Delor.es.Defacto

she knew she had to change her plans

And round her house she set such a barricade March 9, 2008

Filed under: Uncategorized — deloresdefacto @ 8:14 pm

Since my life is so full of pizazz lately, I’ve again sat to write, yet another, blog entry. That makes, what, one a day for three days. Wow.
During the weekends I’m no longer going out and drinking and doing whatever it was that I remember being fun at one point in my life and now I watch movies and do chores. I’m not complaining, mind you, I just want to make clear that my dry subject matter is evident only because I don’t have much else going on around here. Hence, I write blog entries that are about regular, day to day, menial things. I comment on my entertainment tastes and my simple life’s events. But I guess that’s what makes a blog, a blog, right?

Friday night I decided to save the envelopes that I received from Blockbuster available for the weekend days. If you get to sit around like I do on Saturdays and Sundays then you know all too well, as I do, that there is absolutely nothing interesting on television at all. Upon discovering my lack of interest in anything the some 100+ channels that cable can offer me, I fixed up my rental requests that you can see on my Facebook Movie Clique.

Saturday I watched Silk and I’m with the critiques on this one. It was beautiful and I’m sure the book was good but, man, when it was over I thought, “What a waste of my time.”
I love Michael Pitt and he’s the main reason I wanted to watch this to begin with, despite the low ratings it received. And I thought he did a fine job as an actor in this (not “sleepy” or “boring” as some critiques said.) But Keira Knightley‘s character wasn’t even in the movie for more than about ten lines for most of it, so how am I suppose to feel any empathy for her or any feelings of a man discussing his regret over the sub-affair he had with his wife? There was just too much unexplained and disconnected.
Both characters were French, yet, they both had American accents (yes, Keira faked an American accent and appeared topless, which still didn’t save the movie, by the way.) The husband gives his wife a new garden which she plants full of lilies when they become rich from his silk egg trading but, then, when the whole town is poor, everyone pitches in to “restore” the garden and plant trees, but somehow “there was enough food for everyone.” Um…how? If they planted crops in their backyard, fine, but that was never explained. The metaphor for her garden and the richness of their love and prosperity didn’t work.
And who the heck is Beatrice and her husband who died? That’s fine that she serves at the house for the wife to have company, a child to watch after and some help with the chores but, why are we suppose to care about this? If Beatrice’s husband was the guy who use to work for the silk trader, who stopped speaking and then left, then I can see the connection with her husband and the main character but, again, without some explaining, I’m not gasping the significance.
Then there is the lust the husband has for a Japanese woman, or, as the Dutch gun trader who ends up (presumably) dead, she isn’t Japanese. He never has an affair with her and only sees during two visits, plus she can’t speak to him, but he wants to risk his life to save hers? I was thinking that in the book this is all probably a symbol for Western imperialism, wanting everything in the East that he can get his hands on and capturing it for his own but since this is never clearly fleshed out, again, I didn’t feel anything for the situation.
And the whole thing with the letter that supposedly his wife sent instead of the Japanese girl. The lady in Paris said that she translated it from English to Japanese for her but how did it end up with a postmark from Japan as he said it did when it first arrived? That made zero sense to me, unless she sent it through some other trader who was in Japan. I don’t get it.

Sunday, today, I watched Sylvia again. This was only the second, maybe third, time I’ve seen it since it came out in 2003. I liked it but I’m just not able to let Gwenyth Paltrow be Sylvia Plath. Since we know Paltrow as this high self-esteem movie star and Plath as a brilliant, mad, artist, the two paths just can’t cross. I think if they picked an actress with a lesser known persona, I could buy her as a darkly depressive poetess. But since I, as every other female on the planet my age, knows Plath inside and out, there are very high standards for how she would be played. I loved the way the movie looked and Daniel Craig did a great job as Ted Hughes and the chemistry the two had together was great. However I think someone else should have played the Plath. Maybe once someone gets the idea to make a movie about Assia Wevill now that Lover of Unreason has been published, (a book I still can’t get through, by the way) the three biographies can be shown a little better with different actresses and a different viewpoint to the whole love triangle.
I will say, thought, that Gwenyth Paltrow’s voice was suitable for the role. She has that clear, precise diction that Plath always had in her voice recordings.

And that’s it for updates. I have to send the movies back in the mail and buy cigarettes. It’s cold out again and I’m sitting here with my flannel penguin pajamas on. You can always tell a native Floridian from the tourists by the way they bundle up when the temperature drops below 70 degrees. Venturing outside is a sort of sport for us to experience the bit of seasonal change. I can’t imagine living again in 20″ of snow like it has been in Columbus. I think this is about as much cold as I can take so I stay indoors and do my household chores. The laundry is done now and the week is ahead. Not that I had anything special planned but you never know what things I may write.
That’s why I keep trying to hook in to some sort of inspirational media, be it books (right how I’m still reading Who Do You Love?) or movies about writing. It makes me think in a more literary sense, not to sound silly about it. It’s just that exposing myself to words being put together so nicely by one, gives me the openness of believing I can do it just as well, if not better. So many times I’ve heard people say that blog writing or journal writing is a waste of time, but I tend to disagree. Updating a blog is writing to an audience; a readership that all writers want to have in some way. I always find a sense of satisfaction in writing an entry. It’s not the same satisfaction of finishing a story, that’s true, but it’s still completing something and delivering something to the masses, even if it is in some tiny speck.
I don’t expect my premium blogging skills will make any mark on the world. (But I’m sure I’m not the only one who admits that they hope for just that; otherwise why would we be so interested in blog stats and ads and link sharing and networking to being with?) The same idea goes with writing published, paper material. There are millions of books out there and I can work and pray and hope that at least one of mine will be recognized as “good” among them. That’s why I don’t think having a blog is anything to snort at and neither is journal writing. I’ve heard so many people say that putting a lot of time and effort into a journal isn’t really work but I tend to disagree. Without my handwritten, private journal I wouldn’t be able to plot out every unabashed idea in my head and get the flow of forming the sentences for my stories or my essays. That’s just a piece of the whole puzzle. Not that I’m saying that solid, published, finely edited piece of work isn’t the trophy I’m running toward. It’s just that blogging about movies and books and music and stupid events in my life into one entry helps me form something literary that fits into the box of “short stories.” I take pride in all of it and I enjoy doing all of it, as do a lot of people who like the art of keeping a blog. If its purpose, above anything, is for personal satisfaction then it’s nothing to be scoffed at, in my opinion.


And round her house she set
Such a barricade of barb and check
Against mutinous weather
As no mere insurgent man could hope to break
With curse, fist, threat
Or love, either.

“Spinster” by: Sylvia Plath

Photo credit: mayr

http://www.deloresdefacto.com/?p=73

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