Current Mood: Persisting

When did photobucket allow 1GB hosting? WTF? Well, I guess, luck for me, I've been surviving on their old 25 mb quota. Oh, and Blogger hates me. It won't republish my new blog template. Of course it won't. *growl*


Crap, I've forgotten what I was going to talk about. Oh no wait, that's right, I've decided to get my life organised. As one possibly renowned, possibly famous, possibly a man once said, the first step towards sucess is 'organisation'. Whether that be organising your sock drawer or organising to fix the major problems in your life, it all matters in the end. Life is in the details which is also unfortunately the title of my novel.

~

Am going out tonight to the Murder and Mayhem thing at the HiFi Bar in the City. Line-up looks realy good and I'll get to see Danny Bhoy finally. My sister forgot to include buying me a Danny Bhoy ticket, even after I told her I specifically wanted to go. Silly girl. Also, I've heard of most of the line-up but never actually seen them except via television. This is the closest to the Royal Gala, which is the one I really wanted to go to, but oh-well. On that line, I did go see the Glass House which was so excellent and just as funny in real life, except because we got suck-ass seats, I spent most of it watching the TV Screen, just like I would have had I been home. Too bad, I ended up missing it on Wednesday but they taped two, so I can see this week's episode and I might be able to yes, pathetically, see myself not getting most of the jokes. Hahaha.

~

I finally saw V FOR VENDETTA and well, I really can't believe all the critics trashed it. In comparison to the rest of the crap that gets flushed out weekly by the studio heads in Hollywood and which manages to rate a few stars from sympathetic critics, how does a movie which really isn't that bad and manages to come up with some kind of original plot and thinking via the Wachowski Brothers gets completely demolished in all the newspapers? Thank god for the NataliePortman!shavedhead notoriety or I swear, no one would have gone to see this at all. I completely agree with CLEO and am glad I read her little review before anything else, including Ebert's review, of whom I put almost absolute trust in. Even he did not rate it badly, so I do not understand the complete disregard for this movie.

Then again, my reasons for liking it are far from their fold. I thought that perhaps its was not the best time to bring it out, but that this would increase sympathy for its subject but apparently not. Australia Critics have trashed it immensely and I can't bear to read any reviews because I am so easily swayed. Look, I went in and I enjoyed it. It was fun and not a complete popcorn blockbuster. It had deeper meaning and thought then another movie involving an Arnie-type hero saving the world from some nuclear cold war, not that I don't enjoy movies like that but please, this movie was not entirely shallow nor was it overly pretentious, like so many other so-called indie films.

I've not very good at explanations on why this film was truly excellent so, if you would, please read the review on the IMDB webpage, above the forums. It really is very good and quite nicely details most of the reasons I liked it. The other reasons were not so much more obvious, except those which were picked out by Cleo and hoop-hooped by me during the actual movie. Mainly, because so many little nuances, themes and um...blatant objects were like scene rip-offs from POTO. I.e. V has an underground lair with a a) shrine b) candles c) mirrors and a d) musical instrument (ok, jukebox) plus lots and lots of masks. Also, he's burned to a crisp and has a thing about her seeing him for realz, y'all. At one point during the movie, he most seriously SMASHEZ the mask into a mirror because SHE LEAVES. He does the black cape twirly thing and kills people and in a very ironic way, but still reminiscent of POTO, leaves her instead of loving her. It was um...very uh unsettling to me. But of course, in some ways this almost tops POTO (I think equals it, generally) because it includes some of the cast of the Forsythe Saga which had me oogling like a baby over it, especially since they were in scenes together and I finally got to see me some Maced!Jon. TAKE THAT!

Icons to come, but you might wanna check my LJ site, I usually icon on that.

~

OK. Must do accounting now. Tutorial and Mid-Sem in one week as well as a whole CRAPLOAD of assignments also due in. Sigh.

~ M.M.W ~
Schnugged at 09:52 |

Current Mood: Quizzical
Current Music: L'almerique - Joe Dassin

CLEO's post about the 10 things Writers have learned about writing, gave me great consideration about my own long-term recent inability to even write a few lines of non-sensical gibberish. In most scrutinised speculation:

You have to do it first, at the earliest and innermost level, for yourself. Because if you aren't writing for your own pleasure, why the hell are you doing it?

Maybe, the reason I just can't 'write' ANYTHING anymore is because I just don't enjoy it. I make the time, I have the equipment...I just. CAN'T. It doesn't feel natural what I'm writing anymore, it just doesn't flow from me like it did before. Sure, before it was complete non-grammatical trash so to speak, but at least I loved it. At least everyday I gave it a go and was somewhat pleased with it. Now, I can barely come up with an idea let alone a character of some deeper inner conflict that doesn't seem cliche or stereotypical. I can't even write my magnum opus and considering my high egocentrism, you think that would be quite the simple task?

In my entire life, writing was the one thing I could depend on. My life was always on the fritz, I had everchanging friends, hates, loves etc. But my writing, ay, that was the rub. It was my something blue, I could always reach deep down inside of me and feel it, bubbling up. It was something to look forward to doing on cold rainy afternoons, snuggled in bed with a nice hot laptop on my lap and a MILO by my side while I typed feverishly away, lost to the worlds of my imagination and at complete peace. Now, I lie in bed and worry. I think, no, I KNOW I should be doing my work and so I do it or I sleep. But I don't have any extra energy to expend on writing, no motivation, no goal in it. And everytime I read something, to inspire or increase my lack of knowledgeabless about the world, it depresses me even more that I will never attain a level so high as those authors and their MAD writingz skillz.

I have books and books and notebooks and little books and skinny Morning Glory notebooks full of writing and ideas and stories. But I haven't come up with a new idea in a year now and I can feel myself dwindling away, like the writer in me is gone or is leaving. She's found a better person to inhabit or maybe she's died all ready, I don't know. But I'm terrified more than anything else that I'll loose her, this separate entity that I beleived was so entwined in my being. But I feel empty. She's not there. And I can't dredge up anything more to keep me going. I can only admire others from afar, hoping to copy them, feeling as if I'll ever live up to those standards. And it scares me, because, deep, deep down, beneath all these layers, I hope something else happens, I hope I don't become a lawyer, I hope I end up as a writer or in Hollywood or something exciting because I don't really want, I can't really believe that in 5-6 years time I'll be in an office, dreams completely deflated and working 90 hours a week for nothing really, with no real prospects, with no real dreams. And then I really know that the girl inside of me, that writer girl with all her dreams and beliefs will really be gone.

~

On a second note, my flair for the dramatic which is soooo evidenced by that post above just goes to prove that not all of her is gone. Ah, who can blame me? I'm just a sucker for a richly aesthetically pleasing drama-ridden conclusion. Love it.
Schnugged at 10:22 |