Severe Jam Damage

They think they can do that to me eh?
Think they can just let me go like that. I’ll show them, I’ll bloody well show them.

There is a cold draft blowing under the door. I can feel its chill fingers blowing up my skirt. I sneeze once, twice. Dustballs scurry in the wake of my breath. I should have brought a flashlight. The cheap flourescent lights flicker above the table making sickly shadows dance. There isn’t enough light down here, my fingers poke and prod looking for the outlet.

There.

A creaking floorboard causes me to freeze. Fuckit. I thought everyone had gone home, but it’s just the building settling. Old beams moving. The office has begun to cool down, heating turned off for the weekend. On Monday this place will be like an icebox.

My fingers have found the outlet, I jab the fork in and bend quickly. The outlet is switched off, all unnecessary power switched off at the mains - one of the ‘cost saving measures’ put forth by the boss. And I, another.

I crawl out from under the table, blowing dust and lint from my face, smoothing my hair. Turn out the lights in the boardroom, close the door and key in the security code.

On Monday I will look for a new job - somewhere in a bright clean office block. Somewhere new and shiny. Old buildings are bad for me- too cold and drafty. Decades old wiring snake through the walls - fire hazards in waiting. You never know what might set them off.

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This weeks flicktion effort inspired by twelve By Flickr user receivingend. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

Olympia Theatre
Written and Performed by Aidan Dooley

It’s been a while since I was at the theatre for anything, and going to a one man show I was a bit apprehensive. How in the hell was one bloke going to keep a sold out theatre interested for 2 hours? Turns out, very easily. Aidan Dooley is a natural storyteller and after a brief explanation of where and what the Antarctic is (at the bottom, a large land mass, no-one lives there - Jade Goody take note) we got into the meat and bones of it. Tom Crean’s life from when he joined the British Navy, his expeditions on the Discovery, the Terra Nova and the Endurance and finally his pub in Annascaul.
More of a history lesson than a play, but interesting nonethless. Dooley engaged the audience - adults and children alike - in one sweet scene he explained the danger of deep crevices by leaning over the edge of the stage and shouting ‘helllooooo’ into the ground. Somewhere in the upper circle a small child shouted ‘hellllooooo!’ back at him which prompted the off-the-cuff ‘There’s my echo’.
Dooley is not a classic actor but he is a fantastic storyteller, bringing Crean back to life, sharing with us the disappointment at not being chosen for the final trek to the pole, the joy of hearing the breakfast bells ring in South Georgia, and the grief at finding Scott and three of the final party frozen in a tent a mere 11 miles from help.
If the show comes anywhere near you I would recommend it, as would the sold out audience last Saturday who gave the show a rousing standing ovation.

‘Where’d they come from?’
Dunno, they bin here long as I can recall.’
‘Whatcha think they are?’
‘Dunno.’ A shrug, shoulders hunched and hands in pockets. The voice is small and bored.
‘They look old’
‘Yup.’
‘A bit battered as well.’ A rough hand runs over the wooden frames, a shower of crackling paint falls to the ground.
‘Wood is sound anyway.’ Says the second voice.
‘Ayup.’ A beat. ‘So you taking them or not?’
‘Reckon I will. Just wish I knew what they were.’
**
They are lighter than he had thought but it is not easy. The boxes rotting and splintered in places prove awkward to shift and sweat pools under his light Memtex shell. Shards of glass tinkle and crunch under his feet. If he can clean down the wood, smooth the rough edges the timber might be worth something on the black market. He runs fingers down the side of the box. Even the splinters feel soothing. Con wonders again what their purpose could have been.
**
The buyer unrolls a length of molywire and gently touches it against the corner of one of the boxes. They are pristine. Con spent hours sanding and varnishing until the timber gleamed like glass. He winces as the buyer slices a splinter from underneath one of the corners.
‘Gotta test the merchandise’ says the Buyer and inspects the tiny fragment.
‘Oiled and polished’ begins Con, but the buyer isn’t interested in Con’s work.
‘Do you know in the old days they used to burn wood? What a wonderful waste.’ The buyer pauses, eyes Con. ‘It’s all good for you though isn’t it?’
Con says nothing. He is used to this- these buyers who detest him for providing them with exactly what they want. Con enjoys his work, even if it does mean that he has to deal with these people. The buyer runs a finger across the finely finished timber and nods.
‘I’ll take them’ he says.
**
Outside the dome nothing moves. A deep black desert stretches to the horizon. Con peers out through thick plexi-glass. The void stares back. Behind him an alarm beeps, his Chrono signalling that night has begun. Once, so the story goes, this was all forestland, this blasted and barren place. Con can’t imagine it. A world where trees are so bountiful that they could be wasted and used. Con slips into his pod and sleeps. His thoughts bring him to a world with a warm yellow sun and a gentle breeze. Of sweet grassy fields and a forest of trees.

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I don’t know where this is going. Think Con may have more to tell. This weeks surprisngly green flicktion effort inspired by Booths in a Field By Flickr user Rick Harris. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

How do I put this? Where do I start?

Hrrrm. I went to see ‘Perfume’ on Wednesday night. Decent sounding cast - John Hurt, Alan Rickman, Dustin Hoffman and relative newcomers Ben Whishaw and Rachel Hurd-Wood. I read the book a few years ago but couldn’t remember much of the plot except that it involved perfume and murder. As I remembered it the book was a wonderful maelstrom of images from 18th century France, ably written from the perspective of one man’s excellent nose.

It is one thing to write the image of a putrid fish market, or an acidic tannery as experienced through scent, it is quite another to film it. Long lingering shots of Grenouille (Whishaw) sniffing the air. Lurid - almost lascivious - camera shots that linger over nostrils. Macro zooms up the adenoids. The human nose is not an attractive body part, especially when it is 10 foot tall. From the opening scene of Grenouille’s birth where his mother pops him out (literally) and pushes him into a rotting pile of fish guts and garbage the film is drenched with the directors attempts to instill the idea of Smell-o-vision into the tale.

The respected cast does the film no favours either. John Hurt is the narrator and halfway through I wondered how he had gotten himself involved in such a pile. Ditto Alan Rickman. And as for Hoffman, well… Where in Gods name he got that laughable ‘Italian’ accent is anyone’s guess. It veers from completely unintelligable to Soprano-esque. At times he just speaks with his normal accent which makes it even more jarring when he suddenly appears to remember he is supposed to be Italian and throws a ‘Basta! Basta!’ into the dialogue.

The plot is good, the murders horrible and the scenery spectacular. I was - despite the critisicms - rather enjoying the movie and then suddenly the director threw in a mass orgy scene using out-takes from Caligula. The over-long slo-mo ‘wandering the back alleys’ scenes complete with OUR LADY OF SOUNDTRACK SORROW* were er, over-long.

Worth going to see if you’ve read the book. Not one you’d go back to again, and I’d imagine it won’t translate well to DVD.

2 thumbs hovering somewhere near the middle, tending downwards.

*Borrowed from Cleo at Movies in 15 minutes.

‘How can I believe in God, if I don’t believe in myself?’

The dark was claiming him, he could see it creeping up behind. Every morning the pain of waking became more intense. To raise a weary head and look into the light that pierced the thin curtains. On bad days it was much easier to stay in bed - ignore the light and its warmth. There were no good days, not when it was like this. Days divided themselves into bad and numb. On those days he struggled from the bed, sharp sheets tangling limbs. Somewhere his eidolon strode the world. But he - the golem - walked through life, dulled to pain, to joy, to anything.

‘All the lonely people, where do they all come from?’

Late nights in front of the television. Random images puncturing his retina. Eyelids flicker, with each blink a new image. His mind processes nothing but it is better than sleep or the parody that it has become. Onscreen, an old time preacher sobs in relief. ‘God is talking’ and he weeps. His tears replicated a million times over. Something gets through.

‘You’ve gotta have faith.’

Spikes of steel, rotating overhead. He shelters under these skeletal umbrellas, tools scattered. It had seemed a good idea, before. Now, just another thing to keep the pain away. Focus on the repetition of it. The wires and cables, these rubber serpents encircle his feet, hissing power. Slowly, slowly they disappear, slithering into the forest of spears he raises above his head. What poisonous fruit can grow here?

‘These lives so small. People, dying every day. What have you done to be remembered?’

Lightening splits the sky, spilling rain from the heavens. The cables and wires float in puddles. He isn’t religious - thinks Faith is a joke. Yet he works away on the roof, numb to the rain and all that it brings. Receivers lined up, aligned to the sky. One day soon he will turn it on. The God Antenna.

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This weeks dodgy flicktion effort inspired by WIRE(LESS) By Flickr user Min. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Linus, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, LittleGoat, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

Madame is visiting for the next 12 days. Her ‘parents’ have gone on a skiing holiday and due to circumstances (ie. having two Siberian Huskies in the house would be too much for my parents to handle) t’other fella is staying down the road in the in-laws house.

Luckily my parents house isn’t strange to her, and she knows me as I was living in Waltons Mountain when my sister brought her home in a cardboard box. Otherwise I would imagine she would be fretting a lot more. I house-sat during the summer for my sister when she went on holidays and it honestly broke my heart most nights when I arrived home from work to see the two little noses stuck through the gate waiting for K and D to drive up. When they saw it was only me they lay with heads on paws - until of course they heard the rustle and clang of their food dishes. Then, oh then I was the best person in the world.

So far Cassie hasn’t shown any signs of missing anyone, every so often she keeps sniffing around looking for Bobby but for the most part she’s content to lean her chin in your lap, snuggle up against your legs and let you scritch her between the ears. I find it amazing how social she is, content to curl up on the floor so long as there is someone with her.

As badly as you feel for the lonely pup, her owners are even worse. My brother-in-law hates leaving them and true to form the holiday couple were on the phone first thing after landing to check that Cassie was ok. I’m sure that the in-laws received a similar phone call to check on Bobby.