Many pangs

There are wagons, and there are wagons. The latter is somewhere far, far away, on the other side of — jesus — fifteen months in which I’ve written literally zero words of … Art? Trivia? Rote journalizing? Whatever it is, none. Nil.

I’m not sure where it all went. Well, actually, lie — I’m as reasonably sure as the next gal, but I’d no warning it would be  so long… without. Didn’t even know i could live like that. But truthfully, I’ve been happy — happier than ever. Pitter patter kisses. Wicker pups. Sorry for being vague! Vagueness makes me happy right now, too. As does vagary. Selva inconstant! Hello again, Eden.

Still wishing for my own website back. Still hampered by incompetent webhost. Am considering re-adopting capital letters in my writing as a measure of defiance, until I Find Home.

George Clooney is on the television right now — Michael Clayton. He’s like the polar opposite of Miles Massey, another lawyer he played back in 2003. How many degrees off am I from the me of way back when?

Well, let’s see.

I forgot

I <3 Tilda Swinton. In spite of Teknolust.


Twilight intervention


I realize the last entry was crying out for a photo, and I was tempted to steal this one from the P-I article I’d linked, but thought better of it. Sadly, my photography has been as absent as my writing, so I’ve none of my own to share. From Samurai, that is. Here’s a little something from another decent ramen restaurant in Bellevue, Mamasan:


Their tonkotsu is decidedly less rich than Samurai’s, but a little more complex. Ginger, probably sake as well. I’ve also heard, from multiple friends, that the Nagasaki champon is where it’s at, but haven’t tried it myself. A warning: there’s a pretty a sketchy vibe if you go  after dinnertime — they’re open late, and the place is filled with Japanese businessmen and eager-to-please waitresses hanging off their sides as they sing karaoke. Eww! And if you decide to brave it anyways (and especially if you’re a woman dining alone), prepare to get a good dose of stinkeye.

On the other hand, lunchtime has always felt pretty safe.


Bastille Day

As of last night’s posts, Paris Hilton has now been banished from my front page. I suppose some would say my work here is done, and I certainly feel a sense of accomplishment.

But! I haven’t told you yet. I’m having a photo published in a real live photo magazine (Popular Photography & Imaging), which I guess has happened before, but they’re paying me for it, which hasn’t. Whomever it was found me on flickr, which means that after nearly twenty years, I’ve finally figured out how to make money on the internet.

This is the one, an oldie:


I might even have some money left over after paying for the magazine!


Rose on Rose

By the way: Billie Piper in Mansfield Park? I found it on my TiVo this morning. How exciting!

An Eyre year

Please excuse me while I girl out and talk Brontë for a bit! I’ve always loved Jane Eyre and its film adaptations, and somewhere in the last year and a half managed to catch up on most of what’s out there. Obviously, most recent on the landscape is the 2006 television version with Toby Stephens and Ruth Wilson. It was certainly pretty, but I came away somewhat cold. They tried to up the Gothic mood in a way that kind of came off as kitschy, and I never really got over Stephens’ smirking turn as a cyber-suited Bond villain. How perfectly unfair of me! I did like Jane here; she’s nearly perfect, but I think the quality of adaptation turns on the Rochester in play, and he doesn’t quite do it for me.

Finally, finally, the 1944 film starring (and probably more than a little directed by) Orson Welles is available on DVD, so I’ve been able to patch up a criminally large hole in my Jane Eyre bibliography. However, it’s more of a required supplement than a primary version. There’s some fascinating cinematography; I especially love the sequence at Lowood where Helen (Elizabeth Taylor!) first meets Jane. Orson Welles is, well, Orson Welles, with all you’d expect from that fact. Joan Fontaine is just a little bit too refined as Jane.

Timothy Dalton was the Rochester of my swooning teenage years, and though I still love him, there’s a theatrical bombast there that kind of takes away from being able to be immersed in his 1983 version. Still, very nearly everything is perfect here, including Zelah Clarke, who is either freakishly short, or only in comparison to Dalton. St. John Rivers is an epic tool in this version, though, so if you’re a fan of the man with the Good Book, this will not please. I will guarantee you won’t find a better wedding scene than the one Dalton puts on in here.

Have you seen the 1972 Jane Eyre starring Sorcha Cusack and Michael Jayston? You’ve probably never even heard of it, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s the best version out there. This is finally out on disc as well, and in surprisingly fine shape (it looks much better than the 1983 set). Picked it up based on internet buzz, and immediately fell in love. Certainly I think Jayston’s the ideal Rochester: gruff, distant and yet charismatic; simultaneously witty, passionate and hurtful. You could say he’s Captain von Trapp without the entourage or the edelweiss, and there’s even a physical resemblance to be seen. I was also pleased the narrated bookends to many scenes, read straight from the book.

And Sorcha Cusack has amazing eyebrows.

Terrible versions, both from the ’90s: Franco Zeffirelli’s motion picture version with William Hurt (??) and Charlotte Gainsbourg (whose recent Jarvis Cocker-produced album, 5:55, I did enjoy), and A&E’s version with Ciaran Hinds (amazing in Persuasion, terrible here, and goddess forgive him for Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life) and Samantha Morton (generally wonderfull, but here, not so much).


Don’t watch the tape

Lia uploaded a beautiful self-portrait on flickr and facebook the other day, and it wasn’t long before somebody commented that she looked just “like a heroine in a Japanese horror flick.”

Well! I could hardly let that go without chiming in..


…or I could play Rock Band


I think I prefer to stay inside


Comfort food for breakfast, dai bao — an enormous Chinese steamed bun, nearly as big as a softball, filled with ground pork, water chestnut, Chinese sausage, half a boiled egg, and other goodness. It’s an entire meal in one handheld lump: warm, wild, wonderful. An easy mess, if one’s not careful.

Koreans have a similar concoction, wang mandu, with glass noodles and spring onions and, well, you get the picture. I’ve heard rumors of a Vietnamese analogue as well. Someday I’d love to open a restaurant where every dish you order comes to you in the form of a giant, doughy steamed bun bursting at the seams with … lamb shwarma? gyros? Italian sausage and bolognese? The mind fills with possiblity.

Grabbed Preacher: Gone To Texas from the library, which I’m told is long overdue for a read. Am in a contradictory mood for dark/unredemptive and fluffy/romantic entertainment, though the graphic novel form feels right either way. Any recommendations?

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