Saturday, August 18, 2007
Dodgy flicks
Saw part of a film called Greystoke something the other day. Not sure if they would get away with making it these days. Large amount of time devoted to nude shots of under age boy. Large amount of time taken up by fetching shots of animals prancing about in the jungle at a cost of goodness how much ill-treatment to get them to prance properly. And last but not least some of the human stars could be seen enjoying a smoke on screen. Nor was I convinced that all the animals were the same sort of monkey/ape but that could be ignorance.
Clearly much affected by all this, because that night I had a dream involving a black bear standing upright by the Eastern side of the road to Huntington outside Cambridge. The black bear was clearly derived from the rather impressive black panther in the dodgy flick. The black panther being an animal I had something of a crush on as a child.
And then, when thinking about the bear on waking, was reminded, or perhaps redreamt, part of a formerly regular dream involving a fictitious bread and breakfast establishment in a small village in the middle of low lying fields near Fareham in Hampshire, Fareham being a place I used to visit in connection with my work. This dream is also associated with a fictitious and complicated train ride (once regularly taken) home which involved a hairy change from one crummy two coach deisel train to another, across numerous tracks and platforms, at Peterborough. There are a number of places and events of this sort which are not real but which persist and which I visit from time to time. Who knows where all this stuff comes from? But I do not believe a book by a US dream expert which I read recently which alleges that dreams are just mental garbage without any real significance at all. This particular expert struck me as having got himself into denial about all things Freudian. Maybe one of them got him the sack at one point. And as far as dreams are concerned, maybe there is some garbage involved but I do not think that that is all there is to it.
Followed up the liver with ox kidneys. Stewed in the universal butter, onion and tomato mush. Not, of course, forgetting the carraway seeds. See above for more detail on this point.
Followed this up by a splendid but small poppy at the allotment. Deep crimson with a velvety black centre. Wonderful thing, the richness of colour perhaps a consequence of it being rather small - perhaps two inches across.
Pampas grass plant at the allotment got lots of flower shoots now. Should get a good show shortly; this despite refusing the regular burning recommended by both BH and FIL. Something to do with creating the natural conditions of the pampas. I have read somewhere that there are seeds which need the heat of a fire to prep them for germination - but I remain unconvinced that this treatment translates to the fleshy part of pampas grass plants.
Returning to dodgy, came across Seven Dials again in a short story by H G Wells. The last time I came across it in fiction was in (I think) the Three Hostages by John Buchan. Both authors seemed to regard Seven Dials as an alluringly dodgy part of London where all sorts of interesting things are likely to happen. Perhaps the sort of area they would frequent when they fancied a bit of beer and skittles with no questions asked. When I first knew the area, some of this tackiness survived, sadly now all swept away by clothes shops and bean shops. This change being heralded by the many years they spent building a new heritage pillar topped with seven blue oval dials (can a dial be oval?) at the centre of the junction in question.
Clearly much affected by all this, because that night I had a dream involving a black bear standing upright by the Eastern side of the road to Huntington outside Cambridge. The black bear was clearly derived from the rather impressive black panther in the dodgy flick. The black panther being an animal I had something of a crush on as a child.
And then, when thinking about the bear on waking, was reminded, or perhaps redreamt, part of a formerly regular dream involving a fictitious bread and breakfast establishment in a small village in the middle of low lying fields near Fareham in Hampshire, Fareham being a place I used to visit in connection with my work. This dream is also associated with a fictitious and complicated train ride (once regularly taken) home which involved a hairy change from one crummy two coach deisel train to another, across numerous tracks and platforms, at Peterborough. There are a number of places and events of this sort which are not real but which persist and which I visit from time to time. Who knows where all this stuff comes from? But I do not believe a book by a US dream expert which I read recently which alleges that dreams are just mental garbage without any real significance at all. This particular expert struck me as having got himself into denial about all things Freudian. Maybe one of them got him the sack at one point. And as far as dreams are concerned, maybe there is some garbage involved but I do not think that that is all there is to it.
Followed up the liver with ox kidneys. Stewed in the universal butter, onion and tomato mush. Not, of course, forgetting the carraway seeds. See above for more detail on this point.
Followed this up by a splendid but small poppy at the allotment. Deep crimson with a velvety black centre. Wonderful thing, the richness of colour perhaps a consequence of it being rather small - perhaps two inches across.
Pampas grass plant at the allotment got lots of flower shoots now. Should get a good show shortly; this despite refusing the regular burning recommended by both BH and FIL. Something to do with creating the natural conditions of the pampas. I have read somewhere that there are seeds which need the heat of a fire to prep them for germination - but I remain unconvinced that this treatment translates to the fleshy part of pampas grass plants.
Returning to dodgy, came across Seven Dials again in a short story by H G Wells. The last time I came across it in fiction was in (I think) the Three Hostages by John Buchan. Both authors seemed to regard Seven Dials as an alluringly dodgy part of London where all sorts of interesting things are likely to happen. Perhaps the sort of area they would frequent when they fancied a bit of beer and skittles with no questions asked. When I first knew the area, some of this tackiness survived, sadly now all swept away by clothes shops and bean shops. This change being heralded by the many years they spent building a new heritage pillar topped with seven blue oval dials (can a dial be oval?) at the centre of the junction in question.
# posted by Jim @ 12:34 PM 
