journal — imbolc
On what we bring, carrots, and fire.
Dear reader,
In this bleak midwinter, I feel stuck — but okay.
Much of what I set for myself to get done & think about this season has worked out well, but it was a mighty, tumbling list. The big things got done, now waiting on other people to keep moving, then I went overboard on the medium and small things. There’s movement towards the life I’d like, though. I feel good about that.
This letter’s a bit short — left it late, on the day in the evening.
Here’s to a good year, and wishing you warmth.
Daniel
that
1 — what you bring
Edited from my journal on Tuesday.
‘I want to note an idea I picked up from Kermode & Mayo’s Take this morning: on what we bring to film & books & culture, and why it matters. Put simply, there are things I — any & all of us — have experienced that accompany our bodies & minds & spirits wherever we roam, invited or otherwise, affecting how we think about… well, everything. There are as many versions of the same book or film as there are people who read or watch it, and it’s the moments of shared recognition & familiarity between people & these versions of cultural moments that, I think, allow us to feel seen, then creating understanding & empathy.
In the relatively short time I’ve thought about reviews & criticism with any seriousness, I’ve seen it as a practice that, frankly, tries to shovel shit out the way and clear space for the sublime to be experienced. Poor ratings = less interest, so the interest goes elsewhere. But there’s very little we can call objectively ‘good’ or ‘bad’ — it isn’t a stretch to remember that the majority of what’s felt by the viewer or reader or listener is completely subjective.
An example that comes to mind is a scene from one of my current top four films: David Lowery’s A Ghost Story. For five minutes, sat on the kitchen floor, Rooney Mara’s character eats pie. I’ve heard people talk about how long & boring it was, as she sits there eating after losing a loved one, all the while knowing I cried in the cinema. Why? Can any of it have been objective when not everyone cried? Or did it have more to do with knowing someone I loved had died shortly before and I, too, ate to distract? Was I tired that day? Worried about money? Lonely in London? All three and then some? To others, it was a boring scene in an ‘artsy’ film. To me, it felt like everything — I’ve been scared to rewatch it for years because what if it’s too much or not enough anymore? That uniqueness of what you, I, we bring is fascinating & sad & brilliant & makes reviews all the more interesting if the reviewer remembers that complexity to begin with.
It made me think: what other quirks do I carry that affect my experiences? Are some more profound than others? Nine years ago this month, someone I had dated for a short while — and knew a little while longer — died when she ate something that caused her to go into anaphylactic shock. I carry my experience of that person with me, always. The person she was (adventurous, reckless, self-conscious, caring & selfish, her love of River Monsters & takeaway), the love her family showed me for all these years after she died, Reiki dreams, the debt I owe to them for my sanity, for saving me. I carry painful gratitude for it all, and all that from just one person I knew.
I wonder if I’d cry watching River Monsters.’
2 — carrots
This quote from the final episode of Flanagan’s The Fall of the House of Usher — inspired by the novels of Edgar Allan Poe — struck a chord.
‘“He’s rich.” When people asked how you took them, how you convinced them away from me — “he’s rich,” I’d say. “He’s rich.” And you don't understand what that word means. They were young. They only knew appetite. “Here,” you said, “come with me. Gorge yourselves.” How could I compete with that? You didn’t feed them, though, did you? You starved them. Less and less of them came back each time until one day they were empty. They were syphoned. You started filling them up with… what did you fill them up with, Roderick? What did you have to fill them with? Because you weren’t rich, were you? I thought you were a rich man all this time but I see you now. I look at you and I see… you. The poverty of you.’
Seeing the poverty of a few people currently in my life, wealth & privilege paired with self-delusion, makes me grateful for what I consider to have worth.
3 — fire
‘you can't kill me ‘cause I'm already inside you’ — (sic) by Slipknot
‘I set a fire just to see what it kills’ — Little Faith by The National
Hopelessness has been made a little more reachable in recent months, with thanks to a new therapist. Fire is not an analogy she’d feel happy with me using, but that cycle of there’s no point and i’ll just destroy what’s there and see where i land has been so frequent, and I’m trying to break it. I’m considering things a little more and realising the unhealthy patterns in things.
& this
with Nosferatu and Häxan (both 1922), I’ve started on BFI’s ‘great horror films from every year, from 1922–2022’ list — reconnected with a uni friend, Diana Scalfati, and we’re thinking about a photo essay together — similarly, connected with an old friend from an old job, Richard Brabin, who suggested I fling some short stories his way — looking to start interviewing again.
Sorry for the short one this time around.
Maybe it’ll be better next time.
Maybe it won’t.
What fun.
Thanks for reading.