November 22nd, 2003


Green Onions

That surimi entry rather took it out of me, only now some days later am I returning to keyboard to try and maintain some kind of thread. So, dreams...

I almost saw Gillian Welch and David Rawlings in my dream last night, they were playing at some university in the South. I say almost, because entry to the auditorium was restricted and I never quite managed to find the door. I had to walk through a room where a group of very unexcited students were creating a taxonomy of mountain dulcimers. There were some fine dream dulcimers in there, some with multistrand knotwork strings, but nobody played them. Of course, in the world of dream logic, the said university was also a Nazi research and ski centre, Where Eagles Dare I assume, and also the place where Cadbury's were launching a new chocolate product, which was basically cocoa powder in straws. You got two for a penny though, which would be a very retro move in the world of confectionery pricing. The advert involved lots of drug-inspired play with brown powder. It was something the kids could relate to, claimed Cadbury's.

The night before last was a sort of Minder rerun. I'd seen George Cole in the afternoon in an old Powell & Pressburger film called Gone To Earth. George was trying to get me to post some kind of dubious package, but wasn't able to give me the actual contents. In order to get the right stamps for the weight, I substituted a plain bagel. Due to new security measures in place, the Post Office were unable to sell me the stamps without the contents being verified, so I had to be hauled up before a series of bureaucrats to explain myself. Accompanying me throughout this process was the counter assistant, who seemed morphed between Martine McCutcheon, Rachael Stirling out of Tipping The Velvet and a girl in my Russian history class. I was entirely besmitten with her, ooh, after about two seconds. I managed to get the stamps and exchange the bagel, by this time the glamorous counter assistant was fully implicated in our not particularly insidious plan. She eventually had to go back to work, as they didn't allow her time off for laughing. The success of our scam made the newspaper headlines and she was mentioned there. In the dream, my memory began to dissolve and I couldn't remember her name anymore. We have a chance, I thought, but she's vanishing. I sat at home with an infinite number of weekend supplements, trying to find her name again. That particular piece of the paper never came to light and I was left surrounded by reams of newsprint and a diminishing sense of possible success.

Other people's dreams are often not particularly enthralling, but I include these because this journal is in dire need of some dramatic tension. All the dramatic tension of this life is largely confined to dreams, there's not much happening in the real world. There really isn't. Even having somebody's phone number, just so as to lose it, would be a event of interest. The flatness of the landscape, masking as it does a far more dangerous inner terrain, as drab as Patagonia, the lightless day outside, yes, it's winter. I could take up smoking dope again as I am certain that would decrease my recall of these dreams, but it would make the days even more listless. There may well be a solitary albatross circling the house as I write. Ho hum.

I may have intended to get worked up about the first UK version of the four blade razor, but I can't really muster the interest at the moment. Although I wonder just how you can spend $750 million developing a razor, they must have been eating some expensive takeout in the R&D department. During the flu period, I watched the entire four-disc extended edition of The Two Towers, it went on for about three days, or so it seemed. One thing I would say about Peter Jackson's production is I can actually see for once where the money is going, whereas with most Hollywood productions, I imagine that everyone is laughing all the way to the bank and all too often laughing at the audience as well. Amongst other films watched during this period of bedbound seclusion were: The Hulk (fairly terrible, what was Ang Lee doing? Taking a holiday away from the set? Preposterous overuse of complex fade shots and montage to try and get you to think something was going on. Point Blank it wasn't), Pierrot le Fou (an old favourite I never tire of) and The Holy Mountain. The last was a fairly poor transfer from a dodgy looking print, but it's still a very intriguing film. I'm not sure that it is exactly an acid movie as such. For my money, overtly psychedelic films aren't the best ones to watch on acid. Something like The Passenger works well, because there's a lot of space for the audience in it, similarly 2001, because it's quite stately in its movement. The Holy Mountain is discombobulating enough without the need for drugs. Watch it if you have a chance. Fortunately I live close enough to an epicentre of 'alternative' culture to have a video shop that panders to arthouse whores like myself. Mmm, five volumes of Maya Deren, you say...

England have just won the World Cup, in rugby union that is. Not sure how this will affect my holiday in Australia. Even if I'm honest (it's a sport for complete knobs/nobs), I may well get slapped unless I can profess the superiority of Australian Rules in sufficient time.

Let's go out, catch some of that grey light before it's too late.