Sunday has become my blogging day, I guess.
Sunday has also become the day I am trapped in bed, the wear and tear of the previous week laying heavy on my joints, legs leaden and useless.
This week has brought the added joy of occasional, thus-unexplained vertigo, so even if my steps are sure and my body light, the world must tip and tilt to remind me that stability is a construct and unreliable…or something.
My sweet tabico has been running circles around the house, stopping only to chirrup at the lizard that lives on the window above our front door or beg her humans for food. Now, finally calm, she has settled on my feet. I can feel her purrs through my duvet, and try to find comfort in them.
Is P.S. I Love You (2007) considered a rom-com? It’s been on Netflix for a while now, and I decided to finally rewatch to it this afternoon, having not seen it in at least six years. It’s kind of difficult to believe I found this movie romantic — the opening scene alone is toxic and manipulative. Not to mention the entire premise of sending letters to your partner from beyond the grave…
The soundtrack is pretty great though. And I totally forgot that Harry Connick, Jr. is in this movie.
Why does our media, particularly the media aimed at women, take such pleasure in tragedy? Shows like Intervention or Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and movies like P.S. I Love You or My Sister’s Keeper — they center on loss and violence and violation and sickness. Do we seek these out to work through our own tragedies, make sense of the violence we experience? Was Aristotle right – is it all catharsis? Or is it that we believe in their purported purpose because we are conditioned to do so by their sheer overabundance? Is it self-fulfilling?
The heating pad’s safety feature kicks in and my skin goes cold. I turn it back on, and heat blooms where it’s pressed into my back.
I started a new project this week. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m having fun, so I’m trying not to think (or talk) too much about it. I’ll let you know if it becomes anything more than a dalliance, I promise. And I haven’t forgotten the project I mentioned last week — I’ve just set it aside for a bit, giving it space to breathe. Sometimes a story needs that — room to grow on its own, air to ferment, to become what it needs to be without human intervention.
One final thing I’d like to mention: Samin Nosrat is the embodiment of delight. Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat – the Netflix series based on Nosrat’s best-selling book – is the kind of food show you lose yourself in. It’s slow and quiet, honors the food and food-makers of the world, dwells in the little things and long hours (sometimes years) it takes to make something truly delicious. It’s a journey of the spirit as much of the tongue, and her enthusiasm for life is inspiring. I highly recommend it, especially if (like me) you’re a bit desperate for hope.