Monday, March 06, 2006

stumbling the obfuscation unremarkable.

I fail to comprehend how any god began work on the universe on a Monday. Perhaps the Almighty intended to begin the Friday before last, got lost in a good book and the pleasures of rum and milk chocolate along the way, before they woke up at eleven in the morning with five days to go before the project deadline, going "shit, shit, I'll never get this done!" (Going by their general force of habit in the scriptures, however, said A. could to discerned as having meant for it to happen like this all along.) Building upon the hypothesis that humans are created in his image et cetera I am forced to conclude that the divine vision is a truly Orwellian thing. Never have I felt more like an unperson than on Mondays. Especially this Monday. It's been the kind of day when you want to admire citizens who can work up the emotional energy to withstand a Two Minutes' Hate.

Perhaps none of this might have happened had it not been for a happier weekend than usual, during which I got a fair amount of writing done, spoke to Emily and Lindsey both, and began to think that I might not be a complete creative failure in spite of the disaster that was the previous week. There was shopping, there was food. There was Raymond Chandler, who I haven't read before because I dislike crime fiction, but the discovery of whom has been as satisfying as that of the aforementioned Plushenko.

She took the photo out and stood looking at it, just inside the door. 'She has a beautiful little body, hasn't she?'
'Uh-huh.'
She leaned a little towards me. 'You ought to see mine,' she said gravely.
'Can it be arranged?'
She laughed suddenly and sharply and went half-way through the door, then turned her head to say coolly: 'You're as cold-blooded a beast as I ever met, Marlowe. Or can I call you Phil?'
'Sure.'
'You can call me Vivian.'
'Thanks, Mrs Regan.'
'Oh, go to hell, Marlowe.' She went on out and didn't look back.


The trouble began at two this morning, when I woke from what seemed like hours of persistent B-horror film nightmares involving a groping skeleton, a woman whose house rested on her toes, wilfully inattentive landlords who collected rent from tenants misusing the premises, and generally oppressive anti-feminist behaviour all around. I struggled out of sleep, found I was too terrfied to close my eyes again, and ended up reading Zadie Smith to lull my unconscious back into oblivion. It might have been the cauliflower manchurian for dinner, or maybe an instinctive disinterest in crime fiction is a survival mechanism after all.

It might have been a passing Romantic mood had I not come in to work bright and early and found that my system was missing from its usual place. Not shifted or disconnected, but vanished as a Homeric heroine. We won't speak of that. Someday I might have the courage to tell my story to the suffering dispossessed who live from fix to fix, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn* and so on, but today is not that day.

I don't remember much of what resembled the passage of time after lunch. There were brown lunch trays, little compartmentalised units of food receptacles that variously recalled The Shawshank Redmption, Small Wonder and a long journey in a Southern Railways train. I was dehumanised.

And that is all, really.

P.S. It seems stupid to care that a film I haven't even seen (although I have read the story and I do love Ang Lee and I am embarassingly enamoured of Heath Ledger) should have lost out on a pretentious award, but Brokeback Mountain not winning much at the Oscars is just a sign that Mondays do the world no good and should be abolished if humanity is to be protected from itself.

--------

* This is from Allen Ginsberg's Howl and not the dregs of any warped social sense I may be said to possess, in case someone decides to flaunt their ignorance and disgrace the principles of democratic expression in the comments again.


eta: It is now Tuesday morning and I am feeling much better. Fruit breakfast with OJ has been good, and I've started work, and I'm not about to drop off to sleep. However, it will be ten a.m. soon, and then I will need all the help I can get.

4 comments:

  1. Anonymous9:30 pm

    totally agree with you about mondays, but 'Brokeback Mountain' hauled in a ton of awards already. And 'Crash' was surely the more deserving of the two to win the Best Picture. just my opinion. Do find time to watch them both and let us know what you think.

    Also, you write tremendously well, it is a pleasure to read your posts.

    - milehigh (anon).

    ReplyDelete
  2. Raymond Chandler! The guy that put "style" into crime fiction writing. If you could get "The Long Goodbye" read that too -- that is probably his best, IMHO.

    ReplyDelete
  3. @ milehigh: Hello there! I will certainly watch them both when they alight upon my current city of residence and hopefully have something to say about both. However, BBM was an intensely personal favourite for the reasons enlisted above and there are some things, feel, that considered critical opinion will not change. Thanks for the compliments and for dropping by.

    @ paapaan: I do have The Long Goodbye! Perhaps I shall blog more about Chandler when I have read some way in.

    ReplyDelete
  4. forget all that, you have to watch phillip seymour hoffman's delightful performance as capote. no, delightful might be the wrong word ... delightfully ambivalent? delightfully decadent? oh, i don't know, just watch it.

    ReplyDelete