The Nice Weekend is Over

It's good to have a jam-packed weekend: makes the return to work all the more bearable.

On Saturday, after much deliberation, we decided to see Primer at the ICA. Before the film started, they screened La Jetée, which has now entered my ranking of top ten films of all time. It's such an unbelievably beautiful film... everyone reading this must try to see it (preferably somewhere dark and quiet, where you can give it your full attention and won't be distracted.) Primer was interesting as well, in a geeky scientist kind of way; as a reviewer said, bring a pad to take notes when you see this movie. Afterwards, Henrique went out with a brasilian friend of his; Kevin and I stayed home and watched episodes of Twin Peaks in the darkness of our room.

Yesterday, we spent the afternoon in Hyde Park, picnicking. There was a large group of us, maybe 20 people at one point, most of them guys who used to work with Kevin at Gosh Comics. Clare and Silke came as well, tons of junk food was ingested, tons of wine was drunk, the sun seemed warm (but we wouldn't know because we sat underneath a large tree the whole time), the lake was filled with paddleboats and row boats, the walks were crammed with joggers, rollerbladers and prams. At night, Clare and Mark came over to watch Kevin's short film. Then, while Mark and Kevin drank wine in the kitchen, Henrique and I played some Gamecube.

Went to sleep late, exhausted, but didn't have a good rest: I woke up around 5 in the morning and couldn't go back to sleep. When I finally managed to return to dream land, the alarm went off. Because of sluggish mood, arrived late to work with a medium-sized Starbucks latte. Let this day come to an end soon.

Passage du Désir

Le 8 février, Mme F---- rêve qu’elle traverse le passage du Désir avec un jeune homme qui lui explique la loi sur le divorce. Soudain, son mari surgit devant eux et sort de sa poche la tête de la Méduse. «Retournez-vous, dit la tête, retournez-vous.» Mme F---- se retourne, mais le jeune homme, préoccupé par son propre discours, continue: «Même si vous n’avez commis aucun.» Il ne bouge plus. Son bras est tendu comme s’il dansait au bal, et sa bouche est ouverte pour prononcer le mot «tort.»

Les faits d'hiver, Paul Poissel


The above is a random passage I took from a very short book Sissy Allison lent to me. I read it over a few commutes to work, and sometimes at night before going to sleep. One page had the french version, another had the english translation; it was great practice for me. I've felt under reality today, letting time slip by and bring me back to home sooner than expected (eventhough I left work at 6 o'clock sharp.) Henrique was supposed to go out tonight but the rain, the cool air and London's general laziness has kept him indoors with us. Television is not co-operating and I can't watch a Vincent Price movie on BBC4. So I'm here, back to my favourite ground (What would I do without Livejournal at work? I don't want to think about it...).

We ate pasta with carbonara sauce and shrimps tonight. I can listen to soft music emanating from Allison's room. I want to have many dreams tonight and remember them all; I want to write them down with great detail in the morning. I want somebody from the NT to call me at 8 AM and tell me the office is closed and I should stay home. I want to sleep for a good 12 hours.