So I dreamt that I was with this guy, a cad, a boy snake hipped and free of empathy. The boy is real, a friend of a friend, but the girl was not me.
I walked with my arms encircling his slim waist down a long metal road. I smiled up to drink in his approval, but my true self watched from afar and said “oh that poor girl, I’m glad she’s not me”. I was the character and the watcher. The heroine destined for heartbreak and the sympathetic reader.
Pics: peanut butter, jam and bannana on toast with a good cup of tea (one of the teacups Griz got me!).
She was thinking
“He chose me. I don’t know how long it will last but right now he’s with me.”
I dreamt so many things, all of them competing to be remembered as I woke, but only this little walk of a dream remained. I was relieved to be me again, free of this naïve identity.
Lately
I’ve been thinking a lot about sex, friendship, men and having a fantasy about rostering
on four or five men as lovers so that I wouldn’t get attached to any of them.
It’s a fun fantasy, but that’s what it will remain. It’s like imagining an orgy
to be really exciting, but in reality I don’t think I’d want to suck some semi-stranger’s manky knob, not knowing where
it’s been or if I even like that person. I realise liking someone might not
matter for a lot of people, I’ve even heard of ‘hate sex’ which sounds yucky. Americans told me all about hate
sex. Grrr, I hate you, so I’m going to fuck you and somehow humiliate you. Well,
if humiliation is the game then fine, but if it’s a one-sided plan to hurt
someone then … that’s just sad.
A
friend related a story told to her by another friend I shall call The Wild Girl. Wild Girl commented that
she was at an orgy and ‘just not into it’ so she went and got some cheese and broke off pieces of it and
placed it thoughtfully on different parts of naked, sweating, orgiastic bodies,
amused to see it melting.
I
like imagining her facial expression, a kind of art installation concentration:
‘now, shall I place a little bit of brie on this person’s lower back, right down by his arse crack?’ Or how about ‘mm, this blue vein will go nicely on these
bulging ball sacs’. I guess she didn’t actually have a selection of cheeses, I
might be stretching things a bit there. But still. Imagine it. “And now, a Port
Salut sneakily smeared on the underside of this woman’s enormous heaving
breasts”.
Hmm, this makes me wish I had some cheese. Used up the last of the Haloumi last night. Took it to Matita’s gathering in Pt Chevalier.
Hmm, this makes me wish I had some cheese. Used up the last of the Haloumi last night. Took it to Matita’s gathering in Pt Chevalier.
It
was good to talk with Matita, and at one point an older, melancholy man might have
been trying to chat me up. Hey man, if you’re old and a bit fat, at least be
cheery. He carried a feeling of resentment about him, as if he’d been given a
really shit selection of letters for scrabble.
Yes,
scrabble. It’s been a pleasant and social few days; saw Andrew on Thursday and
watched Game of Thrones together, then the Painter came over on Friday with his
scrabble board and proceeded to completely thrash me (I think he won by about
300 points). I only hate losing if it looks like I stand half a show of
winning, but one of the things I like about scrabble is the actual choosing of
words and what it might say about that person.
If
choosing excellent words made you the winner, then I would have won. I had
things like’ devil’ and ‘gilt’ whereas the Painter had ‘wud’ and selections of
two letter words that are ‘scrabble legal’ but completely useless in everyday
life. I wasn’t allowed ‘zen’ which was
really fucking annoying. Not very zen of me.
We
watched some old dvd with Harrison Ford in it; the woman playing his wife
looked sort of like she could have been his mum. When she gets kidnapped I found
it hard to care, I couldn’t relate to
her or feel anything for her character. I didn’t much care for Ford either, I
think I will only ever love him in Raider’s
of the Lost Ark. What I found really
unbelievable is that Ford ends up running around in Paris and/or New York with
this really hot young girl and doesn’t make a move on her. Come on. He’s meant
to be falling apart, scared that his beloved and boring wife is about to snuff
it, there are Arab baddies all over the shop, and he doesn’t get hard for a
French girl wearing a short skirt? He even prudishly zips up her leather jacket
and says “it’s cold” at one point. That’s as much of a clue to his hidden
thoughts as we’ll get. There is no moment of temptation or tiny glance of lust.
In my experience (and I’m not that experienced really), extreme situations bring out all sorts of extreme responses. When people are scared or grieving, fucking is often a legitimate outlet. There must be shit loads of children conceived around the time of 9/11 (which isn’t 9/11 in NZ, I think it was 9/12 for us). Death brings out the need to affirm life, and sex is about as life affirming as it gets. So. You see my critique of this film runs deep. A sexy man running around with a sexy girl with death hanging above their heads, but no sexual tension? Drivel.
In my experience (and I’m not that experienced really), extreme situations bring out all sorts of extreme responses. When people are scared or grieving, fucking is often a legitimate outlet. There must be shit loads of children conceived around the time of 9/11 (which isn’t 9/11 in NZ, I think it was 9/12 for us). Death brings out the need to affirm life, and sex is about as life affirming as it gets. So. You see my critique of this film runs deep. A sexy man running around with a sexy girl with death hanging above their heads, but no sexual tension? Drivel.
Anyway,
where was I? Oh, yes, enjoyed losing at scrabble, and I do like to criticise
things so in a way the movie was brilliant for that. Earlier that day Lisa had
been to visit, she’s now in Wellington gearing up for her sister’s brain tumour
operation. On Saturday morning I intended to work on my environment, make it
beautiful, sorted. Instead I got sucked into Russel Brand’s ‘Booky Wook’ which
is an excellent read. He writes like he speaks, and he’s blatantly honest. The one thing about him I wouldn’t like to see
is his impression of Frank Spencer. That would really annoy me. Some Mother’s Do Have Em was a show (often re-run) that used to
fill me with anxiety as a child. I knew that this pathetic man was going to do
something embarrassing and stupid every time, and I didn’t think it was funny. To
me it was painful. The episode I remember clearly was one where he somehow
manages to stick his foot in the toilet and gets stuck. I watched and willed myself
to find it funny, but I just couldn’t. I also felt the same way about George and Mildred (these were British
comedies my mum liked to watch). I loved Mildred and I wanted George to die.
She was always longing for love and my heart ached for her; she was never going
to get what she wanted with George. God, what else was there? Butterflies was another one my mum watched,
I think that was in the 80’s. It was so depressing.
I
did like The Rise and Fall of Reginald
Perrin though. I remember feeling some relief that
even though I cared for Reggie, I didn’t feel an overwhelming desire to rescue
him or kill his boss. Might have to look that up on youtube, the old Rise and
Fall. As time progressed and mum watched Fawlty
Towers, I found Basil Fawlty so nasty that I enjoyed his humiliations.
It
was well known in New Zealand that the show was based on the incredibly bad service
available in our hospitality industry in the 1970’s. This was related with considerable
pride for some reason.
Obviously
our hospo industry (cos that’s what hospo worker’s call it) has improved
immensely (well, depending on where you go). I did go to Portafino at the Viaduct Harbour last year and it was
terrible. Fawlty Towers would have been preferable. Staff needed a
firecracker up their whatsits and the food was astonishingly average. I did
this thing that I do. I was extra nice, just to show them how it’s done. I do
doubt the effectiveness of this approach at times, but if that doesn’t work I
can always blog about it.
Well
… must be time for coffee. I usually wouldn’t indulge after 3pm, but I’ve mixed
Decaf with the real deal which removes the possibility of waking at 3am. It’s
unexpectedly good too. I didn’t know decaf could taste good; I assumed it would
be like sex with an extra thick condom.
Not
so. So I’ve got Caffe L’Affare Decaf
mixed with Hummingbird Coffee. The
Hummingbird is fair trade organic and named ‘OOMPH!’. Having fair-trade anything makes me feel quite virtuous.
Ooh
it’s cold already. I have a blanket wrapped around me kuia style.
Andrew’s
popping over tonight, cool, maybe he should get burger fuel on the way, only I
can’t ring out to tell him unless I walk up the road onto the highest part of
the ridge. Drat. Technology ay?
I’m
sure there are a million other things I haven’t mentioned, but one simply can’t
reduce real life into a little sausage. That reminds me: vegetarian sausages.
Why or why not? Grizelda (who visited yesterday and gave me gifts!) said she
and her man think ‘what’s the point?’ and one of Matita’s flatmates said there
are too many additives in them. I like
the taste, but I also like meat sauasages (you can get really good pork ones
from Freedom Farms).
Brrr,
lots of love and enjoy the rest of your Sunday (assuming it’s a Sunday for
you).
Kuia: elderly woman
PS, I think perhaps wud is a rather good word after all (but not nearly as good as devil)
Wud: Chiefly Scottish
Examples of WUD
- <an old miser whose obsession with money had driven him wud>
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