Friday, June 30, 2006
I went to bed ridiculously late last night because I stayed up watching a really out-there Godard film called Masculin feminin (en francais, bien sur), with my brother. I guess it was about a bunch of socialist kids running around Paris in the 1960s. The problem of course was that none of them were really socialists so much as poster-pasting, graffiti-spraying materialists. It was fairly intolerably postmodern in its randomness, with people getting shot left and right without warning and for no apparent reason. Then there was the background noise. Either Godard is really sloppy with the microphones or he thinks that the sound of a truck horn in the background is a profound statement about the capitalist means of production. Anyway, I'm not smart enough for those crazy French films. Occasionally I can get good things out of them. But sometimes what's supposed to be a brilliant piece of filmmaking just strikes me as a rather low-budget student film lookalike with poor character development and absolutely no plot.
I did have a conversation with Hayley under the dock yesterday about her breakdown the other night. Yes, she remembers the whole thing, which I suppose is good. Jag, I pretty much told her what we'd talked about -- that I wasn't leaving her, that I didn't expect big things from her at the moment but I wanted her to be nice to me and pay attention to me, and that I couldn't possibly think she was a selfish person because she'd asked me to leave to spare me her pain when she really didn't want me to go. She listened, and agreed with me, but as usual I don't quite know what's going on in that funny little head of hers. The only thing that makes her talk to me is alchohol -- must be the Scottish blood in her -- and so strangely enough I think I'll have to wait until she's had a few before I hear anything more from her.
At any rate, our afternoon was incredibly nice and I feel relatively optimistic about the whole thing.
I find certain aspects of Hayley's neuroticism really amusing, even borderline erotic, at the moment. Her incredibly picky food preferences, for instance. Or the fact that she hates wire clothes hangers because they remind her of illicit abortions. Or the fact that she hates all forms of exercise and all sports but can twist herself into a backbend as skillfully as any 11-year-old gymnast. Or her tendency to sniff food like a cat before she eats it. Even the smoking bothers me less and less these days, probably because now she knows it bugs me and she makes an effort to do it outside or when I'm not around. And possibly because, while officially and unofficially I abhor everything about smoking, I secretly now associate the smell and taste of Du Mauriers with her, and my head turns when I smell them almost the way it still turns for something that smells like that Gap Blue cologne they don't make anymore.
Anyway, I realise that's a little nutty. So keep it under your cyberhats.
Better get going.
p.s. We also got tickets to Peaches, which is ridiclously exciting.