than a meal, a few drinks and be home by 10pm.
I stumbled home in the rain at 2.00am
It was really nice to see them, catch up with them, hear what they have been doing with their lives, no that’s not true, there wasn’t more than a quick summary of this is what I’ve done since I left school stuff. Instead we caught up on how each of us feels about things, live music, views on gays, marriages, annulments, raising children, working – corporate ladder via following dreams etc etc. With a little bits of reminiscing and where are they nows filling up the quieter moments.
An Artist/Teacher, a Corporate CEO, a Dog Walker/Driver and me – a mix of directions and situations and views, an entertaining evening, a challenging evening, a warm evening. It’s refreshing to be honest and open, having, at times, quite heated discussions with three people I once knew very well and cared about but hardly know now.
One of them said to me that night that he has never really had friends as close as he had at school, and that really, he doesn’t have friends at all, just lots and lots of acquaintances and casual friends – that made me sad. I did ask him what about his wife, but he said she’s my wife, I thought that was interesting, she is wife no 2.
I feel asleep that night in the arms of a dream I thought had left me a long time ago.
Music – I’ve moved onto Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
Reading – I’ve picked up Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man again. I like Joyce, he uses commas, alot.
Watching – Babel (it put me in a melancholy mood last night that hasn’t lifted)
Monday, June 1, 2009
Bookgroups and People I Just Dont Get
I went to bookgroup the other night. It was a bit lively, Peter Hoeg’s The Quiet Girl. Just a simple crime novel set in Copenhagen about a Clown looking for a girl who turns out to be his child from a love affair he had 10 years previously.
There was an older lady there that night, she said she was 70, which was on average 40 years older then the majority of the rest.
I felt I was a little rude to her, I laughed at her once, I feel into giggles about something that she said with the girl sitting next to me once, and I looked in confusion at her whilst she tried to explain to me/us what she thought of the book.
Her logic was this, she started with saying the book was written by a man in Copenhagen on the other side of the world, and here she was, a 70 year old woman in Sydney reading it, and she seemed quite in awe of this – she was disjointed and unorganised in how she said this, what I’ve said was a summary. I don’t know what her point was, or what she was trying to achieve by saying this, but there was a lot of emphatic gestering on her part, I really had to stop myself from screaming at her – why? its 2009 not 1979 – why are you amazed by this?
We all listened to her politely waiting for her to get to whatever point it was that she was trying to reach, as it’s a friendly group – we try to listen and give everybody a chance, but she seemed to get lost entirely on the journey and switched to this.
I’m Lutherthan, the majority of people in Copenhagen are Lutherhan, so this Peter Hoeg must be Lutherthan and therefore I should read it and like it and I am struggling to like it (she did not say struggling to like it, instead she slammed the book on the table, laid her hand on it in a sad way and shook her head, in the directors cut I’d imply this is struggling to like it).
The stunned silence this evoked seem slightly surreal, I could feel the others baiting me by silent chanting to respond, so I did. I said in my politest and hopefully best non-condescending voice, “Heres a recommendation, how about you go home tonight, try and forget about who wrote it and where he is from and just read a chapter of the book, if you like it on its own merit then continue reading it, if you don’t, stop.”
This lady was no shrinking violet, she had contributed loudly and quite forcefully, on occasion even interrupting people, to the conversation. If you have the balls to interrupt complete strangers talking about a book with some irrelevant thought, then you are not shy. But seriously I really though she needed a good shake.
Listening: Summerteeth (its my favourite of theirs, its been getting a good spin the last week - see last post)
Reading: The Sydney Film Festival Progamme
Viewing: I watched Lars and The Real Girl last night, what a charming little picture, I was impressed.
There was an older lady there that night, she said she was 70, which was on average 40 years older then the majority of the rest.
I felt I was a little rude to her, I laughed at her once, I feel into giggles about something that she said with the girl sitting next to me once, and I looked in confusion at her whilst she tried to explain to me/us what she thought of the book.
Her logic was this, she started with saying the book was written by a man in Copenhagen on the other side of the world, and here she was, a 70 year old woman in Sydney reading it, and she seemed quite in awe of this – she was disjointed and unorganised in how she said this, what I’ve said was a summary. I don’t know what her point was, or what she was trying to achieve by saying this, but there was a lot of emphatic gestering on her part, I really had to stop myself from screaming at her – why? its 2009 not 1979 – why are you amazed by this?
We all listened to her politely waiting for her to get to whatever point it was that she was trying to reach, as it’s a friendly group – we try to listen and give everybody a chance, but she seemed to get lost entirely on the journey and switched to this.
I’m Lutherthan, the majority of people in Copenhagen are Lutherhan, so this Peter Hoeg must be Lutherthan and therefore I should read it and like it and I am struggling to like it (she did not say struggling to like it, instead she slammed the book on the table, laid her hand on it in a sad way and shook her head, in the directors cut I’d imply this is struggling to like it).
The stunned silence this evoked seem slightly surreal, I could feel the others baiting me by silent chanting to respond, so I did. I said in my politest and hopefully best non-condescending voice, “Heres a recommendation, how about you go home tonight, try and forget about who wrote it and where he is from and just read a chapter of the book, if you like it on its own merit then continue reading it, if you don’t, stop.”
This lady was no shrinking violet, she had contributed loudly and quite forcefully, on occasion even interrupting people, to the conversation. If you have the balls to interrupt complete strangers talking about a book with some irrelevant thought, then you are not shy. But seriously I really though she needed a good shake.
Listening: Summerteeth (its my favourite of theirs, its been getting a good spin the last week - see last post)
Reading: The Sydney Film Festival Progamme
Viewing: I watched Lars and The Real Girl last night, what a charming little picture, I was impressed.
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