I was so happy when I went into the corner shop and found them. After so many years. And I've eaten just about five and smartly decide to have a look at the ingredients. Beef gelatin. CRAP.
I walked through my haunts and think I am homesick for childhood. The security in thinking that nothing could ever really go bad. I don't know. Walking to Monkleigh Road and seeing the sign across from the surgery reminded me that there used to be either a milk shop or a butcher shop there. It really is a small township, joined to Wimbledon township and Mitcham township and all the rest of it. And the sun was shining and it reminded me of spring. I won't even get to see spring here.
I hate myself for doing this to myself. It is a fantasy, my vision of England. Of London. A fantasy that is fed by watching films like Billy Elliot and This is England. This is England is a really stunning and unmissable film. I am so glad that I watched it. The actors are just amazing, the editing is superb - there really is no superfluous scene in it at all.
Maybe I am nostalgic about the 80s. Not because of Maggie Thatcher, may she be treated with justice by God. But because of the insular communities, in the sense we didn't really have all this globalisation - it had just begun. There was only satellite tv then.
The biggest treat was an iced bun on the way back from school. We'd look at bugs and leaves and trees and grass. We'd make daisy chains to give to the teachers. I was amazed with the hands of one of the dinner ladies because she had a melanin deficiency. That's what you call WHITE. We had a fort at school which I always imagined to be a connected to King Arthur's time.
Why do I miss it so much? Because, in spite of my melancholia that has dogged me all my life; and the parents who were 'alf there, 'alf not; and the bloody skinheads who threw water balloons on us one day and made Auntie S bleed on the head - it really was the best time of my life. Even Kampala was, because of the hope I had that we'd eventually go back.
That Mummy would love my dad again or that they would work it all out and we'd be back.
To the sun and to the ladybugs and the dandelions floating in the warm summer breeze. I can't say much about winter, except the Christmas lights.
Going to Karachi changed all that.
I am beginning to think that there is so much beauty and creativity and originality in the world that I might spend a lifetime and not discover it all. How on Earth does one come up with a film like In My Father's Den? I CRIED. Bloody hell. I'd like to watch it again, but can't because of Muharram.
I will take a vow. Never again will I settle for films which are less than excellent. I have watched some extremely stupid films in my time. No more. Even if I am desperate, there's no way I will disrespect myself and watch something like Date Movie EVER AGAIN. I am only going to watch films which I think will make me learn or feel or think.
And it has given me hope. That, perhaps writing about what you know is the most inspired thing one could do. It is, after all, a great film that can be particular and universal at the same time. It's a shame I won't be able to access these films and books in Pakistan.
Doesn't life just suck when you have a father like mine? I wonder if he will buy my sanitary napkins. It would really prove he loves me. I don't think I'd ever be able to doubt him again. I suppose it is as embarrassing for him to buy them as it would be for me to buy him condoms. Well, not really.
I was going to buy the pads from Co-op, even though they were blimming expensive. But then this young guy turned up in the aisle and wanted to buy something in the very same section (weird) so I quickly dashed to the socks section, waiting for him to hurry up. Then, unfortunately, I turned to look at him, because I wanted to see what he was buying and he was staring at me. Too embarrassed, I just left.
Bloody periods. Worse comes to worse, I'll use toilet paper and go to Superdrug first thing in the morning.
I have to return the DVDs, though I wish I could watch them both again. I think there are really just too many films and books to get through in this lifetime.
Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds. He's the one who has endowed us with genius. Dare I try to do the same? I'd do like to direct the film Kartography, or at least write the screenplay. But then I'd probably have to add the swimming pool scene, which I am NOT keen on.
New beginnings.
Along with, it is now officially the 1st of Muharram. So no more films and music. Thank God. Focus on what your religion means to you. Evolve. Pray. Meditate. Be good. Evolve. Grow. Create. Ask for help. Feel the glory and the pain.
I just can't get the story out of my head. I just can't. How can this film NOT be more reknowned. It was even better than Mystic River.
I have another love, Matthew MacFadyen. Och. So that's Richard Armitage, Darren Hayes and Matthew Macfadyen. So much heart. So much soul. I am beginning to love how actors sublimate their shadows and fixations. How do they do that? I'd love to be able to act but I am so shy and inhibited. And I'd never be able to work in a film. Well, maybe. If it was modest, Islamic and all that.
It was interesting what F had to say about how we think non-Muslims are so immoral. It's so true, because the parents are sometimes so intent on us differing right from wrong and believer from non-believer, that they demonise the rest of the human race who are actually potential submitters to God or even better than we are, though they wear the cross, or a spot on their head - or even nothing at all.
There has to be something in the soul. It can't be completely empty, can it?
Once again, that film has haunted me. I love it. Goes straight to my top 50. Wish I could own the DVD. I'd better just remember each scene; crystallize it all. Hands are shaking and heart still pounding. I am so glad I chose this over The Prestige or The Illusionist. It's a New Zealand and British production.
I walked through my haunts and think I am homesick for childhood. The security in thinking that nothing could ever really go bad. I don't know. Walking to Monkleigh Road and seeing the sign across from the surgery reminded me that there used to be either a milk shop or a butcher shop there. It really is a small township, joined to Wimbledon township and Mitcham township and all the rest of it. And the sun was shining and it reminded me of spring. I won't even get to see spring here.
I hate myself for doing this to myself. It is a fantasy, my vision of England. Of London. A fantasy that is fed by watching films like Billy Elliot and This is England. This is England is a really stunning and unmissable film. I am so glad that I watched it. The actors are just amazing, the editing is superb - there really is no superfluous scene in it at all.
Maybe I am nostalgic about the 80s. Not because of Maggie Thatcher, may she be treated with justice by God. But because of the insular communities, in the sense we didn't really have all this globalisation - it had just begun. There was only satellite tv then.
The biggest treat was an iced bun on the way back from school. We'd look at bugs and leaves and trees and grass. We'd make daisy chains to give to the teachers. I was amazed with the hands of one of the dinner ladies because she had a melanin deficiency. That's what you call WHITE. We had a fort at school which I always imagined to be a connected to King Arthur's time.
Why do I miss it so much? Because, in spite of my melancholia that has dogged me all my life; and the parents who were 'alf there, 'alf not; and the bloody skinheads who threw water balloons on us one day and made Auntie S bleed on the head - it really was the best time of my life. Even Kampala was, because of the hope I had that we'd eventually go back.
That Mummy would love my dad again or that they would work it all out and we'd be back.
To the sun and to the ladybugs and the dandelions floating in the warm summer breeze. I can't say much about winter, except the Christmas lights.
Going to Karachi changed all that.
I am beginning to think that there is so much beauty and creativity and originality in the world that I might spend a lifetime and not discover it all. How on Earth does one come up with a film like In My Father's Den? I CRIED. Bloody hell. I'd like to watch it again, but can't because of Muharram.
I will take a vow. Never again will I settle for films which are less than excellent. I have watched some extremely stupid films in my time. No more. Even if I am desperate, there's no way I will disrespect myself and watch something like Date Movie EVER AGAIN. I am only going to watch films which I think will make me learn or feel or think.
And it has given me hope. That, perhaps writing about what you know is the most inspired thing one could do. It is, after all, a great film that can be particular and universal at the same time. It's a shame I won't be able to access these films and books in Pakistan.
Doesn't life just suck when you have a father like mine? I wonder if he will buy my sanitary napkins. It would really prove he loves me. I don't think I'd ever be able to doubt him again. I suppose it is as embarrassing for him to buy them as it would be for me to buy him condoms. Well, not really.
I was going to buy the pads from Co-op, even though they were blimming expensive. But then this young guy turned up in the aisle and wanted to buy something in the very same section (weird) so I quickly dashed to the socks section, waiting for him to hurry up. Then, unfortunately, I turned to look at him, because I wanted to see what he was buying and he was staring at me. Too embarrassed, I just left.
Bloody periods. Worse comes to worse, I'll use toilet paper and go to Superdrug first thing in the morning.
I have to return the DVDs, though I wish I could watch them both again. I think there are really just too many films and books to get through in this lifetime.
Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds. He's the one who has endowed us with genius. Dare I try to do the same? I'd do like to direct the film Kartography, or at least write the screenplay. But then I'd probably have to add the swimming pool scene, which I am NOT keen on.
New beginnings.
Along with, it is now officially the 1st of Muharram. So no more films and music. Thank God. Focus on what your religion means to you. Evolve. Pray. Meditate. Be good. Evolve. Grow. Create. Ask for help. Feel the glory and the pain.
I just can't get the story out of my head. I just can't. How can this film NOT be more reknowned. It was even better than Mystic River.
I have another love, Matthew MacFadyen. Och. So that's Richard Armitage, Darren Hayes and Matthew Macfadyen. So much heart. So much soul. I am beginning to love how actors sublimate their shadows and fixations. How do they do that? I'd love to be able to act but I am so shy and inhibited. And I'd never be able to work in a film. Well, maybe. If it was modest, Islamic and all that.
It was interesting what F had to say about how we think non-Muslims are so immoral. It's so true, because the parents are sometimes so intent on us differing right from wrong and believer from non-believer, that they demonise the rest of the human race who are actually potential submitters to God or even better than we are, though they wear the cross, or a spot on their head - or even nothing at all.
There has to be something in the soul. It can't be completely empty, can it?
Once again, that film has haunted me. I love it. Goes straight to my top 50. Wish I could own the DVD. I'd better just remember each scene; crystallize it all. Hands are shaking and heart still pounding. I am so glad I chose this over The Prestige or The Illusionist. It's a New Zealand and British production.