Flashbulb

In 1937, Neville Chamberlain stalled.  War was inevitable, but he put it off by making bargains, giving us time to prepare.  That’s one way of looking at it anyway, and since it’s history, all there are are ways to look at things.  Nothing will ever be concrete fact.  But in ’38 he went and said that old ‘Peace in our time’ quote and we look back on him as a great bungler, an idiot of our time.

You have to be very careful what you say.  Although having the most stressful job, during the most dangerous time, while dying of cancer, probably somewhat negates the ability of foresight on quotes that will go down in history (besides, what did we want him to say, ‘war is coming and we’re all gonna die’?).

I worry that I’ll write something stupid in the blog.  Something people will call me up on.  Because I’m writing this on my own, I don’t need to qualify my statements, and if I’m suddenly asked for examples, I’ll panic.  It’s not a big deal right now, as I’ve only just started and I could probably count the readers on one hand and still have enough fingers left over to plug a leak in a dam. 

It's hard putting up the (working) titles of my stories.  Somehow putting the full names scares me.  Like putting their names in print somehow puts them at risk.  Or puts my word down that I'm going to really get them published, instead of just playing around on the computer.

It’s astounding to think I once wanted to be an actor.  Not just once, but for about seventeen or eighteen years of The Life planned on becoming an actor.  Me, the great coward.  I would have keeled over from a heart attack at the first audition.  Thank goodness for the poor exam results that sent me fleeing to writing, and the saving grace of The Life. 

What is a saving grace?

But I can’t hide forever, not even as a reclusive writer.

Something I’ve been putting off, blog-wise, is reviewing films.  I can’t help reviewing films when I see them, and until this year, I generally stuck my thoughts on flixster.  Since I now have my own space to write in, I should probably move them here.  But I know I disagree with a lot of people, and I believe firmly that my opinions are valid and intelligent, that’s why I hold the damn things, but if I say I don’t like a famous film, then this tends to really annoy rude people who feel the need to tell me I’m stupid.  Frankly, since I’m the one actually thinking and not copying what I saw on a poster, I doubt I’m the stupid one.  But still, that cowardice is there.  I’m afraid to share my thoughts, because it’s a lot easier to disagree with someone in print than it is face to face.   

Last night I watched Se7en.  I wasn’t impressed.  It also wasn’t the greatest idea to watch it before bed.  Not with my imagination.  The next two films on the shelf are Schindler’s List and Saving Private Ryan.  They’re about the war, I’m interested in the war, the ms Working Title: The Road To Confidence is set during the war, I want to research the war.  I don’t, however, want to watch depressing three-hour films that will give me nightmares. 

I wish the mind wouldn’t do flashbulb horrors.  What that means is just when I go to open a door to put some laundry in the basket, or reach out to flick on the light so I can see the way to the bathroom, or move a chair that’s in the way, the mind comes up with the most horrific, scary image it can.  So now if I open the door, there will be a recently murdered loved one, if I turn on the light, inches from the face will by the psychotic visage of Mr Hyde, if I move the chair it will somehow have skewered me in the brain.  I have to do the action anyway, but now I’m scared.  What kind of imagination does that to a person?

Scary, depressing or gruesome films do not help.  Especially when I haven’t been channelling my creativity into my writing.  It’s going to bubble out in unpleasant ways.  And why haven’t I been writing?

Ah, Christmastime.  Mistletoe and wine (both missing from The Home, because I have no idea where one would buy mistletoe, am fairly sure it is poisonous, and would only feel mocked by the distinct lack of people to kiss under it, and because I live in a teetotal environment, believing that fun should always be had without the need to alter one’s mind via drugs.  Oh yes, I’m a preachy git.  No wonder there’s a lack of kissing).

I spent Friday trudging around the city, ostensibly to look for shoes (I’m supposed to pick out a pair for myself for Christmas but I hate shoe shopping because I have troll’s feet and no shoes fit me and always cut me up) but mainly just doing nothing, other than wasting several perfectly good hours of the day.

I spent today decorating the house in traditional tacky style, desperately emptying the boxes of all their decorations, not because I like the look of the decorations, but because unless I put everything up then it’s a failed task (I’m actually wearing a piece of gold and green tinsel around the neck; it’s my favourite piece of tinsel and every year looks more like someone has shot and skinned it).  And now as I sit staring at it all, smugly pleased with the fake holly I’ve wound up the banister and the fact that I fitted three angels on the top of the tree, I do wonder why I’ve bothered. 

No one will be here with me on Christmas Day.  All today really amounts to is another day not writing.  I could at least have tidied the place up a bit.  But putting up decorations, that’s creative.  Cleaning the house?  That’s anti-creative.  I can’t make excuses for that.

A saving grace is the redeeming grace of God.

Oh, it’s him again.  Busy this time of year.