belated long entry

all my recent posts have been cut short. in the middle of posting, i've been interrupted, or the internet cut off, or whatever.
frustrating.

anyhow. i will extrapolate on that which i wish to extrapolate.

in furthering my film-ic education, i saw 'brazil' - lachlan adores it - he finds the humour tempers the darkness of the film. i found it relentlessly horrifying, and a lot of the humour missed the mark for me. he considered 'pan's labyrinth' much darker and more harrowing. personally, i found 'pan's' to be so utterly enchanting, and beautiful that the darkness was only to mirror the light within the film. and vice versa.

i finished reading 'strangers' by taichi yamada - which was lightly drawn, delicate and hypnotic, a lovely ghost story with a wonderful, cut off end that leaves nothing really resolved, but in the perfect sort of way. i am now reading his other translated book 'in search of a distant voice' which i think is lacking something of the earlier title - but i tend to think it is a lack in the translation rather than in the book itself. the story is stronger than that of 'strangers,' and weaves around in an interesting way. and, it's a lazy read compared to my byron bio.

what else.... i have drunk too much coffee today. this is something that tends to typify my tuesdays. coffee. and i got called into work this morning, which was mildly irritating, but an extreme relief because i am on the verge of completely running out of money. this upsets me greatly. god. i need money. i need a real people job. hence the librarianness.... soonish. pah.

this much coffee has given me a stomach ache. i hate jobsearching so much.

how utterly surreal. i just typed censure into dictionary.com to test the spelling. it's the word for the day.

indulge me here:

i conjour forth an image.
a room, four walls, lit by candles. focal point of room is a four poster bed, billowing silk red fabric cascading over the timber. incense burns in a metal vase, filled with sand. the walls are lined with books, but for a gap for a window. the floor is scratched timber. luxurious thick persian rugs cover the ground. a chest lies at the end of the bed, inside of which rests a kimono, silver silk with midnight blue, patterned lightly with a shimmering visage of the moon. below lies thin paper, that fades to nothing on closer inspection, with scrawling ant-like text scuttling over the pages, from one sheet to another.

outside it is storming, the wind shuddering a branch across the window; it is silent in the room, still but for the movement of the incense smoke and the crawling waves through the canopy upon the bed. the candlelight illuminates the silk threads in the canopy, making the movement seem like sparks upon the fabric.

the room is warm, outside cold. condensation forms upon the inside surface of the window, jewelled minute droplets forming a white haze. i sit in the bed, naked, watching as words form in the condensation, written by an invisible hand.

forever utterly thine.

i am completely alone in the room. there is no door, the window is unopenable. i wrap a threadbare, dark blue velvet throw over my knees, shivering despite the warmth. there is not enough light to read, and were i to reach to a book on the shelf, to pull off a - delicious, leather, gilded, aromatic, pages soft with the indentation of the printind from each page - from the shelf, i would find it unreadable. the book would fade and become transparent, and were i to shelve it, it would dissapear. it is a library of babel of sorts.

i feel a dry sort of sickness in the back of my throat. no one knows i am here. no one can get me out bar myself. i cannot cry or scream, or laugh or make a sound. i feel dead, and trapped, and drunk in the beauty of my surrounds. the light flickers over my flesh, my skin glows white. i feel so desperately alone.

my eyes are transfixed by the words enscribed in the condensation, that wrote through my soul with an invisible empty hand. i sit and stare at the window waiting for them to fade.

..................................

ok, done. for now.

no. more. coffee. for. me.....

i have this incredible pasta waiting for me at home. lachlan even made the pesto himself. he is amazing, if sleepy all the time.