Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Hola

I bought Cannabis: A History by Martin Booth. Fascinating, fascinating stuff. Really helped to clarify where I stood on the issue.

Went to watch It's All Gone Pete Tong. I loved it! It was handled tenderly, hilariously, and had a new wave, Scottish sensibility to the whole thing. Which reminds me: Nanni Moretti's movies also make me laugh. His films are different in terms of how humour is presented, but ... okay, read this description of an early scene in Caro diario (Dear Diary, 1994):

"Jennifer Beals! Jennifer Beals!" he cries, overcome with emotion at seeing the star of the film that "changed his life."

As they talk, Beals struggles to find the word to describe this pleasant, but rather annoying middle-aged Italian man who prattles on about dancing and life in his white moped helmet.

"Off center?" No, not quite right, she says to her companion. "Whimsical." Maybe. But no, there's a better word.

"Almost dumb," Beals finally declares.
(Palo Alto Online, 1994).

Other movies seen this week:

-Mad Hot Ballroom. If it's wrong to want to have children just to see them dance like Dominicans, then I don't want to be right. Poverty sure motivates those hips!

-Los Amantes del Circulo Polar (Lovers of the Arctic Circle). It's Spanish, it's good, it's by Lucia y el Sexo director Julio Medem (whose name, like his protagonists Otto and Ana, is also a palindrome. ... I'm such a nerd).

***

I was hanging out at a park in the Plateau area and a "Tony K." chatted me up and even invited me back to his place (which I politely declined). He's apparently a musician and encouraged me to give him a ring. Uh ... huh. Less likely than a turnip shower.

***

These past few days have been a hodge podge of random excursions and questionable endeavors.

Montreal has been experiencing a heat wave of unprecedented discomfort. Seeing how it was Formula 1 weekend, I (having no reason to stay cooped up in my unventilated cage) decided it would be a healthy change to traverse about town past midnight to take advantage of cooler temperatures. On day one, after battling street urchins and maneuvering around silicone valleys, I was inspired to climb Mont Royal. It was half past four; the silence, deafening. I had just returned, the previous evening, from condo hunting and DKNY shopping (which ended in the purchase of a gorgeous handbag with leather, lavendar trim). Thinking the sun would be out in a matter of hours, I gathered my figurative cojones and headed for the hills (by-passing all logic, reason and drunken solicitations). I reminded myself to "follow the main path" to avoid getting lost. The humour was not lost on me as I hiked along the beaten road. Here I was, shouldering a designer bag I was careful not to sully and clenching a bottle of over-priced water and a book on cannabis in the other. Not to mention my extroardinarily inappropriate attire: a denim miniskirt worn under a velvet, babydoll camisole. It was a sad scene. But I was determined, I reminded myself. What was the big deal? This mountain? This cross? This chalet M. Biologique busied himself with? I'm a city girl, I acknowledged, what can't I accomplish? Looking over the ridge, I cursed myself for maiming my integrity (that is to say, non-hippie tendencies) with something as ridiculous as this. But I kept going. Oh, I kept going alright, slapping mosquitos all too thirsty for my alien gams. By the time I reached the cross -- an indescript skeletal frame that inspires about as much religious fervour as a donkey humping a horse -- I had climbed over fallen rocks and rotting trees (on an 80 degree incline, no less), careful to protect my bag from nature, from the underbelly of the earth, even as I scraped my way to the top, bloodied and bruised ... and fenced in.

Yes, the path I took was not a path at all, but a freakin' creek that just so happened to meet a Sprite bottle which led me to think the contrary.

Further along, I intercepted a drug deal going on between two, rusty vans and quickly ran the opposite direction whilst visualizing a sniper with a Tommy DeVito temper hot on my trail.

I ultimately reached the chalet.

The view was jaw-dropping.

So this was why M. Biologique always wanted me to accompany him. I couldn't, until then, fathom why anyone would waste their efforts there, some place so time-consuming. I felt a wave of satisfaction come over me as the sun lifted the veil of night and threw it into the distant trees.

I was bull-headed too; our relationship was shite not merely on the basis of his problematic personality alone. Thus, with that tai chi-ing, flabby white guy as my witness, I accepted responsibility for my own misery and decried victimhood.

And so, the future was no longer tainted with the assumptions of today.

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