Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day
cleanskies

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Tidal wave of fecundity/ le sang d'un poete!/house dream

This last week or so, my older sister gave birth to an as-yet-unnamed nephew, one of my younger sisters phoned to say she was pregnant, and my father sent me a card with an picture of his girlfirend, him, and baby-on-the-way. I'm anticipating the calls from my other two sisters any day... At least Mum won't be joining in; she's far too busy making three-dimensional anti-war collages out of waste cardboard and free papers, and doing something quite undescribable with old Yakult bottles, following a horrible bout of sickness caused by incautious baby contact. When I visit her, it'll all become clear. And I'll get to walk on the beach, up mountains, and around lakes. Joy.

A pile of unexpected films on this week as festivals collide! Both 8 1/2 and 8 Women (at the Phoenix and UPP respectively) and -- incredibly! -- a double bill of Un Chien Andalou and The Blood of a Poet or maybe I should follow up palpitating at Charlton Heston and Janet Leigh in last week's Touch of Evil with sighing after Rock Hudson and Lauren Bacall in Written on the Wind. Or maybe not. I doubt there'll be anything quite as amazing as the scene where Heston, insane with grief and rage after his wife's kidnapping, is tearing apart a bar-full of Mexican punks looking for the one who can tell him something. One bolts for the door, and Heston crosses the room in five strides, grabbs him by the collar and carries him in one hand back across the room and throws him down on the bar with such force that it disintegrates beneath him.

This morning I dreamt we had bought a big sprawling basement flat beneath an abandoned shop or storage space. It must've been cheap(ish) because a big chunk of the ceiling had been knocked through to the vast concrete space above which had the front knocked in, only big black plastic sheets keeping the outside out, and of course it had all been squatted, repeatedly, and was skanky and stinky and vile but hey, ours now. So we tore down the black plastic and scrambled down into the flat (I remember thinking, is this really a good idea?) and checked it out (it was eccentric -- the kitchen, though generous in other proportions, was just four feet tall, I would have to cook on my knees) but then a long line of people started coming in from outside, like a trail of ants, following each other through the shop in single file, and down a ladder set into the wall and into the flat where they proceeded to party. I thought they were the junkies and drunks who had wrecked the place but when I went and talked to them I realised they were all posh people slumming it, junky fashionistas and people who aped the homelessness style and the moment I started talking to them about the flat they were on about mortgages and reliable plumbers and I just wished they'd piss off so that I could sort out the place and then maybe my friends (who would be interesting to talk to) could come round for a party.
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