I've been running amok. Amok as in the orignal definition: to run into the forest and just scream your head off. We've all had days like that. I'm having a week. A week that demands action and close attention to detail and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and pull the doona up over me and hope the big, bad world will go away.
There's the errands, the duties, the difficulties in trying to water the garden, make tea, feed the birds and tape Who for watching later, all at the same time, and my god I don't think there's a centimetre on me that those bloody mozzies haven't bitten.
There's certain people putting me back in my box because I've been popping my head up over the battlements again. Always a bad mistake, but I was feeling fiesty last week. Back in yer box, chocolate.
Or, in the words of the great Kamahl: "Why are people so unkind?"
Then there's work. All I heard was mutter mutter only two positions mutter mutter where will we put her, then Fearless Leader asks if I've heard from Uber Boss as HO and I said no (she only complains about me to other people, and only on my days off). Then he asked if I'd heard from someone else from HO and I said yes, they're giving me loads to do and he said that was odd and unexpected.
Which all added up to I am so getting canned. Today I've brought my radio in. It's the slightly higher tech version of sticking my fingers in my ears and going "LA LA LA LA!"
So I wagged yesterday. Well, tecnically it was sort of a day in lieu. Whatever, I didn't go in. I said I had errands, and this was true, and shopping, which I also did, but I also went to the flicks. How wicked.
I call it taking back the day, especially as I'd missed the films at my local on account of my humongous amounts of unpaid overtime.
AM: Cold Mountain. This I went to for the Jude, and only the Jude, because Nicole is a Barbie doll with an unconvincing faux southern accent that just had me grinding my teeth. But Jude, pretty, so I forebear. Jude very pretty. Just as well because while the film was beautifully shot and laden with visual metaphor (which some critics have panned but as I grew up on 80s music vids, eg Russell Muchaey's ouvre, I'm used to that sort of over-egging) the book totally sucked. It was the old odyssey home via death and weirdness only to end in tragedy but it was just so hackneyed. It seemed the author had selected some bits from various sources and sewn them together, but it had no narrative heart, no soul, no true through line. More of a series of viginettes, cobbled together from Ken Burns, Gone with the Wind, O Brother where Art Thou and hideous heaving bossum historical novels. Blah.
Jude pretty though. And there was Cillian Murphy, Charlie Hunnan and I didn't even spot Ray Winstone until he started yelling, then it was Ray! Dear old Ray. Such a bastard :D
If I get this on dvd I'll probably be playing it in mute and just skipping to the Jude bits. And yes, you can see his weave at the end. Kinda distracted from the death scene - smirk.
PM: Big Fish. Felt I needed some Ewan to go with my Jude. I love Ewan, and he's sooo cute in this, but, alas, as much as I am a huge Burton fan, I didn't enjoy this as much as I hoped I would. The bland beige American real life bits really made me woozy (perhaps the dehydration was setting in) but whenever I see American families around a dark brown wood dining table in a beige American dining room I wanna puke - no good can ever come of such scenes (note the room in American Beauty was blue).
The fantasy scenes were lovely, but they just didn't click. Something was whispering to me that I'd seen better somewhere else. Ewan was charming though, and we got the mad manic grin, more than once. If you buy this on dvd, please note that the nudity warning refers not to Ewan but to Danny Devito. Yikes and yikes again. A film where Ewan keeps his gear on? Say it ain't so.
I did like the theme though, that a good story can be better than cold hard facts - from a telling tales by the campfire point of view, not setting world policy, mind. The uptight journalist son who could never enjoy the stories because they could never be verified, heh, reminded me of someone (smirk). So that was the theme, that a good story, when it hurts no one and entertains, has worth and value. That much I'll agree with, and it follows on what I was saying the other day. Sometimes a little bit of spin is needed, and besides, it wasn't as though the stories weren't born of grains of truth, as is implied towards the end.
Jude v.pretty. Ewan v.cute.
That was my day. Plus the errands, groceries, watering, feeding, cleaning, taping. Angel was on three times yesterday, though I only caught bits, but that was amusing. It kind of rolled into one long, confusing, cross seasonal episode, especially when you add in two Buffys. Missed most of WaT, alas, but EC got lines, that I saw.
There was a bit I saw on Who, as I was but passing by, where Jamie was crawling up from some port in the ground that looked disturbingly like some hole in the ground dunny. Jamie's Trainspotting moment. Heh. And when the dvd comes out (please, please, Aunty Beeb) check out Jamie's non-traditional white undies as he skips along the edge of the BBC quarry. And could the other guy in a skirt stare up at Jamie while he was up the ladder any more? Still, an improvement on yesterday where, having hotwired one of the Flash Gordon little we sprayed this bottle silver earlier on Blue Peter shuttles, Jamie and the Doctor roll around together as though they're two socks in a washing machine to simulate a rough flight but it looks like they're simulating a scene from QAF and I do wish they'd please stop! Thankyou.
Deeply bummed over the demise of my beloved Angel. More numb. I'd be more upset if I wasn't so worried about having a job next week.
Oh shit, they've just redesigned the Intranet without any input from me, the web designer, so called. It's putrid and clumsy and I am so obviously no longer required. I need to go scream again, but I'm going to have to settle for looky at pics of pretty boys. It doesn't help much, but it helps a tiny bit, and I'll take that, thanks.
Can't do anything good enough no more.
I'm so miserable. It's Tia Maria Tim Tams and silver shinies courtesy of Stranger (Ta!) tonight.
Unfinished SG/HL xover from the mouldy vaults that I'm posting as a drabble to cheer up a dear friend who has a bad case of the birthday blues:
"Some storm," Jack observed. "Did you get wet?"
Daniel, soaked through so thoroughly as to be leaving a puddle where he stood, just gave Jack a look that could have sliced through steel as much as it was weary and affectionate. He slopped past Jack on the way to his office.
Safe in his own concrete bunker he locked the door, sat down, wiped his face, then pulled the broad sword from his pack and carefully wiped down the blade, removing all traces of blood. He examined the blade carefully in the light before hiding it in his pack once more. Should Jack find it, well, it was just another one of Daniel's funny little things. Daniel and his strange little toys.
Daniel grabbed a towel and scrubbed at his hair. Of course he'd been caught in the storm. He'd been the cause of it, taking the fight just off base as always, into the woods around the Mountain. He would never suffer another to give away his secret. So he'd killed them. Like he'd killed so many. He stared hard at his reflection, with his wet hair spiked into tips like a primitive warrior. No one could know that he was much, much older than he looked, or that he wasn't entirely human. No one.