Globes

A yellow hide glove has appeared inside the office door and just as I'm scratching my head, Paco, one of the men who are pruning the eucalyptus trees, walks towards me with one bare hand. Briar looks sheepish and walks slowly the other way. A habit which developed only in her dowager years now seems to have blossomed into full-blown blind obsession. I love her big old knobbly body with her jutting hips and wobbly legs & those mournful eyes. As long as she wiggles her bum at me in the morning, I know she's fine.

The canopy of leaves which sheltered the house from the sun is slowly thinning out, and already there is more sun. Eucalyptus grows like weeds in poor soil and bad irrigation and seems to love the canyons. It also desires fire to prize open its seed pods. I've left the big branches growing steadily upward, but we're removing the bulk on the lower branches, so that we see through them over to Lookout Mountain. A pretty patchwork is appearing of houses and trees I'd forgotten existed. Big blue branches are falling outside my window as it becomes gradually brighter.

Because of my guilt at missing an afternoon of my Robert McKee story structure yesterday (quite honestly, after two and a half twelve hour days of sitting in the same hard chair, I just couldn't concentrate any longer) I brought home the dvd and screenplay of Casablanca, along with two pots of Pinkberry. Minks and I cuddled into my bed and we watched and read along. I was struck by how much Ingrid Bergman (playing Ilsa Lund, the Norwegian from Oslo, who is married to Victor Llaslo) looks like my mother in her youth. We both noticed the similarities. No wonder my father fell in love with her. I've written a list of films that I want to see again, or see for the first time:

Short Cuts
Star Wars
Chinatown
Casablanca
Kramer vs Kramer
Ordinary People
My dinner with Andre
Age of Innocence
8 1/2
Juliet of the Spirits
Bringing Up Baby
The Silence

I've written "movies to see again" and a little heart in my notebook, but I have never seen My Dinner with Andre or The Silence, in fact, most of Bergman is unknown to me.

Robert McKee is a self-obsessed, misogynistic pontificator who is in love with the sound of his own voice. He likes to talk and theorize and trash people and films and books. He is scornful of Rogert Ebert (he called him a "fat f***" who didn't understand act structure) and Owen Glieberman. This made me ready for a punch-up as I adore both Roger and Owen. After all these years, they feel like friends. Certainly Roger couldn't have been nicer to me when my father died. He's also skinny, not fat. McKee also took issue with Michael Ondaatje, because he didn't like the English Patient. This really riled me. I sat and growled at him under my breath, because of course you're not allowed to talk back, ask questions, or challenge him. Despite my annoyance, I've learned a huge amount and am delighted that I went, or should I say, delighted that Lucy persuaded me to come with her. We were most eccentric and brought flasks of tea and break-time snacks, and she gossiped loudly about our fellow seminarians. "See that guy in front of us" she said in her stage whisper suitable for the Roman Forum, "he asked for my email address and I gave him a fake one." McKee is charming, it's true and charismatic enough to persuade you to sit in one place for three days, but I do think that without his bad jokes and proselytizing we could have been out there in two, or gone for the French/Italian version where you get a two hour lunch break, preferably with wine, and an afternoon nap. "Go on Bum, you should write something for the LA Times, talking about how awful he is" said Lucy at least once a day. Despite this, we were both wrapt, happily.

Other things to re-read:
King Lear
Aristotle's Ethics & Poetics
Aristophanes (I have a feeling we did the Lysistrata at school & it made us blush and giggle).

Monica told me she needs new yellow globes. Maybe Briar should start a little business.