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contours provocations
journal - 2001-0219 - mon 2000 Laundry, Homeless, Orson Welles, Joe, Holiday [Wishing for a plot device in which Max of "Roswell" joins the water polo team.] Saturday, in a moment of sheer insanity, I was up at 7 am. I have no idea why! I pulled myself into the living room, turned on the computer, connected to the Net and worked for several hours on something or other. It really made a "big" impression, because I have no fucking idea what it was. [OK. I'm sitting here watching "Roswell," The gang is in the woods doing battle with some crystals. I've never seen Jason Behr wearing a watch cap, and it manages to make him look even more yummy than usual. Damn! The whole hour went by and not one semi-nude scene. Why can't they have a plot device in which he joins the water polo team? Or has to earn money working as an exotic dance? Crap!] Whoa! That's not right! I got up to do the laundry. It's slowly coming back to me. Going to the laundry was a neccesity. The dirty socks, undies, jeans, tees and towels were becoming a nusiance. Among the customers at the laundry was a large, very disheveled obviously homeless man. In fact I've seen him in the area several times; and I think he sleeps in the entrance to an abandoned store next to the laundry. I used to notice a man who made a circuit during the day: I'd see him having coffee at McDonald's in the morning, then writing letters in the post office at noon. On occasion, I've seen guys sleeping in spaces between beams and columns of the Interstate underpasses. What makes a person homeless? From what I've read, it is not uncommonly a manifestation of a chemical imbalance. There was a revealing article in the paper several years ago about some homeless who lived in the brush and woods near the river. One had a doctorate degree. A number came from middle-class backgrounds. Certainly not the average impression one might have. Whenever I think of the homeless, I think of the Pet Shop Boy's song "The Theatre" from the "Very" CD. A song about the people beneath the shop windows in London. "Did we catch your eye?" As with most PSB's efforts, it is presented without editorial and in Neal Tennant's detached style. Factors that serve to increase the feeling of pathos. The remainder of Saturday was uneventful. I did succeed in riding myself of a batch of books that have been stacked by my backdoor for several months. I slipped them into garbage bags, then went hunting for a Goodwill bin: easier said than done, but I finally found one. Sunday morning, I caught part of an Orson Welles' film I'd never hear of - "Confidential Report." Splendid expressionistic camera angles and fluid-like pans. One of his trademarks were camera shots that showed ceilings, which meant sets had to be build on platforms. Few have ever used light and shadow with such relish. I literally ignored the plot and groked on his visual style. In the afternoon, I stumbled on a Scottish film, "My Name Is Joe." I've seen parts of it before, but I saw almost all this time. The lead actor is superb. So very, very real. And a wonderfully erotic man. I think I've mentioned before that the Scottish brogue spoken in this movie required subtitles. Something that does not interfere for one second with the story. A rich, powerful film. Today was a holiday. Again little excitement. Just nice to have a holiday and not be sick. And I did do a number of web chores, some financial stuff, and sorted through a pile of mail sitting in a basket under my sofa table. All that makes me feel slightly productive. PAX!
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