brief encounters

Between blogging and other forms of procrastination - often closely connected with writing, I add in an attempt to vaguely justify - I am reworking a novel begun several years ago. The storyline is unchanged but big aspects of it require serious thought and revision. I realised not so long ago that I'd become so hung up on line-to-line editing that I'd neglected to think - or learn about - structure, a bit like decorating a house before the building is sound, or even knowing what kind of building it is. Dear oh dear... Perhaps I should learn from my pleasure in blogging and write a novel in blog form. A PhD friend is doing such a thing in facebook format.


Last night my partner and I watched David Lean's Brief Encounter. For the uninitiated, this is one of Britain's classic films. Written in 1945, it is a simple love story, no distracting subplots, accompanied throughout by Rachmaninov's 2nd piano concerto. The couple are both married and suffer agonies from knowing they must sacrifice their love in order to do the only honourable thing - remain with their spouses and children. It's filmed in black and white, with powerful use of light and darkness to mirror emotions. I hadn't watched it for yonks and wondered if I'd find its 'purity' tedious and old-fashioned, its 1950's clipped BBC accent and upper middle class diction 'Do you mind awfully?', 'Tell me I can see you again,' irritating and unconvincing. But as soon as I looked at the liquid eyes of Laura Jesson, brilliantly acted by Celia Johnson, I knew the story hadn’t lost its power to move. It was described as the last film where people behave 'nicely'. Perhaps that really is its charm. Plus the unambitious but reassuring routine of Laura’s ‘day off’ from suburban housewife, when she takes the train to the neighbouring town where she swaps her library book and has a restaurant lunch, before going to a matinee. Trains sound their whistles and blow out clouds of steam, and a medicinal glass of brandy at the station refreshment room costs sevenpence.

































This morning as I walked to the Melting Pot, my prime venue for writing/procrastination, I stole another look at the exhibition of sea creatures. No doubt in the turbulent depths of my unconscious mind, there's a connection between that and last night's movie. Perhaps the viewing of such photographs is another form of brief encounter, for I have no desire to see any of them alive, though I might watch such a documentary, providing there was a cushion to hide behind. Here are some more offerings, courtesey of BING images:

Cocos batfish










Striped frogfish








Orangutan crab


Dugong


Dilly-dallyingly yours

Jane