We’ve finally got our house pretty much all set up (except for an overpriced “Urban Grape”-coloured ottoman, which we’re picking up this afternoon), which means we now also both have a desk downstairs for doing our work at.
So, with the help of a UK-to-US power converter, I fired up my sewing machine and made this Kleenex holder for Craig (following these instructions):
My brother and sister-in-law took us to see Kinky Boots last night. The show was really fun, with some surprisingly touching moments and great music. Much more catchy and soulful than the usual stuff that pads out musicals.
I’ve had a difficult history with the whole “drag queen” thing: For the longest while I railed against it ‘cuz I didn’t like the conflating of “gay” with “men who dress up in women’s clothing.”
And now? Who cares? There’s a musical, the lead performer is fiercely talented, and: it’s fun. Sometimes you’ve got to stop fighting the world, get over yourself, and just have fun.
Lots of folks coming to stay with us this month:
…plus a lovely card from my folks.
I’m grateful for my many blessings. If you’re reading this, you’re one of them. Thank you!
I’ve been practising by drawing loose, rough cartoons, focusing on saying what’s going on (trying to have that be something other than “Life is running out! What should I be working on?!”).
Here are a couple:
This weekend we stayed with Craig’s cousins and aunt at their cottage in Algonquin Park. The tall, skinny pines, the birds, the sound of rain on the roof: I don’t know if it’s echoes from childhood camping trips or just a personal affinity, but the Ontario woods just do something wonderful for my soul.
And here’s the outhouse:
Craig and I went to see Sunset Song last night at the Toronto International Film Festival. Craig loves, loves that book, and was crestfallen to be disappointed by the movie.
Wrong accents, for starters, really get under his skin, and this was full of a flagrant absence (or mis-fire) of the Doric. And, he said, the movie only presented a fraction of the story in the book, chopping off the 1/3 that constitutes the ending.
The staging was wooden, and the actors, who were top-notch and really couldn’t be faulted (except for the aforementioned accents), emoted all over the place, like this was trying hard to be an epic film, and, just like they taught us in theatre school, when people are chewing the scenery like that, there’s no room left for the audience to feel anything; all the emotion is happening over there, rather than being evoked in the watcher.
All of this is exceeding strange, as Terence Davies’s other films are master-works of cinema. The Long Day Closes is one of my favourite films ever (yes, it’s boring, but much of childhood is boring because the world is not built for children, so they’re left to be observers, and life moves slowly for them). And Distant Voices, Still Lives feels like having deeply felt memories implanted into your soul.
Is the problem that Davies isn’t Scottish? That he’s not good with handling a big, set story, as opposed to evoking his own recollections?
I dunno, but it was awkward to see him and the actors on stage afterward, Q&A-ing about this “life-changing” experience, knowing it doesn’t work for much of the audience. (Many film festivals are passing it over as a potential selection.)
We went to the movie with friends from Scotland, one of whom is a reviewer and runs a film festival. They ran off immediately after so the reviewer could write, but we’re having them over for dinner tonight, and I’m looking forward to hearing what he made of the experience. (I couldn’t help wondering what he was scribbling in the darkness.)
Still, I’m glad we went, and it tugged at my heart to get immersed in Scottish culture for two hours. Well, sort of; it didn’t feel like something made by a Scot, and there were place and location mismatches, like a schoolteacher’s modern block lettering on a chalkboard, where surely he would have used a very practised Spencerian script, or the scenes of people walking through wind-swept fields of (New Zealand) wheat, when actual farmers would walk around their cash crop.
Och well, art is a movable feast.
I drew all kinds of stuff over the past few weeks, but I’m still not sure what’s fit for public consumption and what’s best left under the (sketchbook) covers.
Meanwhile, back to a topic you surely must be tired of hearing from me, but it keeps coming up:
