|Morning Pages 9.0 - My Subconscience Hates Me
||[Aug. 27th, 2007|08:00 am]
Screw that. I just deleted two lines of text, explaining how I was going to alter the rules this morning and not extemporaneously share with all you lucky, lucky people something that occurred to me last night, while going through my remaining pile of unread newspapers. But that will have to come later, in some other, "real" entry; cheating is a lousy way to develop self-discipline. And so,
My Subconscious Hates Me
And so it has come to this; open defiance, if not - quite - open War.
Following my declaration yesterday that I would no longer be ruled by the clock - if only because I had already ceased to be in any real sensed ruled by that Infernal Machine - I found myself, minutes ago, wide awake and with no possibility of a return to the verdant hills of Nod.
And meanwhile, when I sat down at the keyboard, that same Subconscious decided that this morning's entry would be a cheat - I would use it to write a "real" post, a reaction to a New York Times article I came across during the aforementioned newspaper plow-through. I suspects my Inner Sloth was in control at that moment, hoping that - if I succumbed to its Sinful Blandishments I could "kill two birds with one stone" and so not have to compose a second message later on today.
Well, fuck you, subconscious, you vicious, mendatious and o! so-fucking lazy Enabler!
Yes, Enabler! I name thee, Subconscious! All of my shortcomings, and all of my specific failures, sir - I lay them at your Bunny-Slippered Feet of Sloth!
And thus spake my Inner Sense of Irresponsibility; o! the humanity!
Speaking of my subconscious, something seems to be blocking the lines of communication between me and it this morning; these words - as torturous as I fear they may be for you to read, Gentle Readers, they are even more so for me to write. I keep turning from this (sort of) blank screen, to check my email, surf facebook, prepare to kill, once and for all, that spam-magnet address, email@example.com, &ct.
Onwards? Onwards to what dark, unpassable forest of sloth and misery, I wonder?
Onwards? I babble.
On a whim the other day - well, that is to say: ripped right out of my head on some very strong hash on two late evenings last week, I found myself contemplating my VHS collection. ("VHS" refers to a primitive method for storing and recording electromagnetic sounds and images, once known as "movies". Yes Virginia, they did contain moving parts, they are that obsolete!)
Anyway, ended up watching Woody Allen's Radio Days and Roxanne, with Steve Martin.
Radio Days was a film I recalled as dripping with nostalgia, a gentle, warm-hearted trip down memory lane to a time beyond my personal memory, but one with which I nevertheless feel a certain kinship, given my history of reading pulp literature, Hollywood movies from the 30s and 40s and being exposed to more than a few old radio shows themselves in my youth.
What I had forgotten was that, even when waxing nostalgic, even when he is once again painting a soft-focus portrait of his beloved New York City, Woody Allen also exorcising (or should that read, exercising?) his demons. The family he portrays, based presumably if exaggeratedly, on his own, is a family of stupid people, angry people, mendacious people ("mendacious" seems to be my word of the days, doesn't it?).
I had remembered Radio Days as a sweet movie, but realize now it is one that contains an awfully bitter centre. Not that I'm suggesting it's not worth seeing; it is.
Roxanne, on the other hand, is sweet, and sometimes fairly funny, but it is a trifle, one of those romantic comedies Hollywood was once able to turn out with such facility (or maybe that's not true and only the particularly good ones from the 40s survived the proverbial test of time; but I digress).
Based, I think, on the French novel, Cyrano de Bergerac, Roxanne is an up-dated version, with Martin as the nasally well-endowed hero.
There is some delightful slapstick - fight scenes, where the hero's sword is replaced by tennis rackets and other modern equivalents - as well as a brilliant set-piece in the middle, when Martin's character (whose name escapes) is accosted by lout at a bar.
"Big nose!" quoth the lout.
Just what did you say? Martin wonders, as the barroom regulars prepare to witness bloody mayhem.
The lout repeats his witticism, at which point Martin asserts that he could think of 20 better insults than "big nose".
And does, retailing 20 (count 'em!) nose jokes. Most of them not quite new, but few entirely hoary.
Anyway, nice little movie, but probably not worth actively seeking out.
All right, I think that's it for the 'pages this morning. Time to turn towards more productive endeavours (I swear!)