From The Song of Lunch
By Christopher Reid
It's an ordinary day
in a publishing house
of ill repute.
Another moronic manuscript
comes crashing down the chute
to be turned into art.
This morning it was Wayne Wanker's
latest dog's dinner
of sex, teenage philosophy
and writing-course prose.
Abracadabra, kick it up the arse -
and out it goes
to be Book of the Week
or some other bollocks.
What a fraud. What a farce.
And tomorrow: who knows
which of our geniuses
will escape from the zoo
and head straight for us
with a new masterpiece
lifeless in his jaws.
That's about the size of it.
Seemed like a rather amusing poem for NaNoWriMo (this is the only time this year you'll see that word in this blog, I promise), though it's here because gblvr and I watched the BBC film of The Song of Lunch with Alan Rickman and Emma Thompson, and it was very entertaining in a very sad way. I think I enjoyed the beginning the most, Rickman's character's fantasy of Bloomsbury with Virginia Woolf and T.S. Eliot walking around; by the time he gets to the restaurant, it's apparent that his eye for detail doesn't prevent his memory from deluding him, and by the time Thompson's character arrives, it's pretty easy to guess that his idea of nostalgia and hers are going to be very different. It's a lot of fun to watch the two of them act against each other, though, having seen them in Sense and Sensibility and Love Actually and various interviews together over the years. We also watched Art School Confidential, a loan from dementordelta, which has a fantastic supporting cast -- Anjelica Huston, John Malkovich, Jim Broadbent -- and a very funny, cracked premise about the pretentiousness of contemporary art at all levels and the things people will do to be taken seriously.
In general I had a very nice day with gblvr though I totally forgot to do things like fold the laundry. We met at California Tortilla and brought the food back here so that in addition to watching movies, we could make earrings. I am still a complete novice at making passable loops but I put together three pairs, and gblvr made me beautiful chandelier earrings and helped me repair a necklace. We also snuck in some Merlin -- she hadn't seen "Gwaine," which is both a fun episode and delightfully slashy. I didn't get as much exercise as I should have, since I walked only a mile so we'd have time to eat before Undercovers, but my post-Halloween sugar headache is finally gone -- I did not have a single bite of candy -- and I woke up with a bit of good news to counter all the bad news of the night before (Boxer, whom my mother knew in college, defeated Fiorina, Reid defeated Angle, Brown defeated Whitman, so at least the Senate is not lost). Here are some photos of the fall bonsai collection at the National Arboretum on Election Day:
This gingko, in training since 1896, was gloriously golden...
...yet this trident maple had lost almost all its leaves.
The entrance offered seasonal Japanese art to go with the artistic trees.
Pretty leaves were falling from this 35-year-trained sweet gum.
This is the oldest bonsai on display, a Japanese white pine in training since 1625, given to the arboretum by a Japanese prince.
Adam suggested the perspective of this bougainvillea in the tropical bonsai collection.
And there were colorful reminders that winter isn't far behind.