A fine mist slips across from the west all day producing a constant fall of spritzer like rain. Everything is drooping with droplets of water. Even the last of the berries on the rambling ivy. Birds have recourse to them at the end of winter when food is in short supply. And here the supply is plentiful. There is a junble of sycamore, overgrown by ivy, that crowns the tops of many of the trees that are also covered in many years growth of lichens. It has just been left. I wonder though if the sycamore have stopped other trees from growing. I will have to check which are the natural indigenous trees of this part of the world. Of course one had intended to start a new fitness routine, do meditation and jog all the way down to Nanjizel today, start an art project and finish the book, even run go all the way to Land's End and imagine myself in an old sailing ship headed for the New World, hopefully without chains.
So reading and literary pursuits and having opinions becomes the order of the day after eating, breakfast, hoovering and curling my lip again as the all to obvious evidence of the 'big mouse' is very apparent. Last night I heard so much scrummaging, scratching and bangs and bumps I kept throwing my large heavy boots in the direction of the source of those irritating little rodent noises. I know they are very cut but seriously it was definatelty a Tom & Jerry moment.
I read an interesting review in the Guardian Guide by John Patterson who discusses the 'hero' of the film 'Shame' with hugely comic derison in terms of the hero's sex addiction, 'he's in it for purposes of priapic auto-obliteration, nihilistic self erasure.' His sister turns up and she is needy and emotionally hungry so is his polar opposite. Isn't this interesting to see so clearly the two most common positions of male and female and I don't mean the missionary position.) They want totally different things. Brandon, played by Michael Fassbender (isn't there some famous German director with the same surname) He seeks anything but connection. His gigantic inner thirst is never assuaged, check his itinerary
'rise at seven, masturbate in the shower, off to work, ogle possible conquest on the subway, give hot pursuit, lose her; grunt away at the office lavs; porn at his fingertips on the virus ridden office computer, live nudie-cam accounts on the laptop at home, hooker for dinner, two hookers for , um, late supper' swift detour and change-up to the backrooms of a gay bar, and then home fo a well-earned night's sleep.' (John Patterson, Film in Guardian Guide.)
Does this dichotomy lie at the heart of how men get to have sex with their desired object by having to write love poems, songs, great guitar riffs and so on, all this just to screw? Is this really how men are wired? And women so different, so hungry for emotional connection, so needy, and in her own emotional neediness just as addicted and ultimately empty and dissatisfied? Like a hungry ghost in a Tibetan Tanka who never is satisfied with anything, as humans we seem to continue to chase rainbows and miss out on what is really satisfying. Sure sex is great, sexual attraction necessary to keep the wheels going round but on closer inspection a terribly sad tragedy.
I think the lesson is moderation in all things, don't you vicar?
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