Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Fragments from a fragmentary mind

Synecdoche, New York
I went to see this movie yesterday.
I came out feeling sad and confused.
I am not sure if it was good.
Or bad.
Or what the deal with Diane Wiest was.
I don't know what happened.
I cried a bit.
But that's not my judge of a good movie.
Since I cried in Titanic.
And wept buckets in My Girl.
I wouldn't call either of these movies good.

In my [real] world
Una has just laid the hand mirror down on the table.
She has put her reflection to sleep.
She is whispering.
She has to be very quiet.
Because she doesn't want to wake up.

Where we live in the [real] world
Fred: We live in a cottage.
No we don't.
Mama: Well we do live in kind of a cottage.
Fred: Cottages don't have computers.

On the other side of the [real] world
My sister has had her baby.
He was born small.
Less than two pounds.
27 weeks gestation.
He weighs less than a bag of apples.
He is rallying.
He breathes for himself.
She is learning to be a mother
to a baby
who lives in a hospital.
His name is Joseph.
When Fred talked to my sister on the phone
she misremembered his name
and said he was called 'Jesus.'
And though he is nearly 2 weeks old
I think of him as 29 weeks
as though he is still

The trouble with batteries
The trouble with batteries
in the [real] world is that when you leave the car lights on all day
because you left the house before seven and it was dark
and there was fog
and then you parked at the train station
and you were in a hurry
because the train was already there
so you grabbed your bag and ran
when you do that
and you come back after nine pm
and it's dark and cold
and you really just want to go home
and sleep
the car doesn't start.
You know it's not going to start
because on the way home
somewhere between ivanhoe station and eltham
you had a sudden flash
of not remembering
turning the lights off.
but didn't you look from the station?
down at where you had parked?
surely you would have noticed...
You didn't look. Or if you did
you didn't notice.
Because the car won't start
so you call your husband
and he calls the neighbour
who sits in your quiet house with your sleeping children
as your husband drives down in the other car
and arrives twenty five minutes later to find you shivering
and angry with yourself
and jumpstarts the car
and then you follow his
warm red tail lights
all the way home
and its the most intimate thing you've done
with him
for years
perhaps because you went to see Synecdoche, New York
and maybe it was good after all
because its tranformed your thinking
perhaps not in the way Kaufman intended
or perhaps exactly that way
because life is not bewildering or lonely or inconsolable.
We are all connected up
red lights following red lights
even when we are alone
we can be with someone.

Sunday, May 03, 2009

Ssh...I'm very busy and Important

Normal blogging will resume soon. I am starting to be a bit swamped. I am teaching five classes this semester and writing a novel with a friend that we've promised to get finished by the end of May (We started writing it 3 weeks ago).
ha ha ha ha ha ha. ..
Well, look at it this way, at least it should be finished before I have to start marking.
(More on the collaborative novel later, the contract is still in the works, so I won't speak it's name yet, but we're about half way in and it's terribly fun, not the least because chapters such spring up overnight - as if the novel speaks back to me.)
Life has been busy and stressful and hectic and costly (like the washing machine broke) and sometimes I feel like I'm working my arse off just to keep our heads above water (which I sorta am). But then there are days like yesterday, where Una and I went out for the day to the library and to treat ourselves to organic fruit & vegetables and eat chips in a cafe, and then last night, Fred and I went to a free screening of The Emperor's New Clothes at the St Andrew's hall and walked home in the DARK, which was so joyously spooky and starry.
Six is a magical, wondrous age and I am enjoying the new insights Fred is giving me. She is also an editor in the making and here is why:
Every night we read four books. Fred picks two. Una picks two. Sometimes they don't like each other's choices, though usually they do. Anyway, the other night Una picked Angelina Ballerina. (Una is the aspiring ballerina in the house, to Fred ballet is a form of unkindness enacted upon little girls and boys.) Still, Angelina ticks a few boxes. Fred likes tutus for example, and mice, and teeny little worlds. We all pore over the last page, showing a cross-section of the theatre and work out where we'd like to sit, Fred included. Even so, Fred does not like Angelina Ballerina. Not the books, not the tv series. When I was reading it the other day, we got halfway through the book and she said suddenly 'That's why I don't like this book.' And I said 'why?' And she said, quite simply, 'Because I like her mum and dad better than I like Angelina.' I think she nailed it. (I know that at least one of my favourite blog readers is an Angelina fan, so to her I say sorry. But AB is a bit of a pain in the arse.)