The Monday Muse. 3 hours and 58 minutes.

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My Sunday was spent grappling with 3 hours and 58 minutes of film history.

As the sun was lost to the horizon and the light disappeared from the room, my tenacity was finally greeted with the line I had been waiting for. Eight of the most iconic words to be written since The Lumière brothers started this crazy craze known as filmmaking.

3 hours and 58 minutes of my Sunday afternoon spent and what did I learn?

Scarlett O’Hara is an imbecile.

10 Oscars?

Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

 

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Blue.

Blue.

Blue

Whilst giving my poet’s brain some dozing time this weekend, I am looking to two of my wordsmith heroes and pilfering their greatness for my post. From one of the masters of verse, W. H Auden, comes the poem ‘Funeral Blues’, which I first heard as a ten year old that, for some reason, after having taped it on my new VHS recorder in my bedroom, had a fondness for Richard Curtis’ Four Weddings and a Funeral.

If I could ever dream of writing a poem so fine I could only wish for it to be read so well…

 

 

Funeral Blues.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

 

Sing.

day3

 

Another day, another free-writing challenge, this time inspired by three stellar pieces of music that my ears were most certainly seized by…

 

David Bowie – Magic Dance

Sitting against a sofa of worn orange corduroy. I’m looking into Mr Bowie’s mismatched eyes and feeling a chilled flurry envelop me. Having just seconds ago metamorphosed from a snowy owl with feathers that were the purest of white, his bleached mullet wasn’t one of hilarity, it was a monochrome menace as much as the vampire like front teeth and the pale face. Jareth the Goblin King.

Radiohead – Talk Show Host

Plucked strings. The sands are flooded with a golden tinge. Leonardo sits in blue with a smoking cigarette in his hand, soft blonde hair trailing into those cobalt blues. Teenage crush. Teenage angst. Driving in the rays of the English summer. Closing my eyes and my head tripping backwards. Laying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. Gazing out the car window, pretending to be somewhere else. The spirit being sucked from my chest as it lifts towards the sky and my body drags it back down again with a weighty thud. We hope that you choke. Do not choke.

Alexandre Desplat – Courtyard Apocalypse

One the outside they are gritty soldiers. On the inside, they are trembling. We are sneaking through the darkness, overcome. Can we drink it in? Trying not to sob, we are overwhelmed. Finding a place at the pinnacle. They’re seizing my insides, behind the eyes, in the chest, deep in the stomach, and they’re not letting go. The breathing of many on the head of only one. This is the epitome of sadness.

Day 104.

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From two heroes on court to several champions on screen…. today is a day of golden watching that will most definitely style the eyes a tad square. #100happydays #day104

Day 76.

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Often I wonder if I should work within a cocoon of blank walls to dissuade my daydreaming eyes. As the film world has its sights on Cannes, today’s reveries have been directed at whispers of a week spent six years ago at the film festival, an experience that has been etched on my soul evermore… #100happydays #day76

Day 54.

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I find it beyond the bounds of possibility to pick a favourite film. One title rolls off the tongue whilst simultaneously my brain interrupts with a throng of others, and I find myself endlessly listing potential masterpieces. Hence the creation of the film wall… Alternate movie posters depicting some of the finest filmic hours some of us could ever hope to create. My homage to the greats. They have also provided some sanity whilst I’ve been forcing another set of star jumps and cursing the day Jillian Michaels ever graced my TV screen. #100happydays #day54

Day 49.

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It takes a certain breed of human to find a thermal coffee cup covered in skulls an object of charm. I am of that breed. Perhaps it was my diet of horror films and adult fiction as a child. Although I did also watch Disney and I will admit to perusing the pages of The Babysitters Club books. #100happydays #day49

Day 45.

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The first time I stepped on a film set it oozed with the allure I had always envisaged it would. Fifteen hours in, all but dead on my feet, I could still summon a smile. My head takes up residence in la la land for much of the time, it’s itching for the writer’s seat on set, so why not bring a little of the magic into our living room? #100happydays #day45

Day 40.

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Finally finding some reading time for the most legendary of all the film magazines, Little White Lies. I came across this little bible a few years ago and have found a home for every issue on my bookshelf ever since. We share a common loathing for Michael Bay. When I discovered this I knew we would share an eternal magazine/reader bond. #100happydays #day40

Day 39.

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Getting lost in the world of film composers… In another life I would’ve dedicated my being to venturing forth into the world of Herrmann, Bernstein, Zimmer and Williams, whose orchestral worlds I could submerge in until the end of time. For now I’ll have to settle for a set of chopsticks, some speakers and a head in the clouds with my eyes closed. #100happydays #day39