This weekend we did lots of feel good things—reading on the lawn in the sunshine, sitting on rocks in Malibu, a matinee—all of which should mean that I’m nice and relaxed. Except that the movie we saw was 127 Hours. It was exceptional. James Franco was amazing. Everything was swell save for a little (SPOLIER ALERT) self-amputation scene. Holy mother fuck. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s so very gruesome. Hubby almost barfed, which I’ve never seen. And I looked away for much of it lest I pull a Victorian but still managed to see him rip his own nerve. And now it’s been days and I’m just trying to drive down the 101 and do the freakin dishes and I can’t stop thinking about it!!
Also been thinking about the rad Doris Lessing story I read on the lawn. I’d almost forgotten how much I love her. The Golden Notebook is one of my all time faves. This one was called The Grandmothers (title story of a book of short fiction) about two best girlfriends who grow up and have affairs with each other’s sons. Pretty racy, yet super contained (like nobody ever says fuck, maybe not even sex…). Oh Doris, swoon.
Right then, off to feel immense gratitude for my arms and other things while I do five loads of laundry. Ta ta!