Money, for instance

In Film, Food, Games, Hautvoir, Local projects, Music, news coverage, photography, proto drafts on October 3, 2015 at 7:54 am

“Poor you,” the woman said to me Friday night. “The movie must have affected you so badly.” She was referring to the final short shown at the Off part of the mini film festival in town.

The film had affected me, yes, but not in the way she imagined. Treating the deportation of an “illegal” immigrant in musical comedy style? Why not. The opening dance scene was even better than the one in West Side Story. But the soupy, faux-sincere looks of the good-good people standing up for justice? Excuse me, pure sentimental pap. I maintain my preference for the bandy-legged mamma.

As for film preferences at last night’s official Opening of the Cultural Season, I opted for Mano Nuncias over L’Homme de Rio, and glad I did, too. Irony ran high when we filed out of the smaller of the two viewing rooms at the local cinema. “Hey, how often do we get a happy ending?” one viewer said. “They deliver the goods, they get paid, they get promised another job for the following week. What’s not to like?”

“They” being two dirt-poor Columbians doing the dirty donkey work of conveying some hundred kilos of cocaine by small boat to their contact “somewhere on the waters”. Two or three killings later, they’re even poorer when they return with their wad of bills than they were when they set out.

Money. If there’s any doubt in anyone’s mind that human reality requires, nay, grows and thrives on the irrational, money has got to be the total give-away. What is money? A conventional symbol based on a social consensus.  Gold, cowrie shells, bits of paper or bits of plastic. People die for it, kill for it, dream of it, go nuts without it, do dumb-dumber-dumbest crap for it.

Maybe the two kids with the shaved and tattooed head, throwing their food wrappings out of the parked car early this morning while I walked the car. Maybe they just had a yearning to sit in a parked car and scarf down crappy food. Maybe they were planning another crappy heist. Maybe they were responsible for the six dumber-than dumb local break-ins this week. Break-ins that netted them stuff like an aging computer plus external hard-drive at the local artists’ hangout; a color TV at a community service; some phones in a school; something or other at a hairdressing salon. And so on. Small potatoes in the overall craziness. Lots of big stinking cheeses. Lots of small, small potatoes.

The current paper edition of L’Obs has an article about a man who goes by the code name of Cesar. His job in Syria consisted of photographing the bodies of the regime’s opponents, dead under torture. He managed to escape with forty-five thousand photographs of gruesome evidence.  (But the cover page and main article deal with a so-called Leftist Thinker by the name of Michel Onfray whose main (sole) concern is staying in the forefront of the news. If that means redefining the Left as being another way to say the Right – eh, why not.)

Allez. Choir practice resumes this morning. The choirmaster’s broken finger is sufficiently healed to allow playing both the piano and the accordion. More photos and films, this afternoon and this evening. Writing-wise, the character in the next scene travels around with me. He’s in his car. I’m on foot, or taking pictures, or etc. The character’s on his way to yet more mayhem to sort out, or deal with, or

(at any rate, when I woke up this morning, for no particular reason, I knew the proto draft stage of this writing exercise was close to the full first draft stage; ergo, close to the next step of a full read-through, cutting, editing, scene shuffling, etc).


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