The History Boys
Watching this film always reminds me of the brevity of a breath; the falling step off the kerb that it is your last. We don’t look to fall in love, with thudding heart and slack mouths, as some books will teach; it smacks you in the chops and kicks your gut, and the next thing you know, you’re down.
I try to remember the immediacy of life with each line I write. No warning sign for the potholes, no dramatic build-up to the gunshot. One minute you’re there, the next you’re a blipping heart monitor.
I wonder at Things tonight. The budding green spears on the tree outside this window I face. My own reflection, ghost-pale in the glass. The artificial heat inside, and the rawness without; when it’ll ever end, is anyone’s guess and a turn of the wind.
How best to follow The History Boys? Running in the corridors, of course.
Farewell, Uncle Monty
http://m.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-21973505
As the irascible thespian Uncle Monty in “Withnail and I”, Richard Griffiths first found his way into my heart. It was a role he’d come to be remembered for, a focal point for any misunderstood man caught between stage and sky, where only the stars may gain access. In the hopeless pursuit of Withnail’s companion Marwood, Monty was forced, as any man of his generation (and those to come) would be, to fade back into the shadows, broken heart in one hand and wilting flower (!) in the other. For the soil-rumble voice, its trembling poetry, I’ll remember Griffiths best.
This is my farewell, to a man and national favourite, gone to be with those stars.
celenagaia 