When my husband got home last night he was restless, so when he suggested going over to the Angrignon mall I was all for it. When we got there, we walked past the Famous Players marquee and lo and behold, Matrix Reloaded was playing in five theatres.
“I suppose this wasn’t planned,” I said.
“No!” he said. (And I believe him, because he’s not very good at spontaneously checking out movie listings just for kicks.) “But look, there’s one starting in half an hour. And since we’re here…”
So we saw Matrix Reloaded again last night. All but the first ten minutes, that is, because the theatre where we were supposed to see it was all dark, and they’d relocated the viewing to another theatre without putting up a sign or a note or anything. What is customer service coming to these days?
Happy Friday to those whose work week ends today!
Orchestra last night was like a train wreck. We all should have just stayed home; I mean, for goodness’ sake, we played the Grieg better the very first time when we were sight-reading it. Collectively, we appear to be at the stage where we know a bit, but not enough, so it’s falling apart. The only thing more dangerous than not knowing anything about a subject is knowing a bit about it.
And, on a completely different topic, here’s an example of why I love the English language:
Verse feet in the romances are predominantly iambic, but anapests and trochees that appear should often be taken as welcome prosodic variations.
And this morning I found this in the writing diary of Virginia Woolf:
Writing is not in the least an easy art. Thinking what to write, it seems easy; but the thought evaporates, runs hither and thither.
And that’s it, really; when you think about it, and conceive of the finished product, it seems a piece of cake. Actually doing it, though; wrestling the language into some semblance of gawky order… now, that’s anything but cake. More like cement and traffic-light brownies or something. Or whatever you can think of that describes hard and heavy and not what you were expecting when you put it in the oven at all.
Oh, and I saw the four Animatrix shorts plus Final Flight of the Osiris last night; a colleague of my husband’s recorded them for us. I enjoyed them all for different reasons. I already had every intention to pick up the compilation DVD next week, but now I have even more motivation to do so.
I woke up at 4 AM this morning again, and as I lay awake, I worked out a story. I fell asleep again around 5.30, and when I woke up at 9, I turned on my laptop and wrote it.
Gone were the beautiful turns of phrase I had developed in bed, and the pacing is definitely different, but I have an entire six-page story done, finished. (For those who have been conditioned to think in numbers as of last November, that’s a respectable 1,866 words.)
I need to do this more often. I used to imagine entire scenes in bed as I tried to fall asleep all the time. (My other productive time was in class at school, where I was trying to not fall asleep. Go figure.) Perhaps when my headaches lay me low I ought to go lie down in a dark room and let inspiration hit. It would certainly be productive, and it wouldn’t hurt my eyes so much as trying to read does.
Nope. Still cranky. Still have a low-level headache.
Finished my edit, though.
This is going to be creepy. But then, a lot of Dahl is creepy, and people tend to miss it, focusing on the humour instead.
And an official bio of Joss Whedon has just been released. On Amazon, under the editorial reviews, is this gem posted by the man himself:
“Possibly the finest book of the century; It’s exactly like A Tale of Two Cities, but with 30% more me.”