Friday, August 25, 2006
We used to leave the blue lights on
and there was a beat
ever since you have been gone
it’s all caffeine-free
and faux punk fatigues
said it all before
they try to kick it, their feet fall asleep
yet no harm done no
none of them want to fight me...
-Metric - Combat Baby
Someone sent Jag this delightfully nostalgic little montage about the weekend Jag and I spent in Amsterdam with Daisy and Bicyclemark on Queen's Day this year. Funny how a total stranger managed to sum up the happy-go-lucky spirit of that weekend without having been there with us. Or maybe we have a new stalker! Sweet!
Okay so I was bored last night and I remembered I have a timer and a remote control on my camera. The moral of this story is something along the lines of "this is what happens when you have poor lighting and limited equipment and are willing to put yourself in all kinds of compromising positions on the internet." It strikes me as somehow both foolish and excellent. BTW, Mrs. Loquacious, this is me sans airbrushing, so eat your heart out. Read what she has to say about it too -- it's smart.
Speaking of which, please go check out the scariness that is digital retouching here (beauty/hair and shaping are probably the scariest sections on the menu). Click the photos on the left and then scroll along the bottom to get the before and after images. Thanks to my favourite new Muse for the link.
I went to see the most depressing silent films with my aunt last night. All you need to know about my aunt is that she seems to have me figured out without ever having asked explicit questions about who I like or who I'm dating. I love this about her.
The first film we saw was banned and burned by the Nazis, so it was in fragments interspersed with film stills and funny little bits of academic information. At least the plot was clear enough, despite a total lack of dialogue or even an obvious narrative. It went something like this: two violinists meet in Germany in 1919, and fall in love. The older violinist, who gives lessons to the younger one, gets blackmailed by another man who takes him to court for violating the anti-sodomy laws of the day, and rather than face the shame and ostracism associated with going to jail, the older violinist swallows cianide and dies. Light fare, isn't it? It sure made me feel good. Yippee.
The second one was a semi-pornographic and entirely bizarre effort by Jean Genet called Un Chant d'Amour. There was a lot of half-hearted masturbation, voyerism, belt-whippings, firearms, and strange arty scenes with flowers and forests and a bunch of long fantasy sequences. It was bizarre, and though the boys were damn cute in a gay sort of way, it was pretty impossible to get into either the sexual tension or the plot because it was all so deeply overwrought and sad. Go fucking figure. The guy spent nearly twenty years in institutions, so I suppose it's understandable that he'd put out the most fucked-up pomo nonsense ever.
I had half an avocado for dinner (pathetic, I know), watched Project Runway, took photos, and went to bed.
The city's really kind of getting me down these days. I feel like I should do things since I'm here now and the summer is waning, but lethargy is a powerful thing when it's really sunny out and I don't quite feel happy enough to go frolick in it.
I just feel like staying inside and reading blogs and listening to Johnny Cash warble out:
Well, if they freed me from this prison,
If that railroad train was mine,
I bet I'd move out over a little,
Farther down the line,
Far from Folsom Prison,
That's where I want to stay,
And I'd let that lonesome whistle,
Blow my Blues away...
Oh yes, Folsom Prison Blues. Good times.
I suppose the worst prisons of all are self-imposed. They have no bars, no locks, no chains, and no creepy guards spying on you, but they do keep you locked away.
God, I've got to stop listening to Dan Bern.