A few thoughts on Abjection and Last Tango in Paris

I went for a walk round a nearby loch this afternoon; it was cold and clear and the trees were beautiful after two nights of frost, so I was hoping to take some photos of the reflections in the still water.
But my camera wouldn't work. It's OK - it does that occasionally. Then I thought I might take a photo on my phone, but the battery was flat. Then I thought maybe it's just as well not to share. A beautiful afternoon goes deeper than memory - it goes into the soul and remains there as part of you even when you think you've forgotten all about it. A photograph can't begin to capture that.
Then, I saw two young hen pheasants at the roadside, dead. They'd been hit by a car, very recently. They hadn't been squashed, and there was no blood. The way they'd fallen, one had her head lying across the other's neck, in an attitude of complete abjection, eyes closed in submission to the inevitable. It reminded me of Holbein's Dead Christ. (see The Powers of Horror, by Julia Kristeva)
It cut me to the quick but it was easy to resist the crude impulse to shed a crass, bathetic tear. Those deaths were worth more than that.
I've been thinking about Julia Kristeva in another sense today. I was thinking about Maria Schneider, who starred in Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris. She died earlier this year, aged 58. She was 19 when she starred in that film, and from then on it defined her. If you Google her, "butter scene" is almost top of the list. She is quoted as saying (this isn't word for word) "Never take your clothes off for shiny-eyed middle aged men, especially if they say it's for Art". I've seen that film half a dozen times. I had an obsession with Marlon Brando when I was in my twenties, and saw everything he'd been in as often as I could. I haven't seen Last Tango for maybe fifteen years; I remember thinking Brando's performance was extraordinary. However, there was definitely something about the subtext which unnerved me, which I couldn't quite articulate at the time. I wanted to like Brando, I really did, and my sympathy was with him rather than Schneider's callow film-making boyfriend, but there was something horribly repellent about him.
I now think of the film as an unpleasant exercise in sadism, but I'd be interested to watch it again in case I'm wrong. Bertolucci made an effort to redeem it through intellectualising a basically tawdry premise; Maria Schneider as the centre of his stereotypical shiny-eyed middle-aged fantasy of no-strings no-holds-barred sex with an easily malleable and disposable stranger. Schneider as plastic doll, in other words. Brando, an only slightly less shiny eyed middleager, was playing both sides - only he was worse than Bertolucci because of his duplicity and because I am sure that he knew better but was too jaded to care very much.
What has this to do with Julia Kristeva? I haven't time to explain! She refused to accept the label of "feminist", which is precisely why I like her work so much, but her analysis of the male gaze surpasses anything else I've read. No polemic, no rigid position-taking, and that has to be good.
More *at some point*

Quote of the Day - WB Yeats

"Although I know when looks meet
I tremble to the bone
The more I leave the door unlatched
The sooner love is gone
For love is but a skein unbound
Between the dark and dawn..."

Verse one from Crazy Jane and the Journeyman, by WB Yeats (great title!)

Oban community fireworks fiasco

If you've never strolled along the Oban sea front of an evening, eating fish and chips while watching the gulls wheel high above the ferries and the fishing boats, and planning a trip to Mull, Iona and/or Staffa the next day - you've never really lived. South of France? You can keep it.

Scots Wurd o' th' Day - Dornicle

Haven't done Scots Wurd o' the' day for ages, as I mislaid my Chambers's Scots Dictionary. But now I've found it again.

Today's Scots wurd is "dornicle". It's a noun, apparently. The definition given is as follows: "the viviparous blenny".

I'll be honest - I'm none the wiser, and I can't be bothered Googling it at the moment. Might have a look later on.

Great Swears Of Our Time #7

Nothing like starting the day with a good old swearing session.

Bill Hicks - Little Miracles

A Map of the Rocky Outcrop

Here's a map I made of the geography of the entire blog, as it exists visually in my head. I found it in a drawer just now as was looking for something else. I must have drawn it at least two years ago. I might try and do another one in felt tip so it's a bit clearer - for the Kindle and that, ken.

It's got the cliffs, the infra-inn, the Rocky Outcrop itself, the time-space continuum anomaly (we've all got one of those), the Old Rectory, the old coastguard hut, Overthere, smuggling ships, the Hulks, and so forth.

The Chanting Hordes return for Hallowe'en

"It's All Hallow's Eve, Geoffrey, when the dead rise from the grave and walk the earth."

"Brilliant. When's it over?"

"Don't be negative. I think we should just go with the gloomy vibe, Geoffrey. Let's kill everyone."

"Right. How will we do that?"

"We'll dig a big huge pit, and put lots of sharp sticks in it, pointy end up. Then we'll lure them all in, to their deaths."

"We can't possibly do that. It's a terrible plan."

"Why?"

"Because I can't be arsed sharpening sticks for hours on end. Besides, Who's "them"? And how would we lure them in, precisely?"

"Put a plate of sausage rolls and a coconut sponge in the middle. They'd all run for that willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave. Result. To be honest I don't know who "they" are though. You've got a "point" there. Ha ha. Oh dear - what's that awful moaning, wailing, dragging sound?"

"I think we MIGHT be about to find out....the chanting, puffa jacket-wearing hordes are back (see previous posts)...and they're heading our way. You get sharpening and I'll start digging - we've not got a second to lose - HURRY!!!!"

New Flash Story just out on Shortbread Stories

My latest flash fiction piece, Set Meal for Two, has just gone live over on Shortbread Stories
It's about two nasty warring "thespians" out for a meal. You can, as usual, find it via that link or read it via the Shortbread widget on the right hand side of the blog.

Sailing - a peom from Geoffrey

Sailing - a peom.

I want to voyage westwards
Into the setting sun
I want to live on apples
And mushrooms on a bun.

I want my boat to sail and sail
And never spring a leak
I want to sail forever
And never have to speak.

Bloggered Off

I'm pretty busy writing other stuff, hence the lack of blog posts this week. Here's some of the stuff I'm working on at the moment.
Psychotweeter part three (part two is in the editing queue over on Shortbread Stories)
A short story which I hope to get done in time for a competition deadline.
A flash fiction piece which I hope to submit "somewhere".
And my Kindle. Hope to get my finger out and get that organised "soon". I must say the technology aspects are putting me off a lot, but I've had some excellent advice from others who've Kindled, and I'm sure I can manage it if I really knuckle down.
Therefore, I don't have much time to blog at the moment.

However, if anyone wishes to contact me to discuss using my finely-honed writing and blogging skills, fine. I'm delighted to consider anything, pretty much. Especially if I'm going to be paid. And if you aren't in a position to pay, then at least have the decency to be extremely grateful, don't take me for granted, and treat me with respect and appreciation. Oh and have plenty biscuits - the good kind. Otherwise, there is absolutely no way I'll want to be involved.
I will consider doing stuff for nothing, if it interests me sufficiently, but I'm well past the stage in life where I'm prepared to be a virtual "intern." It's just not worth it.

The Story of the Old, Empty Barn

It's not "we're all doomed!" but it's good.

Ego? forget it.

I'm interested in tidal patterns - neap, high springs, syzygy and so forth, and was doing a search. "Tides are the rise and fall of sea levels, caused by the combined effects of the gravitational forces exerted by the Moon and the Sun, and the rotation of the Earth." (from wikipedia)

Oh - syzygy. Yes. Quite. Well, it will take your mind off the price of gas, mince, biscuits, apples - everything, really. For a while.

What price your tiny little ego? I mean, not just yours, mine as well...

Is Everything an Illusion, and do we have souls?

"Are we safe?"
"No, of course not. Nobody's ever safe. You know that as well as I do. The membrane between life and Death is as fine as the caul on a new-born babe."
"Here we are, sitting comfortably by the fire, just had our supper, everything secure..."
"That's all by the by. Security is an illusion. The material world, as we perceive it, is an illusion. We - and I use the term merely because I can't think of another at the moment - are a collection - a confluence -of energy particles in a condition of flux. In fact, the only permanence, the only security, is flux."
"Is everything random then? Or is there an overall pattern? Look at that piece of driftwood for example. You can see how it's been shaped by its journey through the world. Where did it come from? We can only wonder. It was part of a tree, obviously. But was it part of the trunk, or a branch that fell off during a storm? Was it uprooted by a landslide, swept down to an estuary by a flooded river, and borne far out to sea on a Spring tide?"
"And then washed ashore and left high and dry by the ebb, ready for us to gather for our fire."
"Is that random? is it coincidence, or was it meant to be? And it's riddled with termite holes. It supported life, even in Death - like the story of the lion in the Bible."
"It's still supporting life. It's keeping us warm."
"I don't want to burn it now! I've grown fond of it now that I know it better. It seems like more than just a piece of wood. It's got a soul. I don't want to see it burning up and turning into ashes before my very eyes."
"Happens to us all Geoffrey. Might as well bite the bullet and face it."
"Do you think trees have souls Tuppy? Do WE have souls, come to that?"
"Trees probably do have them. You've probably got one. If not your own one, then somebody else's. I've not got one - I swapped mine a while back, for some decent sausages, remember? I did a deal with Death. I was starving. Well, peckish."
"Do you regret it now, even just a little bit?"
"No, can't say I do Geoffrey. I didn't know I had it in the first place."

The Ladykillers "Such pretty windows."

Mrs Wilberforce aka Katie Johnson, and Alec Guinness resplendent in his wig and teeth. Marvellous.