Still rather too snowed under with work to have much in the way of flashy projects to show off, or indeed time to turn idle musings into fully-fledged blog posts (for reference: a documentary about Elgar declaiming that he “wasn’t all Edwardian bombast” and the indignant questioning of “bombast” as an inherently undesirable element in classical music; a chipper documentary about the endocrine system and the history of transplants leading to the question “if you can transplant a testicle into the body of someone who’s had one removed, and it grows its own blood supply and gets back to making testosterone, what’s stopping you from putting a testicle into the body of someone who never grew one?” … apart I suppose from medical ethics; the idea that all modern epidemics and pandemics must be viewed not only as matters of microbiology and advancement of vaccines and cures but also as issues of public health and prejudice; and rather more pertinently to my life, at what point does avarice become overshadowed by indolence – i.e. does being paid for overtime necessarily reimburse the loss of hours of my life?). Also too busy to talk about the avalanche of pleasant cultural experiences I’ve managed to squeeze into the rest of my life: no time to talk about the National Theatre Live Cast of Coriolanus and challenges of watching live theatre from a cinema about ten miles away from it; no time to talk about investigating the BFI’s mediateque and watching Beautiful Thing (apparently all 20th Century queer-contemporary British films with positive endings and “Beautiful” in the title feel that beauty occurs in South East London: Beautiful Thing is set in Thamesmead, while My Beautiful Laundrette takes place largely in Lewisham), with its familiarly mid-nineties trappings and familiar landscape provoking a sense of strange, fairytale nostalgia for someone else’s adolescence; no time to talk about the progression of watching Derek Jarman’s Sebastiane, from DVD screening in 2002 to ICA in 2005/6-ish on a screen marginally larger than a big-screen TV, to February’s floor-to-ceiling screen at the BFI NFT3 (and the fact that somewhere, without intending to, I have learnt to identify Lindsay Kemp by his gait, regardless of how much make-up and how little clothing he is wearing); no time to talk about Only Lovers Left Alive, a slow and beautiful shaggy-dog story about gorgeous, disaffected vampires, that pokes gentle fun at itself and showcases the decaying beauty of Detroit and the livelier attractions of Tangier, along with my inaugural visit to the exhausting palace of staircases that is the Hackey Picturehouse; no time to mention a fantastic dinner at The Frontline Club in Paddington or their adorably-named cocktails (“That Gentleman Is Wearing Pink”); no time to mention an earlier visit to the Whisky Society and a fabulous afternoon being pretentious about spirits; no time to discuss the curious biopic of William Burroughs I accidentally bought at the ICA and blundered through in a kind of fascinated delirium; no time to talk of dragging a confused friend around London in pursuit of cocktails and finding as well badge-making kits at the Wellcome Collection, t-shirts in Soho that cost nearly £300, and that Balans Cafe will happily put the liquor of your choice in your hot chocolate without batting an eyelid… it’s a busy spring, so far, and there’s more ahead (tea parties, Edward II by the celebrated Jarman once more at the BFI, Titus Andronicus at the Globe in the summer).
I do promise that at some point in this whirlwind of actually leaving my house there will be some proper content here.
In recompense for being very dull until about, oh, April at least, here is a clipping my boyfriend took out of (possibly) The Economist, which I thought was rather cute:
Enjoy your Sunday.