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Be My Woman, Well I'll/Be Your Man
Jan. 24th, 2012 11:22 amNot content with yesterday's little blast of cat-porn, I'm working hard to get the Viktor POV companion piece off my hard-drive. Weirdly, considering what a not exactly communicative fellow Viktor is, it's sort of chatty; there's a memory of a long conversation from 1924 in which Atlas May is like: “So, I figure you and Mordecai seem to be getting it on. Is this going to be a problem?” and Viktor's all: “Is it?” Also: Drive-by Ivy Pepper, from 1927. While both of these may not constitute the first sustained appearances by major Lackadaisy cast-members in Mordecai and Viktor's insular little world, they still confirm that thus far (when I write them, at least), these guys have been pretty firmly stranded inside their own heads/in each other's beds. Can something with genuine plot be far behind?;)
Otherwise, I'm really, really tired—I think the excitement of the last few months is catching up with me, and waiting for the next part of the edit really isn't helping, because I keep bracing myself to jump straight back into the burning ring. I had that day and a half of crapping my guts out and bleeding haemmerhoids, plus lousy, boring, rainy weather and possible caffeine poisoning. Today I have a final meeting at Surrey Place to discuss Cal's progress, followed by a last Impact training session; tomorrow it's ferrying Cal back to and from St. Joe's, plus music lesson, followed by two hours at the gym. I really don't want to be back in that place where my schedule is so choked that all I have to look forward to recreationally is television, at least not this quickly.
In slightly more positive news, my mother put me onto the soundtrack of a tiny little Canadian film she recently watched called Small Town Murder Songs, directed by Ed Gass-Donnelly, which is set in Ontario Mennonite country—Peter Stormare plays Walter, a very tight-wound cop with a good command of Platt-Deutsch who's obviously rumspringa'd his way right into High People culture and is now living his life as a Baptist, caught between the need for personal redemption and his own violent impulses. Walter ends up investigating the county's first murder in two decades, and wants very badly to pin it on the drug-dealing asshole who's living with his ex-girlfriend—he's oppressed by his own history and the landscape alike, and the music tells you what he can't. Said music is a soundtrack specifically developed by Gass-Donnelly in combination with local group Bruce Peninsula, which cross-breeds Sacred Harp music and CanCon indie rock in a crazily evocative, call-and-response way. Here are some examples of what I mean:
“Lift 'Em Up/Jack Can I Ride” (http://youtu.be/JEWfq8OIV6E)
“Crabapples” (http://youtu.be/ii1ST0s30IQ)
“Rosie (http://youtu.be/fbwLNIX-pXI)
These songs project a life lived on the moral equivalent of a chain-gang, cosntantly checking yourself for any signs of backsliding, even when you're not sure yourself what those would look like. But you know you're probably doing it! Yeah, it's my sort of music, in a fucking nutshell—she knows me better than I like to think.;))
Otherwise, I'm really, really tired—I think the excitement of the last few months is catching up with me, and waiting for the next part of the edit really isn't helping, because I keep bracing myself to jump straight back into the burning ring. I had that day and a half of crapping my guts out and bleeding haemmerhoids, plus lousy, boring, rainy weather and possible caffeine poisoning. Today I have a final meeting at Surrey Place to discuss Cal's progress, followed by a last Impact training session; tomorrow it's ferrying Cal back to and from St. Joe's, plus music lesson, followed by two hours at the gym. I really don't want to be back in that place where my schedule is so choked that all I have to look forward to recreationally is television, at least not this quickly.
In slightly more positive news, my mother put me onto the soundtrack of a tiny little Canadian film she recently watched called Small Town Murder Songs, directed by Ed Gass-Donnelly, which is set in Ontario Mennonite country—Peter Stormare plays Walter, a very tight-wound cop with a good command of Platt-Deutsch who's obviously rumspringa'd his way right into High People culture and is now living his life as a Baptist, caught between the need for personal redemption and his own violent impulses. Walter ends up investigating the county's first murder in two decades, and wants very badly to pin it on the drug-dealing asshole who's living with his ex-girlfriend—he's oppressed by his own history and the landscape alike, and the music tells you what he can't. Said music is a soundtrack specifically developed by Gass-Donnelly in combination with local group Bruce Peninsula, which cross-breeds Sacred Harp music and CanCon indie rock in a crazily evocative, call-and-response way. Here are some examples of what I mean:
“Lift 'Em Up/Jack Can I Ride” (http://youtu.be/JEWfq8OIV6E)
“Crabapples” (http://youtu.be/ii1ST0s30IQ)
“Rosie (http://youtu.be/fbwLNIX-pXI)
These songs project a life lived on the moral equivalent of a chain-gang, cosntantly checking yourself for any signs of backsliding, even when you're not sure yourself what those would look like. But you know you're probably doing it! Yeah, it's my sort of music, in a fucking nutshell—she knows me better than I like to think.;))
