I have a blog. I've mentioned it to a few people, cuz, let's face it, why have a blog with no audience? Madness, is what that is. So there've been mixed reactions. "Isn't that like what the emo's have on MySpace?" The fuck? MySpace is where bad programming goes to die, where bad poetry goes to be indulged by folks with more fringe than sense wi' names like xXxdarkangelbutterflysatanxXx an more friends than IQ points. This here is a blog, a place for me to vent whatever opinions happen to scream into the aul brainpan of a night's drinkin, for instance the one I've just had, where we decided Chris was an ethnic minority, despite fairly obvious evidence to the contrary, wi hilarious results. Poor bastard didn't know what the fuck.
So aye, ideas and the kind. Joyce has been excitin all kindsa synapses I never figured could have life breathed into, and bringin the senses to a level that I'd enjoyed quite thoroughly before the holidays began an my mind went into a kind of permafreeze which proves mighty tough to bust outa. He reminds me o how folks like myself oughta sound, afore we get all softened an anglicised for to fit in wi our surroundins. I've no doubt that most Belfast folks have no problems hangin on to what's theirs, but I've always struggled to sound like what I was, even since when I was wee. Joyce, even though he's a southerner who lived in Italy most his days, reminds me more o who I'm sposed to be than any writer should legitimately have the power to do.
So there's folks outside the room orderin Efe's. I'm thinkin bout the best films I've seen recently, and the one that springs most readily to thought is the delightful "Girl, Interrupted" starrin the lovely Winona Ryder, in what's somethin like a feminised take on One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, incidentally also a crackin flick. What's most worryin about this choice is that so much of it hinges on how much that lass's eyes hook mine, all brown an lovely, all full of deeper meanin, all kinds of shite I might wish to project onto that troubled soul. Cuz Winona never seems all that mental, in the film, and seems to suffer from nothin more than a case of the introspecties. An' I dig that sometimes your natural reaction to a certain situation errs somewhat from what other folks might call the norm, and what have you to justify it? You're a weird one, is what. But here, no, says I, no, I'm not a weird one, mental is what's up wi me. A wee bit cracked, wi all the artistic an philosophic advantages such ailments seems to imbue a chap with. Ignorin the characters that are actually broken, beyond fixin, and thinkin here, if I could harness a wee bit o that for my own, just imagine! All kindsa discussions could be thrown about, all kindsa unorthodox mind-waxin, and why? Cuz I'm a bit mental, that's why. But Winona's not mental, and neither am I, and as soon as she figures it out, that's when she realises her true potential.
But what good does all that head-arse interfacin do a fella? Nothin would make me happier than findin a girl o sound mind, sittin down wi her to watch a shitty movie, the likesa the 1979 classic The Warriors, maybe even a bit a Rocky, and for me to never have to explain to her who's fightin who and the why and the wherefore and the can't we watch Harry Potter instead. Just enjoyin each other's company. And now we get right the way back to my original point about the emo and the self-indulgence an the "O, nobody loves me, I'm a unique, incredible soul is my problem, an there's no one in the 32 counties can understan the likes o me." Truth is, I'm an insular, navel-gazin wee bastard like any other, the only difference bein my access to an internet diary.
So what to conclude? Joyce is amazin, Girl, Interrupted is a cool wee flick, despite the lingerin shots o Ryder's beautiful eyes, and I wish I'd got some Efe's! So that was right an productive.
Thanks for readin,