The fucking doctor is a shithead. I have been issued the following orders:
no exercise (not even walking)
no going out at night
no being in a crowd of people
Those are stupid orders. What kind of a person does not walk around at night in crowds, certainly not people who live in Newtown. So as a kind of vengeance I obeyed all orders by sitting in the house and watching a video whilst eating turkish bread with hommous and chilli followed by pizza, then chocolates with popcorn and some cola. Now I feel very sick indeed. Take that doctor. Following doctor's orders can sometimes make you feel very ill and sorry that you followed them.
The doctor informs me that my immune system is up the shit, he said he could give me more antibiotics (evil pills of doom) but they probably won't work as I just keep getting different viruses. He said I must rest, I must not exert myself, I must eat lots of garlic and ginger and take echinacea tablets. I just have to wait this one out. I am not known for my patience.
I am supposed to go to a film festival tomorrow, this would involve walking, being out at night and being in a crowd. I desperately want to go but I mustn't. All evening, in between rewinding the video to watch David Bowie sing the Dance Magic song one more time, I have been meaning to telephone Snuffbox Films and say that thank you very much for sorting out an invitation for me to go and being ever so nice to let me write something about it and put it on your excellent film blog but I can't go as my immune system is up the shit. I thought about it but I didn't do it. I'm trying to work out a devious plan for going.
I could wrap myself in foil and wear a helmet, I could wear a jumpsuit over a unitard, I could grind echinacea tablets into powder and perform circular breathing whilst wearing a shower cap. All of these are excellent ideas but their usefulness may be limited to novelty. I shall write an email and send it, it is too late for telephoning now. I feel quite awful and like a big pain for pulling out so close to the event. Minus ten professor points for me but just before I send the email I might watch this one more time.
Showing posts with label Wroving Writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wroving Writers. Show all posts
That Ron and other possibilities
That Ron has suggested that I leave a drawing of a condom on The Cowboy's front door and see if he sticks it back on my gate with a big tick. I don't think I'll be doing that Ron but thanks for the suggestion.
Its looking like I might need to put on my wroving shoes and go off on assignment very soon. I am excited about the possibility.
Its looking like I might need to put on my wroving shoes and go off on assignment very soon. I am excited about the possibility.
Sydney Underground Film Festival
I have been Wroving. Have a look at Snuffbox Films to read my final verdict on the first Sydney Underground Film Festival .
What is this strange and beautiful thing?
Ah ha! So I have typed a thing about the Sydney Underground Film Festival. Hopefully it will appear on Snuffbox Films. It could well be rejected yet. I will wait and see. Oh yes I will wait. I am waiting right now. Already bored with waiting.
The film festival has taken a toll on me. I am wasted. I am soaked through with the visual ideas of the world. My eyes are sore from watching and bones aching from sitting night after night hour after hour in the freezing arctic cinema.
Some of the more abstract films felt almost generative in nature and this leads me squarely back to Artboy who frittered away years of his life coding generative artworks for projection or performance. Every morning I wake sobbing and shaking frightened by the powerful arcs of nightmare and the physical memories of sorrow. I think this is the final push. I am going over the top of this process. Soon it will be one year since I found myself alone and vomiting with shock on the floor. One year since I was loved. One year since I was airlifted into my own path in my own shoes carrying the expectant load of a room of one's own.
Its the sun rising.
The film festival has taken a toll on me. I am wasted. I am soaked through with the visual ideas of the world. My eyes are sore from watching and bones aching from sitting night after night hour after hour in the freezing arctic cinema.
Some of the more abstract films felt almost generative in nature and this leads me squarely back to Artboy who frittered away years of his life coding generative artworks for projection or performance. Every morning I wake sobbing and shaking frightened by the powerful arcs of nightmare and the physical memories of sorrow. I think this is the final push. I am going over the top of this process. Soon it will be one year since I found myself alone and vomiting with shock on the floor. One year since I was loved. One year since I was airlifted into my own path in my own shoes carrying the expectant load of a room of one's own.
Its the sun rising.
What makes the memory yours?
I can barely see to type. I am all the fountains. Tonight's program at the film festival sunk a bore right into my water. Humans are beautiful. Humanity is beautiful. I am overwhelmed in surround sound and lined with red velvet. This is a resolving walking talking nightmare. This is me shrunken into a matchbox and pushed silently onto the flat ocean. This paragraph lacks resolution. Live with your dissonance.
I want to marry all of you gorgeous taps
I have never seen so much Salad Fingers back to back before tonight. Oh what an abject joy, if such a thing is possible. This film mission is slowly turning from a chore into a wonder. During one gorgeous abstract animation the locked and unwritten part of my novel in progress came undone. I have lost the floating words temporarily but I have faith that brain will bring them back. What is most important is that it has been unlocked.
I did not make it to the end of this evening's program. My eyes hurt. It hurts to look so I beat a splendid retreat with the perfect intent of returning tomorrow for the final segment. Rumour has it that there will be food afterwards. I like food.
Learning from the error of my ways I packed a sandwich and popped it into my handbag to eat if I felt a bit peckish. Unfortunately I was not concentrating when I made it and cut it into little squares which are inferior to triangles. I told Elliot I was going to take a marmalade sandwich and he responded by saying "Go you Paddington fucker, go". I think he thought I was going to put it under my hat instead of in my handbag.
The man with the hat and the handbag was there again this evening. Some detective work revealed that his name is Ryan and he is a VJ, which is a shame, I don't like VJs but his handbag really is ever so lovely and if I see one just like it in a shop I would be very happy to buy it for myself.
I was intently fascinated by the electrical plug above the hand dryer in the toilets. I took a photo. I was given some odd looks for that but it was worth it. I haven't seen anything like it since I visited my rich uncle in his brand new house in 1989.
I did not make it to the end of this evening's program. My eyes hurt. It hurts to look so I beat a splendid retreat with the perfect intent of returning tomorrow for the final segment. Rumour has it that there will be food afterwards. I like food.
Learning from the error of my ways I packed a sandwich and popped it into my handbag to eat if I felt a bit peckish. Unfortunately I was not concentrating when I made it and cut it into little squares which are inferior to triangles. I told Elliot I was going to take a marmalade sandwich and he responded by saying "Go you Paddington fucker, go". I think he thought I was going to put it under my hat instead of in my handbag.
The man with the hat and the handbag was there again this evening. Some detective work revealed that his name is Ryan and he is a VJ, which is a shame, I don't like VJs but his handbag really is ever so lovely and if I see one just like it in a shop I would be very happy to buy it for myself.
I was intently fascinated by the electrical plug above the hand dryer in the toilets. I took a photo. I was given some odd looks for that but it was worth it. I haven't seen anything like it since I visited my rich uncle in his brand new house in 1989.
Trying to think with avocado will only lead to heatache unless you're just waiting for the train
The older man was holding his hands around an invisible accordion, his fingers straight, held together, slicing the air with downward thrusts. I moved closer, as close as I could without looking like I a crazy lady. He was singing, singing and talking to the young man next to him wearing a heavy backpack. I could barely hear the words but I could hear the singing. Mozart, it was most definitely Mozart. I was transported. His voice was ordinary, plain like noname weet-bix but across the platform I could see the rhythms he was weaving, pitch perfect in la, da, di's. I have never heard anything like it.
His legs were slightly apart, chest open, arms swooping and stabbing, his eyes were bright and stern, staring straight into the eyes of the young man. They took turns repeating phrases, changing intonation and varying dynamics.
I stepped closer and closer, leaning in towards them. It was centrifugal. I could have fallen into the net of their music but instead I boarded the train.
His legs were slightly apart, chest open, arms swooping and stabbing, his eyes were bright and stern, staring straight into the eyes of the young man. They took turns repeating phrases, changing intonation and varying dynamics.
I stepped closer and closer, leaning in towards them. It was centrifugal. I could have fallen into the net of their music but instead I boarded the train.
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