Day: March 24, 2005

I was on my knees in a newly cleared patch of carpet, sorting clothes and generally wondering why I have such strange things collected, (an antique hunting horn from the black forest, a stack of 45’s, boxes of lite-brite pegs, handfuls of black feathers – these are what I have to move before I can go to bed), when James came in, took my hand and pulled me from my room to sit me in front of the television. “If I was going to tell you, I wouldn’t have brought you in here.” Before me unfolded perhaps the most beautiful opening to a film I have ever seen.

It began with two people, a man and a woman, sitting on a blanket. Behind him suddenly floats an unexpected cloud of vivid colour, a silk bubble in trouble that he sees first in her expression. He turns to watch as it bows gracefully to scrape the ground, to wreck itself. He stands, she stands. Shock, and he begins running. We see other witnesses collect from the countryside, a car stops and a driver tumbles out, a farmer abandons the field to begin running. They all converge on the failing balloon. There is a man caught in the anchor rope and a scared boy in the basket. Music plays but lightly, so light as to be unheard. The sound of wind and cloth are overpowering and crisply played. This is reality, surreal and harsh and pretty. The men all catch ahold of the basket and they are dragged, torn, and bruised. After a struggle, they manage to land it but barely. There is a pause, then from over trees there is a wind. It fills the balloon and rushes it upward, the sound filling the screen and out and into the heart, capturing them all and their hands, lifting them up into the air. The boy is still in the basket. The men hang, the ground leaving them or they leaving the ground. There is a sense of weightlessness, of something important. One by one, they let go, falling twenty feet to the ground, but for one man, the original occupant of the basket, who remains still clinging to the end of the rope. They who fell gain their feet and watch as the balloon continues to climb into an empty blue sky. It is almost like the taste of silence, it is almost true. The angle changes, POV shift in beauty and from above, we watch him fall. Too high. We do not see him impact.

Enduring Love.
I want to see it again.

Instead, I will likely be setting up a time to watch Dead Leaves, (a seriously captivating animated film), as Matthew acquired it for me along with this bag. This bag which will now be a fixture on my person when I am out of house. (I would accuse him of having furtive motives for such gifts, but really, they’re all quite apparent). I am curious if I will be approached either more or less now that I’ll be carrying such a thing around. My geekery will be hung around my neck like a sentence of death, but as I said to Inevitable Bill earlier, as long as it doesn’t begin spontaneously creating dice, I suspect I’ll be okay. I had a moment of hesitation, but then I rather strongly realized that, well, it’s not like I don’t already get recognized on the street all the time, and not always for the purple hair, hat, the barefeet, funny clothes or the ferret. Sometimes it’s from this journal. At least being known as the girl with the wretched humour could be a step down the geek hierarchy ladder.

Notice to the locals: Wednesday -> movies at my place.
Six String Samurai, Scratch, and Napoleon Dynamite.
start time currently unknown but early evening suspected

It has been noted that it can be almost impossible to give me news. Today is certainly a day I’ll agree. Two people called with news in the past hour trying to tell me something new, but the result was an amused deadpan elaboration on the topic for them. (I suppose I should be slightly bothered that people use me now as a combination newspaper, encyclopaedia and dictionary, but so far it’s just been nicely amusing at worst.) Then there was this discovery – Boingboing blogging about Dschinghis Khan. This makes me think I might be too bleeding edge for my tastes. One of those I need to get out more moments. I sent this video around weeks ago, prompting Nicholas to write a post what actually had a bit of research in.

I’m debating submitting it. Also, perhaps sending this. In either case, flip a coin you idiot girl this is wasting brain, I’m on the hunt for someone who is willing to let me do this to their phone.

I wish I could write about girls the way dys does. I can imagine him as a young emo version of Tom Waits minus the large shouldered cat prowl, but certainly catching concepts on a rough tongue trapped inside a skinny boy who needs to kick the habit of chewing on cigarettes.

I like that clowngod has the website of a commercial photographer yet reveals wickedly delicious art in his Livejournal. More proof that this is the place to be. I want to show the world such pretties. I want to share with everyone every last candy piece of art I stumble across, but I lose links too often, I can’t post enough past my failing computer. My hard-drive needs a complete back-up and wipe.

Running, it all starts with running. The jar in the teeth when one foot hits the ground, when the other foot follows it. When the moon is full, I think in movement. One hand trailing across his belly, another hand caught in his hair. In my blood is the beat, heartbeat thud, of the feet. Asleep, he’s asleep, which is good, he’s resting, but I’m going to wake him if I’m not careful. The softest skin, that body inertia. Think a moment when you’re in the air, flying. No support here, up on one elbow underneath me. Between steps, my lips, the hair softly falling out of my way. The heat, the wet heat, I can picture it flowing from my mouth like dark wet vapor. I want my hand to flow down like water to find the hidden lines, the places light doesn’t find so often. Chaos theory, depth, assurance of need because I can call this and claim this and he shifts a little in his sleep, hips moving. Warm skin and sweat, exertion running. Cadency breathing, hard pressing muscles moving, it’s piston shift, one foot after the other.

We have fan art by Andrew Dimitt, the creator of Drockleberry.

This is news which makes up for my recently stolen laundry. As I have been towel-less for a few days now, this is saying something. My cold wet mornings and dripped puddles of wet hair are no match for this little piece of smile. I’m surprised at how cheering positive feedback can be.

edit: I do not follow Nicole’s theory that the lady of the night downstairs is currently enjoying my towels, else I would still be bothered, yes indeed. I left a note on the wall downstairs today and tomorrow I knock on doors. Blech. What a way to finally meet the neighbors

By the way, if you’re interested in grace or movement at all, then steal this.