Nadat het maanden boven onder het stof had gestaan, wou Amélie nu toch nog eens met haar Winnie-the-Pooh-rol-en-leer-honingboom spelen. Op een gegeven moment vraagt dat ding “Hallo vriendje, kun jij me helpen Knorretje te vinden?”. “Ja, direct se…” was haar antwoord.

One of the most absurdly comedic films I have seen in a long time! You just come out of it thinking, “blimey everyone in Iceland is nuts!”

The story is told in present time, but then we get flashbacks of the main character’s life from a year ago, too. They both have strong storylines, and because a degree of mystery is held within the flash backs (what happened to the first wife) it keeps you interested all the way through. Not that it wouldn’t anyway, because the characters and their zany ideas and habits keep you thoroughly entertained as the story rolls along.

Jon is getting married again but he doesn’t seem too happy about it, but his bride-to-be – one of his former students and a lot younger than he is  – adores him and can’t wait for the wedding. Her parents – battleaxe mother and drunken opera lover dad – want what’s best for their daughter, but the mother in particular doesn’t like Jon because he owes the family a lot of money from a ridiculous golf resort venture (very funny). His friend and best man/organist for the wedding shows up on the island where they live, and there’s time for a bit of drunken play and antics before the wedding the next day. Coupled with the extremely odd residents of the island (the shopkeeper is JUST like the hypochondriac shop worker in Amelie!) it all leads to one riot after the other.

There were some really funny scenes, mainly connected to Jon’s best friend Lars, and the vicar of the island who was BRILLIANT, and definitely my favourite character. I love how pissed off he gets at the wedding, has to apologise to God for being angry, and then goes outside to find it’s ‘raining money’ and whoops about trying to catch it all! hee hee. And the operatic dad was also amazing! He has so much contempt for his wife but it’s humourous, and the part where he gets really drunk and wades into the sea belting out an aria is priceless! At times it really reminded me of a Greek or a Roman comedy: based around the family archetype/group of drunken men and the humour very farcical. They sure as hell drink a lot of spirits over in Iceland! Loved the ending scene where they all chase after the absconded groom and they have to get married in the middle of the sea and hoist the vicar over on people’s shoulders so he can perform the rights! (I want a wedding in the sea!!)

I was a bit disappointed we didn’t get more of the beautiful landscapes referred to in the blurb: the island it was filmed on seemed quite a desolate place, but I loved the thought of it not ever getting dark on one night of the year, and how that must really screw with your body and mind – hence why all the drama and craziness and the wedding MUST happen on this day and no other!

Such a fun film to watch, and even though the underlying message is actually quite despondent and depressing compared to the energy and laughter of the story, you still come out of it with a big smile on your face. Fingers crossed for the Oscar nominations!

1. pleading with gray fabric of sky
unrolled above me
please
please let the sun come through today
please

2. yoga for those
with closed up throats
skeleton toes
split stitches
tight hips

3. breakfast in 8 million parts
white rice
roasted brussel sprouts, red peppers, mushrooms, leeks
the thought of an egg
gelato
rice crackers
the consideration of hot tea

4. needles in my head
mini epsom salt mountain on my
stomach
tears in eyes
the moment i allow myself
to lay down
dreams and body twitches
running the conduit
of this body

5. discussion of
the drawbacks of meccas

6. smell of sugar on fire

7. in four hours
we discover
everything we have in common
including
but not limited to:
interdisciplinary tendencies
scorpionic propensity
statements of purpose
inclinations towards sequins
isolation vs. public spheres
sex positivity vs. personal boundaries
school vs. not school
school art vs. friend art

8. a theory
that those who love sequins
also love the movie
amelie

9. retelling of a story involving
a gold belt and an antique shop
on the roadtrip that we didn’t break up on
the one where you said
we did good, hey?
we’re golden.
i could do this for a long time.
while we rolled along the glitter and
expanse of the columbia
just after
we assembled and ate sandwiches
on the steps of a standstill caboose
overlooking the grass and sand of a beach park

Desde hace unos días salgo cada mañana a la “difícil tarea” de elegir un café donde sentarme a estudiar. Y digo difìcil tarea porque si hay algo que puedes encontrar por todo Berlín son cafés de todos tipos: cutres sin estilo, glamourosos (los menos), bohemios alternativos (muy abundantes), cafés de barrios en los cuales familias con niños toma el kuchen (tarta) y disfrutan de los helados en verano. Algo tiene Berlín que hace de estos cafés lugares muy acogedores, donde puedes pasar horas y horas sin querer moverte de allí con el consecuente resultado para el bolsillo y la figura (yo nunca puedo resistirme a probar cuanta tarta hay). 

Pues bien, mientras buscaba qué café invadir hoy cual okupa con mis libros, cuaderno, bolis, kleenex y demás, me fijé que del otoño queda bien poco y si hace dos semanas salir a la calle era un espectáculo de color otoñal ahora de ello no que más que los restos pues cual migajas tras un gran banquete lo que hay es un extenso manto de hojas secas en las calles y aceras que parecen esperar a que alguien las recoja o a que el viento se las lleve a un lugar muy lejano. Estos días hace un viento potente, frío, que nos avisa que el otoño termina y que quizá en una semana damos la bienvenida al gélido invierno berlinés.

Pero eso aún no ha pasado y mientras escribo esto miro las ramas peladas de los árboles agitarse de un lado a otro, y veo a la hojarasca moverse cual remolino, pero me siento a salvo de todo eso mientras estoy sentada tomando un café en la Hufelandstr.

Normalmente nunca vengo por aquí, y eso que esta parte de Prenzlauer Berg es preciosa, con sus calles adoquinadas, sus edificios antiguos de cuatro alturas, todos bien pintaditos y cuidados, y sus tiendas recoletas, la mayoría de adornos para la casa hechos en talleres berlineses, manualidades de gran delicadeya pero algo caras por ser producción artesanal. También hay algunas librerías bien interesantes, creo que es en la Marienburgerstr. donde hay una librería de libros en inglés que es una maravilla, ahí es donde quiero comprarme A time of gifts de Patrick Leigh Fermor, un libro que un amigo al que no conozco (suena raro no?) me ha recomendado encarecidamente. Ahora que trabajo puedo permitirme el lujo de comprar libros nuevamente.

A los cafés de Prenzlauer les pega la música de Yann Tiersen, sé que suena rebuscado pero es así. Me encanta Tiersen y tengo bastante música suya en el móvil, no sólo las bandas sonoras de Amélie o de Good Bye Lenin! (que para mí es la música de Friedrichshain), también sus canciones de C’etat ici o de Tout est Calme, piezas preciosas para escuchar mientras recorro el barrio con mi bici, es algo muy personal, y no sé si seré capaz de explicarlo bien, pero cuando voy por estas calles de “mi barrio” oyendo a Tiersen, creo en el destino, en que tenía que venir aquí a descubrir cuán feliz se puede ser sólo por el hecho de estar enamorada de una ciudad.

Berlín puede ser pobre, desesperante a la hora de encontrar trabajo, frustante por las pocas expectativas profesionales que me ofrece, pagadora de míseros sueldos, pero todo ello lo olvido cuando salgo a la calle y vuelvo a ver esta gran urbe que a veces parece sólo un barrio inmenso.

The Queen in 3D: Channel 4 (Recorded 16th Nov Watched 16th Nov)

I wouldn’t usually watch anything about the ‘royals’ if you paid me but this was an opportunity to use my Chuck 3D glasses again.

I started off being quite enthusiastic about the programme; it’s always interesting to see colour footage of life in the 1950s and earlier so it’s quite remarkable to see it in 3D.  Some of the scenes were incredibly effective and the ‘royal’ stuff wasn’t as interesting as the footage of ordinary people.

The problem was that the novelty wore off after about 10 minutes and then you’re just sat there watching boring clips.  It certainly made me question the current trend for 3D films in the cinema.

Top Gear: BBC HD (R 15th Nov W 17th Nov)

It’s the return of Top Gear (now in HD), the programme that evokes more conflicting emotions than any other programme that I watch.  On the negative side, the presenters are annoying, it’s too pleased with itself, there’s too much fakery and most of Clarkson’s views are reprehensible.  On the other hand it has a sense of adventure and wonder that you really don’t find anywhere else and it’s more beautifully shot than any Hollywood film.  Annoying but watchable.

Curb Your Enthusiasm: iTunes (Downloaded 17th Nov W 17th Nov)

I was distraught, last week, when I missed episode 5 of Curb but I decided to take Jed Unpopcult’s advice and download it from iTunes (as much as it hurt for me to pay for it).  And boy, was I ever glad that I did.  After last week’s somewhat disappointing episode Larry & co were right back on top form.  There really were too many funny bits to mention – but if I told you that the plot revolved around Larry dating a woman in a wheelchair, you might start to get the idea.  Highlights included: asking about a Chinese child’s proficiency with chopsticks, Larry attempting to kiss Denise in her wheelchair, Leon asking if Larry “brought it”, hiding the blackberry under the towel and Rosie O’Donnell being as pig-headed as Larry.

There haven’t been many programmes ever that have made me laugh so much.  If you’re not watching it then I want a written note from your mother as to why not.

Misfits: E4 (R 12th Nov W 19th Nov)

Misfits has, inevitably, been described as ‘Skins meets Heroes’ and this made me question whether I was actually going to bother watching it.  As much as the description put me off, there was no was that I was going to miss a British superhero programme.

Five, typically annoying, teens are struck by lightning while on community service and find that they have gained superpowers.  I have quite a low threshold for watching anything featuring ‘realistic’ teens, so the first ten minutes or so were a bit of a chore.  Things picked up, though, as the story gained momentum and it was really successfully done.  It’s rare that we get these high-concept sci-fi shows in the UK but when we do they often have a unique flavour.

Having the powers relate to the characters’ personalities wasn’t the subtlest touch (the shy one turns invisible etc) but by the end of the episode we did start to see them as real human beings.  I’ll definitely be tuning in for the second episode.

Stargate Universe: Sky One (R 17th Nov W 21st Nov)

I’ve been pretty underwhelmed by this series from the start but I stuck with it because it seemed like something might happen.  Well, it only took about 5 minutes of this episode before I decided that nothing was ever going to happen.  It felt like a relief to finally give up on it.

Kamikaze Girls: Film4 (R 13th Nov W 21st Nov)

I’ve got a habit of recording any foreign-language film that I spot because I’m a bit of a snob and they don’t tend to repeat them; you’ve got to watch them when you can.  The problem is that I’ve really got to be in the mood to watch a movie and when they’re sub-titled you really have to concentrate, so I’ve ended up with lots of unwatched films.  I’ve found myself deleting a few recently but I made an effort to watch this.

Kamikaze Girls could be described as a Japanese Amelie; it’s a quirky film that features an attractive female stuck in her own magical realism world.  This being a Japanese film, though, means that it has its own strangeness that makes it nothing like Amelie.  The plot, such as it is, revolves around two teenage girls who form an unlikely friendship – Momoko, who like to wear frilly ‘lolita’ dresses and Ichigo, a slightly psychotic biker chick.  In some ways nothing much else happens, but that would be really selling it short, and it kept my interest to the end.  There is a great scene towards the end when Momoko finally flips when trying to defend Ichigo against a biker gang that’s actually very funny.

I’d like to add that the reason that I liked the film had nothing to do with the main character being gorgeous and prancing round in ‘lolita’ outfits.  Honest.

I have been sick now for a week. Being tired and unable to focus on anything has been exhausting. Yet it has been really hard to fall asleep. When I thought the worst part was over, and that I finally was getting better, my throat starts to hurt really bad and I can barely breathe through my nose. This is getting a bit tedious.

The only wars my family waged were with pen and paper.

Madhur Jaffrey, Seasons of Splendour.

As someone who lives a little too vicariously through books (and the occasional film or television series), the idea that a person might fight his or her battles on the page really resonates with me. For me, books have always provided if not guidance then at least aspirations. For almost as long as I can remember reading, I have latched on to particular characters and attempted, with varying degrees of success, to emulate them. There have been a lot of articles and posts recently about female role-models in literature (prompted in part by the upcoming release of the New Moon film and the inevitable bout of hand-wringing about the message Bella Swan sends to impressionable young women) and this post is prompted, in part, by these articles. I’ll do a links round-up over at Livejournal so you can see the sorts of things that are being said, if you’re interested.

I’m quite proud of my literary role models, on the whole.

The first character I can remember pretending to be, was, fittingly, Sara Crewe from A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. (I had spent many years pretending to be fairytale princesses before that, but I choose to ignore that as I feel my identification with these princesses was more due to the fact that they wore pretty dresses and jewellery.) For those of you not familiar with the character, Sara is the daughter of an English soldier who lives in India as part of the colonial administration. She grows up pampered in a London boarding school run by the cartoonishly vile Miss Minchin, until her father’s death, which leaves her penniless. Miss Minchin, who spoiled Sara because she hoped to get rewarded by the wealthy Captain Crewe, finds herself responsible for a girl she detests. Overnight, Sara’s life changes. Instead of being the favoured student at the school, she is now a drudge teaching the younger students. She has to move out of her luxurious rooms into a cold attic, eating scraps where before she had dined on delicacies.

What I loved about Sara was not so much the grace with which she endured this change in circumstances but the way she chose to endure them. You see, Sara was a reader. (‘She doesn’t just read books, Miss Minchin, she devours them,’ her father says.) More importantly, she was a storyteller. The thing that kept me covering wooden crates with red crepe paper (to make them look like Sara’s ‘battered red footstool’) and drawing fireplaces on bits of paper in order to stick them on my wall to recreate Sara’s attic bedroom was the power of Sara’s imagination. ‘Suppose,’, she would say, meaning, ‘Imagine something better than here’.

A Little Princess was an early lesson for me in the power of the imagination to overcome the most horrendous circumstances. The book articulated something I’d only just begun to understand: that books offered readers another, infinitely more wonderful world.

The next book to set my imagination on fire to such an extent was Adèle Geras’ wonderful The Girls in the Velvet Frame. What, you might ask, did a story about five Jewish sisters growing up poor in pre-Israel Jerusalem have to do with a seven-year-old middle-class Canberran in the early 90s? For me, it was two things: the warmth of the sisters’ relationship (and their relationships with their widowed mother Sarah and unmarried, ageing aunt Mimi), and the perfection of Geras’ characterisation.

I loved the matriarchal world of the Bernstein sisters, as I saw (and valued) a similar quality in my own family (which is made up of very strong women with very close relationships). And I loved, in particular, two of the sisters: dreamy Naomi, who saw the world through rose-coloured glasses and used storytelling to occupy her two younger sisters, and practical, cynical Chava (‘I always expect bad things to happen, because then bad things don’t disappoint me and the good things come as a nice surprise’). There’s a lot of Naomi and Chava in me, and there is a lot of stubborn, determined Dvora in my younger sister Mimi. I recognised this even then, and I identified passionately with Geras’ characters.

When I was ten, along came one character who would blow them all away with sheer awesomeness. I’m referring, of course, to Pagan Kidrouk, from Catherine Jinks’ Pagan Chronicles. I read these books initially as I was invited to a talk given by Jinks at the sadly now defunct Griffith Library, and I fell in love with the snarky, sarcastic, scarily intelligent hero. It’s been a life-long love affair: if Pagan were to walk out of the pages of the books today, I would follow him to the ends of the earth, even if all he did was make disparaging remarks about my intelligence and rage at the stupidity of mankind.

Part of the appeal of Pagan lay in his identity as a literate intellectual in a largely illiterate, anti-intellectual world (the books are set during the Third Crusades). He was irresolutely bookish, with a rich, if angry, intellectual life going on in his head. He has always appealed to my book snobbery, which in my preteen days was even more fierce than it is today. I read, therefore I am would’ve been my motto if I’d heard of Descartes. Pagan made even the illiterate characters recognise the value of reading: Lord Roland, the knight whom Pagan serves, remarks (giving me a quote that has always resonated with me), ‘People who read are always like you. You can’t just tell them, you have to tell them why.’ I swooned, and I’m still swooning today.

The Tomorrow series by John Marsden also provided me with a set of inspirational characters. After briefly cheating on Pagan with Lee (haha), I settled down into a more sedate appreciation of this classic Australian series. I honestly think it was one of the most important cultural artefacts of my generation. For about five years, everyone was reading these books. When a new one came out, we’d all be discussing them on the playground, speculating about who would live and who would die. They were, for my generation, bigger than Harry Potter, and for that they’ll always have a special place in my heart: although I loved being a reader because it set me apart, I also enjoyed it when my classmates and friends read so that we could discuss books.

I also adored the characters because they rang so true. Not one of them is a stereotype or a cardboard cut-out placed in the book as a mouthpiece for Marsden’s views (which happens so often in so many YA books). Oh, sure, it was very clear what Marsden’s views were, but he let them seep through organically, whispering at the margins of one of the most gripping plots I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. Marsden’s teenage characters, from Ellie the tomboyish, self-reliant narrator to Fi the sheltered princess, from Robyn the pacifist Christian to Lee the depressed, revenge-obsessed artist, taught me how to be brave. They taught me that war was hell and that I had a moral obligation to do all that I could to prevent it, and they taught me that teenagers were the most powerful, most adaptable, most resilient and most resourceful creatures on the planet.

The next author to play such a significant role in my moral and intellectual development was the wonderful, eloquent, word-weaving Philip Pullman. He gave me such great gifts: the character Lyra, from his His Dark Materials series, who is probably my favourite fictional heroine, and is definitely the most heartbreakingly human character ever to stalk the pages of a book, and the book The Tiger In the Well, which gave me a speech which has informed my political beliefs to this day. These books didn’t exactly change my beliefs (I was an atheist already, I was in favour of knowledge and consciousness and life, I was a social democrat, I was appalled by unchecked capitalism) so much as confirm them and articulate them in a way that I could not have done myself. No books have ever meant more to me than His Dark Materials and nothing has ever had, or will ever have, such a profound effect on my life.

In His Dark Materials, the idea that a very small event has the potential to create millions and millions of universes is a crucial theme. Well, the fact that my sister overheard me complaining about lack of books (I was put off by the cover of Northern Lights, which had animals on it: I’ve never been particularly interested in stories about animals) and forced Northern Lights into my hands utterly changed my life. I would not be at Cambridge without Philip Pullman.

There are several other book, film and television characters who are important to me: Amelie from the movie Amelie (who gave me unrealistic expectations about life, but introduced me to the joys of quirkiness and serendipity), Sulien ap Gwien from Jo Walton’s Tir Tanagiri Saga (who showed me that one could have a fulfilled life without romantic realitionships), Una from Jo Walton’s Romanitas series (whose intense introversion and observation of other people is something with which I identity strongly) and the characters in Joss Whedon’s television shows Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel and Firefly (who taught me that the family that you choose for yourself, united, can never be defeated, and that misfits can save the world).

These characters are in some ways more important to me than the themes of the texts in which they appear. As I took on all these characters and integrated them into my identity, they ceased to be the creations of their respective authors and became something different. I hesitate to say that they taught me how to be, since of course I am not as stoic as Sara Crewe, as resilient as Naomi and Dvora Bernstein, as intelligent as Pagan Kidrouk, as brave as the teenagers in the Tomorrow series or as all-around awesome as Lyra. I don’t have the courage of my convictions of Dan Goldberg and Sally Lockhart, I don’t brighten the lives of those around me as much as Amelie Poulain, I’m not as loyal as Sulien, I’m not as determined as Una and I’m not as good a friend as the characters in Joss Whedon’s shows. But all these characters taught me who I wanted to be, and how I wanted to live. Although I do not live up to their standards, that I value these standards says something essential about my identity.

So, I am very behind on my blogging timeline here.

Because this next string of images is from almost two weeks ago – at the Butte Montmartre.

Montmartre, itself, is a great neighborhood that I recommend you visit if you are ever in Paris – full of old world charm, small shops, and classic cafe’s (aside from the Starbucks of course).  There’s the Red Light district (Moulin Rouge, Le Chat Noir…), the fabric district (I wish I knew how to sew, I would be in heaven), and even the cafe featured in “Amelie” (just looking on IMDB, I guess that is the neighborhood the whole story was based…like I said, great neighborhood).

So the “Butte Montmartre” is kind of the icing on the cake.

Montmartre is north, and is the highest point in Paris (to find out ‘how high’ and all the other technical details, go here).  So when you reach the top, or the “butte”, you can see all of Paris.  Kind of like the Eiffel Tower, except free.

At the top, there is the Basilica Sacre Coeur, a Roman-Catholic church.

and then on down there are a multiple number of stairs to lead your way towards the city…

The most famous being a staircase called, The stairs of Rue Foyatier.

I did not climb these stairs, there have been enough stairs for me to climb since I’ve been here, and I’ve already lost a good pant size as it is…but it looks like a good trek – yes, a good trek indeed.  In fact, if you are unwilling to take the stairs they do have a solution – a gondola-like ride right next to these famous steps (I did not photograph that wonderful eye-sore).

Amélie ziet nog wat bleekjes en heeft haar eetlust nog niet helemaal terug. Maar ze voelt zich verder toch terug kiplekker en was vanavond echt superbraaf! Er waren dit weekend trouwens verschillende kindjes van haar klas ziek geweest, zo bleek deze ochtend op school…

Eline daarentegen is nog niet echt beter. Allemaal door die vervloekte tanden…  Een gekoelde bijtring brengt eventjes verlichting, maar niet voor lang. Lang leve Perdolan voor het moment. Ik hoop echt voor haar dat al haar kiezen er nu tegelijk doorkomen of zo, dat ze de komende maanden wat gespaard blijft. En of het nog niet genoeg was, besloot ze rond 21 u dat het tijd was om haar fruitpapje terug naar buiten te werpen. Pfff. Ook van de tandjes?? Of hetzelfde virusje als haar grote zus?? Deze nacht maar goed in het oog houden, want de hoeveelheid slijmpjes die er bij waren vertrouw ik toch niet echt…

Dus nog niet echt beter… Morgen misschien?

I haven’t had a good warm home cooked meal in a couple of days. Been busy on errands. Made this last night…

Sudado De Pescado Recipe courtesy of fastboy.

I met up with Angelique and picked up my new girl…

She’ll be my Amelie Poulan. I’ll start work on her tonight.

Spent the afternoon making this…

Now all I need is one lamp on each side of the light box and I can take photos of anything that would fit in the box. No more glares or shadows.

The aunts gave me this three-thread-overlock machine two weeks ago.

I’ve been scouring the web for instructions on how to thread this old geezer since then. I finally went over to the dress shop up the road and asked the ladies there if they knew how to thread such a machine. They gave me the number of their tech guy. I made an appointment for early tomorrow morning. Whew! What a relief. I was about to start pull my hair out trying to get that machine working. Hopefully it’ll be up and running within the day.

Happiness!

It was a few summers ago. The four of us were spending a few weeks at my grandparents’ summer place. It started late one night. Me and my wife were sleeping with Napoleon, but Amélie couldn’t fall asleep. She was nervous and paced around crying. I thought she might’ve eaten something weird, it wouldn’t have been the first time. Dogs are like humans in the way that they get tummy aches just like we do. I’ve learned that almost whatever the problem is with your dog, the best thing to do is just to wait a few days and observe. I’ve rushed to the vet gazillions of times for things that turned out to be nothing. The vet would always tell me to observe the dog a few days and come back if it gets worse. It never gets worse. The next morning Amélie was really stiff. When we let her out of the cabin to make her morning pee-pee and poo-poo, her tail stood out straight like a ruler and she swayed from side to side. I thought that she really might’ve eaten something bad. I thought something had swelled up in her stomach, making it hard to poop out. We were on an island, so I had to jump in the motorboat and drive that thing to the dry land where my car was parked. Then I drove to nearest city and went to a pharmacist. I bought a variety of laxatives for dogs. Then I drove back, steered the boat to the island and ran up the million stairs. The cabin is located on a cliff overlooking the water. Amélie had slept while I was away. When I returned she came to greet me, but she couldn’t move her back legs. She dragged herself towards me like there wasn’t anything wrong at all.

She looked like she’d been ran over by a car. I knew what was going on and cursed that we were on this island instead of the city. Amélie was paralyzed and needed immediate medical attention. I grabbed my cell phone and rang through every vet within a 300 mile radius. It was the middle of the summer and I was informed that the special sort of doctor I needed was on vacation every time I rang up a place. My wife called from her phone at the same time. I talked with some doctor who was about to board a plane to China. He said that unless we get Amélie to a vet who’ll perform surgery on her within hours, she couldn’t be saved and would have to be put down. Put to sleep. However he put it, he meant that killing my dog, my best friend, would be the only humane thing to do. During this conversation my wife had gotten someone on the phone who could have performed the surgery, but that he was closing the shop early that day. My wife hung up the phone and explained to me what he’d said. I’m a nice guy and I never raise my voice over the phone, but I was fuming with anger. How could someone, a veterinarian who’s made it his job to help save animals refuse to help us? We were going to see him if it was the last thing we’d do. I grabbed Amélie and my wife grabbed Napoleon. We jumped in the boat and drove (do you drive a boat? -I don’t know…) to the dry land. When we were in the car driving back to the city, I called up this scumbag and called him out on what a piece of shit he was. My anger almost turned into crying. I was ready to do anything for my dog, whatever the cost. But I can’t perform surgery on her. I didn’t have the proper tools for that, and even if I did, I’m not sure if I would’ve known how to go about it. The vet, whom I’d called a scumbag minutes earlier told us that if we could be there in 35 minutes, he could do the operation. What a saint I thought. We were about 60 miles away and I drove faster than I’d ever driven before.

We arrived on time with seconds to spare. My wife rushed inside with Amélie while me and Napoleon searched for a parking spot. Amélie had made a doody in the car. She was paralyzed from the waist down and couldn’t hold it in. I didn’t care about the turd in the car, but it was another indication of how severe the situation was. Napoleon was also nervous. He must’ve known what was going on. When I finally found a place to park, I opened the door to let out Napoleon, but he ran out like a rocket. I told him stop. He usually behaves, but wouldn’t listen to me now. I had to chase him for a few blocks before I caught up with him. I thanked God he didn’t get run over by a car. Imagine if he had been. Both of my dogs could have been taken away from me on the same day. Now, the life of Amélie was in the hands of the vet and his assistant. I had done everything I could. The next few hours were uncomfortable. I received the call a few hours after we’d left Amélie with the vet. The vet told me that it was the worst case he’d ever seen, but because we were able to get her into surgery only hours after it had happened, she had been saved. She was fine. We picked her up immediately. She was still asleep, and would be for a few hours more. The vet told me that I would have to teach her to walk all over again. We returned to the summer place, because we’d left everything behind us when we left. There also wasn’t any reason for us not to spend the rest of our vacation there. Amélie would be spending the next few days sleeping anyway. It took me about six to eight weeks to teach my little girl to walk again. Today she has 95% of her mobility back. Sometimes she gets a little stiff and needs a rub. I’m pretty sure Amélie is aware that we saved her life, and she shows her gratitude everyday.

…eller det som Nina Hemmingsson refererar till som “färgstarka kvinnor”.

I slutet av högstadiet sökte jag mig mer åt det indiepopsorienterade hållet. Jag tittade med avund på de svala poptjejerna med smala pojkkroppar. Favoritfilmen var Amelie från Montmarte och jag tog det som en stor komplimang när jag en gång blev liknad vid Amelie (trots att det endast syftades på den sociala missanpassningen och inte på Audrey Tatous utseende).  Jag önskade mig vara lite lugnare, lite smalare, lite snyggare och graciös.

Det är lätt att förledas och tro att bara för att en subkultur är alternativ så är även kvinnoidealet det. Det här är inget ovanligt ideal. Gång på gång lyfts det fram av bland annat bloggare, i musiken eller i filmen. Grunddraget i idealet är en naiv flickaktighet. Det här är inga vuxna kvinnor som skildras eller önskas utan det är snarare kvinnan som en storögt barn som oskuldsfullt upptäcker världen.

Man behöver inte peta speciellt mycket på det här idealet för att se hur unket och ofräscht det är. Handlingsutrymmet i detta ideal är lika litet som i det traditionella. Det finns inget utrymme för en aktiv sexualitet. Det finns inget utrymme för ambitioner. Att bli riktigt förbannad är otänkbart. Den färgstarka kvinnan vaknar vacker och utvilad på morgonen inför den nya dagen där vad som helst kan hända. Hon lagar mat med passion. Hon är lagom självständig men tycks ändå av ren slump vilja det hennes pojkvän vill.

Det hade varit en sak om det endast hade varit ett ideal hos somliga killar. Men när vi tjejer fortsätter lyfta fram det så känns det än värre. Vi borde kunna se igenom det. Jag har blivit bättre på att komma bort från det men någonstans i bakhuvudet finns det fortfarande kvar. Ibland får jag en stark längtan att som motreaktion sluta duscha, knulla runt, supa ner mig, äta pizza till frukost och börja kedjeröka. Jag tycker om slagordet som Hanna på Vi som aldrig sa sexist skriver: “vi vill göra väsen av oss – inte vara väsen”

Som alltid finns det många kloka människor som skrivit om det. På bloggen Neonbibeln skrivs det bland annat:

“Vi får inte uppmuntra de frigjorda kvinnorna. Vi måste säga ifrån när desillusionerade popkillar kommer dragandes med sina förment perversa kvinnoideal. Zooey Deschanel, Audrey Tautou och Ellen Page kommer aldrig göra din, min eller någon annan kvinnas situation mer uthärdlig. Ni kan baka så många cupcakes ni vill, men så länge vi inte tar oss rätten att vara människor kommer vi aldrig att få äta dem utan ångest.”

Även Isabella Ståhl har skrivit bra om ämnet. (Bilden är ritad av Nanna Johansson som hittas på fulheten.com och fembilder.blogspot.com)

I was advised not to let the dog sleep with me, but I never gave not sleeping with my dog a thought. The reason, or the picture I had in my mind about a dog, was one where the dog would sleep by my feet in front of the fireplace or take long afternoon naps with me on the couch. I wanted to wake up in the middle of the night during winter months and have a dog right there next to me, who could keep me warm. People say that dogs should have these ground rules. No sleeping in the bed and no getting up on furniture. I say the hell with that. The moment I accept a pet into my home, it becomes a part of my family and my home becomes its home as well. Would you like to live in a place where you aren’t allowed to get comfortable? Didn’t think so.

My little princess Amélie...

Amélie, however, wasn’t really that into sleeping in my bed at all in the beginning. I’d wake up alone in my bed and find her sleeping in her own crate. I would then carry her back to my bed and continue sleeping. We got along great. I would take her everywhere. We would rent movies, I would let her choose dog themed movies too and we’d eat spaghetti. We were friends. Whenever we’d take a walk, people would stop us and she would be rolling around the ground begging for someone to scratch her belly. It didn’t take that long to find a girlfriend, charm her with my dog and for the three of us to move into a slightly bigger and nicer apartment.

Enter Napoleon. We were a happy trio and having a human baby wasn’t on our priorities list.

Eight week old Napoleon joins the family...

Then we wanted the trio to become a quatro (?) and Amélie got a little brother. We called him Napoleon. He came from a real breeder of short haired dachshunds, and hadn’t gotten sold because he had a small lump or knob at the end of his tail. As the breeder told me this over the phone, I knew it was our dog. Just the way I had taken Amélie with her mohawk. When we picked up Napoleon, the breeder told us that he was a tough guy and loved to boss the other puppies around. Though only eight weeks old, he was quite the barker. We drove back home. This time I let my girlfriend, who’d become my fiancée, hold the dog. I remembered how Amélie had thrown up and didn’t want any on me this time. Napoleon didn’t throw up. In fact he also managed to gulp down a chicken wrap while no one was looking. When we returned back home, Amélie came to greet this strange little thing we’d brought back with us. She didn’t like him one bit and didn’t come out from under the couch for a few weeks. Whenever she’d come out for food or a walk, Napoleon would try and play with her. He’d push her to the edge and then surrender, throwing himself on his back showing her that she was in charge. It was nice to see the animal instincts I’d read about being played out in the apartment.

It took a while, but eventually the two of them became best friends. It was just like we’d hoped for. They would keep each other company, and not bother us every second. Napoleon is a short haired and full-sized dachshund and Amélie is wire haired, also a full-sized wiener. Completely different persons though. Amélie is wise and thinks through every move, whereas Napoleon comes off as slightly less bright but all the more ready to please. Amélie likes to be left alone once in a while, but Napoleon can’t be alone for a second. Amélie doesn’t hesitate to bite your fingers if you try to trim her nails, but Napoleon has never even said a bad word towards us. We have a picture perfect thing going on, but our dogs haven’t been spayed or neutered. This means that every once in a while, when Amélie is on the rag, a fucking pandemonium brakes out and Napoleon has to take a time out. We send him to my in-laws, who are more than pleased to take him. Unlike my mother, and my father is still allergic. This was finally proven, back before Napoleon, when I took Amélie over for christmas and he developed a chronic asthma and almost dropped dead. Both of the dogs sleep with us now. I curse the day I picked up Amélie from her crate and brought her back to my bed. I hardly ever get a good night’s sleep. They are never on my wife’s side of the bed. Never. One dog is under my legs and one is glued to either my back or my front.

Coming up! -Things get a turn for the worse…

To be continued…

Self-medicating, or loving the occasional party. Whatever you want to call it, the truth was that I partied more than usual. I was depressed and anxious, and the alcohol and good times was the only thing that seemed to be working right. But I assure you that I did the exact same thing as everyone else. Everyone else that weren’t depressed or had any other mental health issues. I was one of the 18-21 year olds that could party without a hangover, and so I did. I was, however, needing a companion. There were no girlfriends. When you party, you party. That’s how I looked at it. Picking up chicks along the way just got in the way of the partying. Sure there’d be the occasional lucky break where the two would somehow be possible at the same time, but we are going too far from the story now and need to make a u-turn quickly. So I had looked at dogs and chosen that I would get a dachshund through this girl in my school.

Dachshunds or Wiener Dogs or Badger Hounds, come in different varieties. There’s short, wired and long haired, as well as miniature and midget and full-sized versions. Those might not be the right terms, but think of them like ordering a soda. You get three sizes and three flavors. My dog, the one I was picking up because the weeks had passed and she was old enough to come and live with me, was full-sized and wire haired. A baby still, she was the size of a carton of milk and her hair was soft. I was so excited when I rang that doorbell and the dog lady answered the door. I was greeted by the German shepherd, the two mutts and the father of my dog. It was easy to figure out which dog was mine. It still had the mohawk thing going on. I didn’t care. I felt bad for even considering one of the other dogs. My puppy was made ready for her big adventure. Her stuff was packed. A piece of the blanket she’d slept on with her siblings, special baby food and a towel that smelled like her mother. I’m almost crying as I’m typing this. The mother was still under the bed, growling, but the father made sure my puppy was clean and representable.

We said goodbye and thank you. It was heartbreaking to see the father panicking when his little girl was taken away, and my puppy crying in my arms, wanting back to her own mother and father. They couldn’t keep fifteen dogs, I understood. My dog, which I was already pretty sure I’d call Amélie because  of the way she looked at me. The movie Amélie had been a success around the world and my dog had the same dark eyes as the main character Amélie Poulain, played by french beauty Audrey Tautou. Amélie didn’t want to ride shotgun. I had to pick her up and placed her on my lap as I drove away. Amélie was crying and shaking. Then she threw up. It was the most vile smelling throw up, and it was all over my lap. It smelled like human vomit, the kind that makes you want to throw up yourself. She has thrown up tens, maybe hundreds of times since then and never has it smelled like that. I hadn’t had any experience with babies or other marsupials throwing up on me before, so I freaked out a little more than necessary and the car almost flipped over.

We did arrive home safely and I carried her up to my apartment. There wasn’t an elevator in this building either. Amazing how the story comes full circle. Don’t worry, we’re not even close to the end yet. Amélie took her first steps in my, no our apartment. She moved very slowly. She was just over six weeks old. I showed her where her water cup was. I tried to feed her some bone shaped crackers, but she wouldn’t have any. I finally had a dog. She was the cutest thing in the world, but now what? I sat on the floor and watched her inspect every inch of the apartment and there weren’t many of them, but she did manage to fall asleep about ten times before she was done with the inspection. The smell of a puppy is something one never forgets. It smells like freshly baked bread and their mouth have a sour scent. They say babies smell good. I say babies smell like shit compared to puppies. We had quite an adventure in front of us.

To be continued… (with pictures)

Afgelopen nacht, 02u14 : Amélie klaagt over buikpijn. Na een aai over haar bolleke valt ze gelukkig terug in slaap.

Later diezelfde nacht : Ik word wakker door gejammer en gehuil. Wanneer ik haar deur open doe, en een zure geur mij tegemoet komt, weet ik al hoe laat het is. Kind uit bed gevist en daarna het licht aangedaan om de schade op te meten, die al bij al nog mee blijkt te vallen. Vuile pyjama uit, propere pyjama aan, lakens verversen, gezichtje opfrissen, slokje water drinken. ”Moet ik nog slapen mama, of mag ik al opstaan nu?”, klinkt het dan. Euhm, goeie vraag schatje, ik heb geen flauw idee hoe laat het is. Na een blik op de klok en een verhaaltje (ja, ik heb een dochter die blijkbaar ook ’s nachts gehecht is aan haar ritueel) kruipt ze terug haar bed in, en sluit ik al duimend haar deur. Hopend dat het bij die ene keer blijft. Nog een wasje draaien, en om 4u57 kruip ik terug in bed, naast manlief, die door heel dit gebeuren heen heeft geslapen.

Vandaag is ze een beetje koortsig, en wil ze niks eten. Enkel een film van Dora, haar pop Fanny en een dekentje kunnen haar bekoren.

Eline worstelt dan weer al dagen met doorkomende tandjes, met alles wat daarbij kan horen.  Deze namiddag had ze zoveel last dat ik ze in de draagdoek heb gezwierd, kwestie van toch nog iets anders te kunnen doen dan traantjes te drogen en speelgoedjes aan te dragen. Van de ene seconde op de andere werd het stil, en plotseling werd ik terug in de tijd gekatapulteerd. Naar haar eerste levensweken waarin mijn lichaam wel vergroeid leek met dat stuk paarse stof als bestrijding van Het Refluxmonster. Ongelofelijk hoe een mens zoiets bijna uit zijn geheugen kan bannen. Ik herinner mij nu meestal enkel nog de vele mooie momenten die er toch ook waren. Het gehuil en gekrijs lijkt achteraf gezien alleen maar een boze droom.

Morgen beter.

When I was in France as an exchange student all those years ago I wasn’t only an idiot obsessed with letting off fireworks and arguing with Jean-Louis. There was a part of me which was utterly entranced by the fact that I could travel for a couple of hours across a stretch of sea and find myself immersed in a radically different culture. In short, I loved France, which is why I signed up to go back and spend more time with Jean-Louis the following year. He and I might not have got along too well but he dug England when he came to stay with me, I dug France when I was there so it made sense to take the opportunity to go again.

One of the reasons I was keen to return was Paris although, as I will explain, Paris was one of the reasons my school might not have wanted me to go on the following year’s exchange. I’d got myself into a bit of trouble in the French capital, you see. It was all going spendidly well in the morning. Jean-Louis’ mum dragged me out of bed at some ungodly hour so that I could get washed and dressed in time to make the coach. It was barely light as we pulled out of Caen and began trundling 120 miles towards Paris. It was about half nine by the time we spilled out of the coach, hot and bothered and already full of brie and baguettes. As is probably customary with all exchange students, we were first taken to the Eiffel Tower. Either because of cost or because of time, we did not go to the very top but still got an amazing view from the second level. I know London a little because my father worked there and I used to take a train and he’d meet me at Paddington Station whenever I went to stay with him. Usually he’d take me to his place of work – a huge building close to Blackfriar’s Bridge – and he’d shown me around Westminster and Fleet Street and the like when time allowed. But Paris seemed like another world from the tower. Up there where the exhaust fumes did not reach, where the only sounds were of bickering seagulls, squabbling children and harrassed teachers, I fell in love with a place for the first time in my life.

Notre Dame

Our next stop was Notre Dame but I could not get the image of Paris from above out of my head. I didn’t want to stay in some scary old church, I wanted to explore the city. So I did. I edged towards the door while the guide was telling our group about the cathedral and walked out. For reasons I am not entirely sure, I was followed by one of the swottier boys from my class. At first I thought he’d been sent by a teacher to tell me to come back in, but it turns out there was a slightly rebellious streak in him after all. He had already been to Paris twice, he said, and didn’t want to trudge around Notre Dame again so he thought he’d hang around outside until they were done. “Where are you going?” he asked.”No idea,” I replied. “What do you mean?” he wanted to know. So I tried to tell him what I’d felt when we were up the Eiffel Tower and that I just wanted to lose myself in the streets and discover it all for myself. Not sure if he got quite what I meant but he reminded me of when and where the coach was leaving from that evening. “What if you get lost and miss the coach?” he suddenly thought. “No idea,” I said again and walked away. Moments later he was there alongside me and it seemed I’d found an unlikely accomplice for possibly the most idiotic spot of truancy I ever indulged in.

Actually, he didn’t last long. We’d been heading vaguely North (I now know, at the time I was just wandering wherever I liked, soaking up the sounds of the traffic and the conversations people seemed to be having at break-neck speeds), and began walking down a thinning street. On either side were women in short skirts with tiny handbags, cigarettes dangling from too-red lips. “Oh my god, they’re…” said Swot-Boy. “Hookers,” I completed his sentence. The further we walked along the street, the older and less attractive the women seemed to become. Near the other end one of them winked at my friend. He freaked out, as though a prostitute winking at him was the same as having paid her for services we were not even particularly ready for at that age. “I’m going back.” was all he said. So I let him head off and continued in the direction we’d been going.

Montmartre Steps

I did not know at the time that I was entering Montmartre. All I knew was that the chain stores had disappeared from the streets to be replaced with smaller shops, cafes, tobacconists, and murky looking antique places. Pavement artists seemed to be on every corner bugging the better dressed tourists to have their portrait sketched. This was the Paris I’d imagined from films and television. I had no idea that Montmartre was traditionally the bohemian quarter and down the years had been home to the likes of Picasso, and Renoir and even American writers such as Langston Hughes. All I knew was that this was MY Paris, I’d discovered it all on my own. Nobody had shown me the steps or the side roads: they were all new and all mine.

Feeling thirsty, I stopped in a cafe on the corner of a main street, pretended I could read more than ten words of the French newspaper which was lying on my table when I sat down, and beheld my new domain. I dreamed the normal dreams of impressionable teenagers who read too much Kafka and Orwell and who have stumbled into Paris as if guided by the hand of Fate. In other words I dreamed that one day I would return and live here, in this part of the city, and forget that I ever spoke English at all. And when I rounded another corner on continuing my explorations, I found yet another reason to come and live in Montmartre: The Sacre Coeur.

One of the reasons I adored the film ‘Amelie‘ so much was because of the scenes around the Sacre Coeur. I don;t know what it was that drew me to it as I was not and am not religious. But it was this glorious white building on top of a hill with inviting steps leading up to it. So I climbed the steps and went inside what suddenly seemed like some magical temple. There was a peace and stillness inside, despite the fact of it being quite full with tourists and worshippers, that made sense to me in a way that years of sermons and religious instruction at school had never done. Many people were buying candles and setting them on a specially provided stand, lighting them and, presumably, whispering a silent prayer. I put three Francs into the box, lit my candle and put it with the others. Rather than praying I became somewhat serious and realised that I was going to be in an awful lot of trouble with my teachers. I decided to wander round for ten minutes, drink in as much as I could of the Sacre Coeur, and then make my way back to the meeting point.

On the way back I tried telling myself I’d probably be fine. We were going to have sandwiches wherever after Notre Dame and then the students were going to be allowed to explore anyway. They’d probably not even missed me. I;d only skipped off an hour early after all. How wrong I was. My teachers were apoplectic with rage and also quite shaken with fear. Anything could have happned to me, they said. What the hell was I thinking, they said. The police were looking for you, they said. So I had to apologise to the teachers, and to the gendarme who they’d spoken to and who had alerted some of his colleagues by radio. I was sorry that they’d been so worried, sorry that I had caused disruption and trouble. But I was not sorry at all to have discovered Paris for myself that day. The memories will stay with me forever, even if I never did end up living the life of a bohemian in Montmartre. It’s probably all commercial these days anyway.

A Very Long Engagement (2004)

Mathilde (Tautou) in the lighthouse.

The 2004 Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Amélie, The City of Lost Children, Delicatessen) film A Very Long Engagement (Un long dimanche de fiançailles) is one of those rare movies I’m urged to consume myself with annually. In fact it was my favorite film of that year and Jeunet, were it not for the terrible Alien Resurrection, has a nearly flawless list of films he has directed, at least in my opinion. Here, Jeunet once again gets to work with the quirky, lovable, and brilliant Audrey Tautou, who were it not for her humble choice of roles outside of The Da Vinci Code, would probably be a Hollywood icon. They clearly compliment each other, as in A Very Long Engagement Jeunet recaptures everything that makes Tautou so wonderful in Amélie. But that’s not all. Jeunet has an outstanding international ensemble in this movie. Jeunet regular Dominique Pinon is back once again. 2007 Oscar winner Marion Cotillard (La Môme a.k.a. La Vie en rose) is absolutely perfect as the tragic anti-hero and clever revenge connoisseur, Tina Lombardi. Gaspard Ulliel, who plays the infamous title character in 2007’s Hannibal Rising, co-stars opposite Tautou, and is as equally engaging for his pure boyish innocence in the role. Even Jodie Foster appears in a supporting role and is as compelling as ever. On the technical side Bruno Delbonnel (unquestionably among the best cinematographers in the world) collaborates again with Jeunet to make a great story also a visually dazzling film. Frequent David Lynch collaborator Angelo Badalamenti scores the film effectively as well. But enough about who made the movie.

A great landscape shot from the movie.

Marion Cotillard as resourceful assassin Tina Lombardi.

A Very Long Engagement follows Mathilde (Tautou), an orphan partially paralyzed from polio, as she undertakes a desperate journey to find her fiancé, a French soldier in World War I named Manech (Ulliel). Their love for one another is portrayed as remarkably profound and that really is what this movie is built on. Jeunet has a unique way of introducing characters to us. He makes it almost impossible to not relate in some way to them. The characters in his films are far more charming than most, especially here. Manech was one of five soldiers convicted of self-mutilation. He did this so he would no longer have to serve. All five soldiers faced a death sentence by being forced to enter No Man’s Land between the French and German trenches. All are assumed to have not survived but Mathilde’s faith in Manech’s survival cannot be shaken. A Very Long Engagement is seen through the perspective of both primary characters, but mostly focuses on Mathilde. I won’t give away the end but suffice to say it is among the most beautiful bittersweet movie moments in many years.

A horrifying but equally outstanding landscape shot from the film.

Although brief, Audrey Tautou's bum is in this movie, and that might earn 5 stars by itself.

In such a passionate story that never loses my attention I sometimes forget how amazing this film is visually. You can plainly see that Jeunet is delighted to tell his story with a big budget, and believe me he uses it wisely. The war scenes do not for one second turn away. Even with all I’ve heard, read about, or seen visual interpretations of; nothing could prepare me for Jeunet’s seemingly spot-on depiction of World War I trench warfare brutality. What’s amazing is he contrasts these fragmented horrific visuals with mostly gorgeous countryside shots of north western France and gazing shots of the beautiful and delicate Mathilde. Seems so appropriate, as the world I see today might need these contrasts as a reminder of how very beautiful life has the potential to be. A Very Long Engagement to me is the total package. It really is what movies should be about and I very highly recommend it to anyone.

My rating is 5 out of 5 stars.