The film 'Howl' comes out tomorrow. I probably won't see it any time soon, but I'm sure I'll get around to it eventually. I ordered the slim little book a couple of years ago on a whim. I didn't know anything about it, but when it arrived, I remember feeling a little disappointed. It was really quite small (although it did have quite a nice cover). I opened it up and started reading. I finished, made myself a cup of tea, then read it again. I read it once more for good measure, then decided I probably liked it quite a lot. The thing is, it's a very overwhelming work which strives to convey anything and everything all at once in a rush of catharsis, so it's hard to take it all in. I've read it many, many times, and I still have no idea what it means. I know that it's wonderful, and I know that I love it, but I couldn't tell you what on earth it's about, nor why I like it so much. I think it's the frailty that comes through even though it is an assault. I think it's because I become too interested in people's lives and this man had a particularly interesting one. I think it's because it's one of the most brilliant things ever written.
Everything is a chore this week. I can't work and I can't cook and I can't sleep. I can't wait for the weekend when things will be good. I might also stop being a whingey cow, because who can be moody on a Friday night? Particularly when this Friday night holds the promise of dressing up like an old lady and drinking gin. Actually, this could be most Friday nights. Sigh...
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