“I am not afraid of dying, but of having not lived enough.” From Mr. Nemo Nobody
A film about the mobius strip that is time and the infinity fan of choice, and how all choices lead onward, even when we don’t make choices. So whether you have a indent under your lip from the angel of memory sealing all knowledge away from you when you were conceived or not....all futures eventually because chosen futures. If Barton Fink was a Canadian-UK space opera about time, the future, and going to mars, it would be this film: Mr. Nobody (Winner of the Venice Film Festival and European Film Awards).
Mr. Nobodyis shot in the yellow tint of UK films of the 70’s and in the high tech detail when showing the mars ship, the colony, and the future where there is no sex but we all have our own stem cell pig to keep us immortal. It is a film that is a love story (actually five films that are love stories, 2 are tragedies, and 1 is just an accidental death), it is a film about the meaning of life, choices and the meaning that brings (4 films, including 1 in a coma), is it about writing fiction and films (2 films), and it is about the choices we refuse to take upon ourselves, but put upon children, like who to live with, the mother or father? (Either 3 or 9 films). It does what a film is supposed to do, bring wonder, and amazement and anticipation on what the next shots, next scenes will be. So, as IMBD (which was hosted on my uni’s website, until it moved on to larger servers) says, ‘Why are you not watching it now?’ (click the link, it is $6.30 New)
To be indoors, in the same room, while like a prison, is also like the imagination, and the enjoyment of going outside is the complexity of a creation not of my own. The world is filled with far too much absurdity, bombardment of the trivial and contradiction to make a good story, but that in itself makes a good story.
It was cold enough to require three layers, the second was a light h.naoto purple hoodie, while a hoodie with my ribs and spine in rainbow colours made up the third layer. I have wanted to put stickers or mark on the spine, ‘Damage here’, ‘Destroyed here’, ‘Trickle Flow here’. Going through the low ceiling leading to the inner atrium in which homeless play instruments and smoke, as people pass in and out of the library entrance, I ran into a gaggle of Christians. What is the name for two busloads of Christian Teens? If it is a sleuth of bears and a grist of bees, should it be a siege of Christians? Or like mice, should they be a mischief of Christian teenage girls and like prairie dogs, a coterie of Christian teenage boys?
As they brushed past me, preening over the ‘did you see’, the lookie-loo of pride the lens to view the world. It is a problem with Christian ophthalmology in that it is they who look through lenses, but everyone else who has the diseases (ironically, like Edwardian train-stop salesmen, it is the same device that cures all the different ills). Having been ‘one of the elect’, and having etched into my brain the shame of myself, an earnest 16 year old giving a lecture to my aunt with three children (with, of course, the best of intentions). She told me kindly that things looked different when I was her age. She was right, because by that time I had come out and she had joined the Russian Orthodox Church with her son, and thus, condemned me, and has refused to see me for the last 14 years (for my sins). So, as these eager teens, looking me over, ‘oh won’t she be glad for heaven where all are healed’, and then flowing by, they fill me with amusement. Part of it was overhearing and knowing those eyes of eagerness, the preening knowledge that ‘I, not like THESE, am having ‘good clean fun’” and more because I was restraining myself from screaming, “Oh the yearn of my screaming clit, though it aches for tongue, I would be satisfied with a bumpy ride on bus with leather seats and a bit of slide”
There was something about walking through the third floor at uni, the quietest floor of Religious studies, which made me have to hold both hands over my mouth as I experience a tourette-like compulsion to scream out obscenities. Thank goodness I was so ‘vanilla’ back then, as a few gay and lesbian parties clued me in on many of the jokes I had been missing and all of Stephen Fry’s jokes, particularly on QI (except in season A, when he was unable to anatomically place the g-spot, vagina and other female bits, and was given great embarrassment over it by his female guest (afterward, it seemed there were no more female guests).
In the library, I found this film, Mr. Nobody, and Clash of the Titans, which as the adverts at the front of the film advertised the 70’s version of the film. I though that was taking ‘meek and mild’ a bit far, when you say, ‘perhaps you like to stop watching this film and go buy another one instead’. I bumbled around and headed toward teen books, seeing Popby Korman, about early onset dementia and men’s sports, something covered one episode of Nurse Jackie (season 2). At home I told Linda how in Nurse Jackie, the administrator had told her to divorce, and Linda said she had gotten the same advice. It seems that everyone knows that the system is broken, but instead of fixing it, they advise people to destroy lives, and rip up vows. Or rather, because the government lies and breaks a promise, we are supposed to tear up the paper we flew over to get, and fought so hard for? There is a sadness beyond that of having dementia taking away what you thought was forever yours: memory, knowledge, dignity, choice. Now the sadness is that spouses are told to become collaborators, as hospitals, admin, police, social services all lie and openly accept the lie that a couple is divorced because it is an entrenched ‘easy’ solution, but one which gives no one dignity, or security, or the belief in a system which starts with saying that fidelity, honesty or moral beliefs will bankrupt you and beyond.
The guard got points for saying ‘miss’ (unlike a woman a week or two ago who was about 7 or 8 years younger than me and asked ‘Do you need help up the hill MA’AM’ – I know I don’t look my best going up a hill but really…), but then lost it for trying to shoo me to the door and then shutting off the lights.
“How exactly did that happen?” Linda wanted to know, “They announce they are closing in 30 minutes and by the time I walk to you they are closing in five minutes.”
Linda had found some rom-com to read, and I had not found much of anything at all, a few titles to try, sadly unable to find the book I read as a teen about a girl who puts on a cap and clothes, and gets a job in a speak-easy as a delivery boy (called ‘____ water’) - a prize if anyone knows the name, the cover has feet and a cap as she is slumped clothed in a bathtub. It was the kind of book that made you wish you had the kind of adventure like that, but also knew that someone was going to find out, and then it would all come crashing down. Oddly, I think at a tween or younger teen, there is a knowledge that all good adventures eventually do come crashing down, and that doesn’t detract from how good an adventure it is.
At home, I worked with Linda on the ebay auction of some manga series (I try for complete series, including the highly praised and educational ‘crazy for dogs’ as well as rare yuri titles like Burst Angel – when Jo learned how to be a gunslinger and fell in love with a girl, meg, who was pretty handy with a gun too), plus lot of out of print manga series. If you want to see the list, click here (more will be added on Sunday, about 15-20 more. I wanted to get some of the bigger sets out there and the ones in NEW condition, or in wrappers, like The Beautiful and Ugly World, so they would be good Xmas presents. Warning: some titles in flux and will be done by Sunday Night (linda puts $100 if the books are out of print and wants to check with me, then we fix a reasonable start).
Linda and I talked about dreams, and yesterday about our alumni, and how when I graduated, Cardiff was in the top 100 universities worldwide, and not far off London School of Economics, getting a 7 in the UK and ranking 5th for my department and next year's 2012 Guardian pick. It also has I think 2 shops where females can buy a decent vibrator on the High Street. I do like the little private shops tucked away on the first floor (second floor for North Americans), late Victorian shopping arcades. I saw that one of the people I chatted with a bit at the uni about things won the Nobel Prize a couple years after I left. It wasn’t what I chatted about, but then Cardiff is like that: the place I dropped off our laundry (as we didn’t have a washing machine) had an owner who helped me with my computer problems, and we traded films to watch. I also miss dropping in to talk to one of the older lecturers in the department about Conrad’s connection to everything from the film Aliens to Bennet’s articles on if his books could be the first fiction considered ‘literature’. It was eclectic, as the woman doing admin was likely to have had several journal articles for her field work on dinasour DNA. But she liked going home at 4:30, or rather, to the pub, and having a glass of wine or two, and trading joys of visiting one city or another.
I think most Euro cities we saw on the 49 pound return airfare we ended up staying at hotel recommended to us by other women (like an air conditioned hotel in downtown Paris for 39 euro). Including the one Inn at Venice where the guy tried to convert us to Catholicism at least four times daily, it got so we almost welcomed the whistling, grunting, throat clearing, and other noises men made as we walked by (Which was subtle compared to other Northern Italian cities, where they just followed us, or offered to close the store and take us drinking).
Linda said that one of her favorite memories was me getting us into the disabled loo in the Victoria and Albert Museum (once part of Albertville, built from the profits of his Great Exhibition). We went there as the ORIGINAL 112 year old tiles are in there (older than the more decorative 'tea room tiles'), but they have/had a security guard you have to sweet talk past. The reason is because this is the toilet that was put in for the use of Queen Victoria in 1899. And I got us in to see them (for those that want to steampunk Victoriania the home, I recommend Original Features for hand made wallpaper ala William Morris and tiles). It seems the restoration while we were there is done and the toilet is now more generally used, alas, not requiring to get past two security guards, due to a new cafe. It is covered well in Wilkypedia. Here, by the by, is a William Morris tile part wall at the V&A which was meant for use in a bathroom (now don't you want to redo yours?
Same as in Glasglow, when we got the art Curate to come out because I had a question over this massive Gustave Dore' painting on hunting scottish elk, as I did not know Dore', who illustrated some Dickens and other London books had come and painted in Scotland. The curator, who thought Dore' a hack, and really anyone in the last 300 years a hack avoided the question by ranting about the reams of 'junk' they have in the back and how he drags out a painting to fit the space (Dore must have come to scotland, thanks to Beck Gamble who took this Dore' picture OF SCOTLAND two months ago in Toledo, a bit far from scotland - we weren't allowed to take a picture in Glasglow museum of art, alas). Well, our luck then. I seem to get behind the scenes in all the Museums we go to, one for Autistics would be the Charles Mackintosh museum in Glasglow where they have the room he created for a colour-blind individual(I think Escher would love it!).
Remembering our travel, I am seriously worried about Linda when I am gone, as her sense of direction is very bad. I hope that an app will come out for the ipod I got her for anniversary/birthday which will help her to get all her hotels and locations.
I still like having the playground of living.
7 hours ago