March 2nd, 2016

March 2nd, 2016

11:41 pm on the 1st

I still have posts to catch up on, but I wanted to actually do some writing. Something with a bit more zing to it, more immediate.

I just finished watching Trumbo- of course I liked it, a movie about a guy that writes movies, it's like it was made for me. As Trumbo was repeatedly told throughout the film "... but there's a good story in there somewhere." The scene where he finally sees his name back on the screen, for the credits to Spartacus, and the close up of his eye is held just a little too long. I half expected an actual tear to drop, even though that would have been entirely outside of the character Trumbo.

Rather that shot should have been cut, in favour of a lighter touch, so that it would be all the more touching when we see his wife sobbing after the movie, thinking to herself that the nightmare was over. 

There were many well done scenes, a lot of great dialogue, but whatever liberties the creators took with the true events for the purposes of dramatization, they were too restrained. Many great scenes should have been cut, sad but true. I imagine the extravagance in having these scenes has much to do with the pull of Cranston's Trumbo, and even more the awe that the memory of the real man has for the creators.

As portrayed on screen this man had incredible grace.

It's funny to think about a writer like that- with the Midas touch. He writes something, and you just know it's going to be good. How? What separates a good writer from a bad one? I'm not asking what separates a bad writer from a good writer... oh, you didn't know? Yes, that's a different question. With an answer, even! Bad writers lack style, lack story, lack substance- all lack. I suppose I should have asked what makes a writer, and then what makes a good writer, a great one?

I'm not entirely sure why, but I'm reminded of piano lessons when I was little- these particular lessons must have occured while we lived in British Columbia, but I could be wrong about that. And I remember playing and the teacher saying I wasn't putting enough FEELING into it. I played again, but this time I did my very best to play exactly the same. "Yes, there, better," said the music teacher. I felt that I'd caught on to some secret then- that the Emperor had no clothes (well, "cliches are cliches for a reason", so the meta-cliche goes).

But it is possible to play music with feeling. I've seen it- I've even done it, believe it or not.

Ah, maybe that's it- a good writer will write with feeling?

I suppose that's enough musing for now- I don't think I've been too pointlessly roundabout just now to scare you off quite yet, and so I should definitely quit while I'm ahead.

For the sake of tradition, I spent my day off at Web surfing the internet until I was too embarassed by my lack of life to do anything but leave and return to my apartment. I considered dropping in on Lina at her store, it was easy enough to find, but it's weird enough showing up at a friend's workplace unannounced, let alone the briefest of casual acquaintances.

They seem to have raised the price on my vitamin tablets again, now the 15 Yuan is 30. That's quite a jump that I'd love to have explained.

I ate with Adam and Jasmine, and out of the corner of my eye I think I saw Nikita/Harry/"Goliath" like Frankenstein's Monster- if he wants to join that's okay with me, but I think I dissuaded him earlier today when he asked about my next class and I told him I had no classes, and then said "any questions?" I meant, literally, do you have a question you would like to ask, but he may have taken it like "get out of my face, it's my day off".

Checked my e-mail, I saw a few messages from Teksavy regarding the internet payment bouncing off my maxed out credit card back in Canada- I was expecting this, but of course I wasn't actually prepared for it. I forwarded the mail to Jordan with the site password attached so he can save himself from being internet-less like some unsavoury character we would do well not to name (but it rhymes with "Pie-saac").

I picked up some sort of fruit pudding cup monstrosity at the grocery store below my apartment, as well as bananas. The pudding, more jello than anything else, comes with three tiny spoons that make a mockery of what a spoon is and does. I know the serving sizes tend to be smaller in China, and these pudding cup things aren't quite as large as I'd like, but with spoons like this, everyone getting a bite, I could at least feed a kindergarten class or two. These spoons are too tiny to balance any scoop of processed whatever on top of it.

Naturally this calls for my regular-sized, though still smaller than I'd prefer, spoon. My mistake came when I rinsed the thing off and thought I was done for the day, eating-wise. I ended up going back to my pudding cups and having the last one. Looks like it's just you and me, tiny spoon.

Another close call with my laundry not wanting to rinse out its water- I may have stumbled onto a new method of activating the device that will solve all of my worries on that front in the future. We'll see. While I had my laundry swishing back and forth I was incredibly tired- it was 8, 8:30 and I wanted to sleep badly. I only stayed up because I needed to monitor my laundry, and I had my oatmeal and pudding cups and water, and I eventually passed that hurdle to become the energetic stallion you see before you. Not enough energy to do any exercises, but enough to finish Trumbo- long movie- and hang my clothes, and of course write here.

And perhaps enough to even floss and brush my teeth. Well, let's give it a try. - 12:35 am