Battlestar Galacta: the plan

We watched nearly two hours of total-Geek science fiction. It made sense to me because I'm a fan of the re-make series and have watched every episode. Spike may have been slightly bemused from time to time because as a stand-alone narrative I have to be honest and say 'The 'Plan' is bonkers, full of plot holes, illogical jumps and unexplained comings and goings.

I wondered if it was essentially a compilation of deleted scenes from Series 1 and 2. It's unlikely the producers would have recalled actors only to have filmed chat between good versus bad 'skin jobs'. That may make the piece a triumph of editing but even then we're still in the territory of unnecessary movie making. It added nothing of depth or complexity and, what's worse, felt a little ... dare one say this about BG ... boring.
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Agamemnon's dream

Book Two of The Iliad today. The latter half, known as the catalogue of ships, is (to say the least) challenging. Basically it's a long list of ancient Greeks' names and just as long a list of ancient Greek places - principalities, kingdoms and cities - most of which are difficult to pronounce and some impossible. And there are the Trojan leaders and places too. I guess the listings meant more to Greeks around 400 BC when the oral tradition, the need to recite great works in public was at its height. Still, I ploughed through it. One must.

The opening sequence was enjoyable: capricious Gods, evil Dream whispering in the ear of a vainglorious Agamemnon, the rush for the boats home as he tests his men and the efforts of Odysseus to rally the troops. They do feel real, those Kings and Generals of Greece. Agamemnon, proud but brave, a nincompoop at times; Nestor the toady, arse-licker; sulking Achilles, loyal Odysseus. As for the gods? One of the most appealing aspects of these epic tales is that the gods are such capricious, scheming, untrustworthy and devious actors in their own rights; a warring family who fight the petty battles of Mount Olympus often like bored, impetuous, spoiled children. You would think that Agamemnon might have known better than to trust the words of Dream. He'll learn (too late).
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The Quarrel by the Ships

Sitting at home, bathed in the warm sun of a Spring Saturday, I was gripped by another of my periodic moments of self-doubt about writing. You know the sort of self-destructive, poisonous thought ... I'll never amount to anything, never produce anything worthwhile, never be published, etc, etc. All of that's probably true but none of it manages to kill the desire.

Ditch the ego, just write ... said Halimah (years ago). I try but every now and then again I wonder, write what? How?

So, I spent a while today wandering the Internet looking for something, not sure what; a spark of genius, inspiration maybe or an easy answer (of which there are none). I did, however, come across this piece of useful advice (from Stephen King). "If you want to be a writer you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot." It's hard to resist the obvious.

It seems like a good idea, therefore, to go back to the beginning (so to speak). That explains the hour or so, probably more, reading aloud book one of The Iliad in a translation by Ian Johnston

Good old Homer, then: my saviour. Maybe. Maybe not. At least I'm writing something, even if it's no more than this blog entry about how I'll never amount to anything as a writer.
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A Christmas Carol

On the plus side: Robert Zemeckis's new movie stays faithful to the original, although I'm not sure that all that Dickensian moralising has much appeal in the 21st Century. That's not the fault of Dickens, of course. The spirit of Marley is well done; quite scary. The spirit horse's head emerging from the the shadows on the wall is effective; maybe the most effective image or scene in the entire movie. the snow was quite well-realised in 3D as were the (too many) scenes of characters observed through glass. Neither is a strong enough justification of 3D.

On the negative side: it's long and tedious at times. There's much too much whooshing through the air (a bit reminiscent of The Snowman): whoosh over the roof tops of London (several times); whoosh through the trees of Christmas past; whoosh down the drains and across icicle-strewn tiled roofs during the rather ridiculous shrunk-Scrooge sequence; whoosh to the graveyard of Christmas yet to come. Robin Wright Penn, Bob Hoskins and Colin Firth were under-used.

Ho hum. Well-intentioned but thoroughly unnecessary. I don't think the world really needs a new Christmas Carol. If we must have one, it ought to have been more engaging than this.

Something in the air

Intoxicated by her scent,

something citrus

with cardamom and salt (incredibly),

provoking a way through

this still, night air; lifting off skin

at the end of this too hot day -

too fiery, too dry,

almost dangerous

and too much like summer for spring -

the idea strikes me

we may never comprehend

the alchemist’s intentions

for that is not the purpose

nor is that how this ends.

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Fresh Snow

Crisp under foot, its surface
crumpling beneath a worn yellow boot
to give out a sound that could be
confused with the noise an egg makes -
hard-boiled - when tapped gently
on a corduroy-clad knee, resting
near the summit of Buchaille Etive Mhor
on a cloud-free day when we were
sixteen maybe - or seventeen
at a push - with few concerns
(none of them serious) and too little
imagination to worry in any way
beneath that pristine sky, azure,
unbroken as far as the eye could see
beyond Ben Nevis to the east,
The Cullens on Skye to the west
and the whole Great Glen running north
to south where home lay, distant and safe.

I wrote the lines above after reading this (in search of inspiration I suppose). I have a lot to lear about poetry.

DON PATERSON

Sliding on Loch Ogil

Remember, brother soul, that day spent cleaving
nothing from nothing, like a thrown knife?
Then there was no arriving and no leaving,
just a dream of the disintricated life —
crucified and free, the still man moving,
the balancing his work, the wind his wife.

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Exam time

So my university preparation course ended today with a three-hour exam in Sydney University's New Law Building (a triumph of form over function). I answered four questions in three hours (having not pursued the extra time my disabling condition probably warranted). In order of writing I answered questions on T S Eliot, Crash, Beloved and Shakespeare's Sonnet 55 (ran out of time on that one.) I think I did well enough to achieve a distinction for the course.

When / if I enrol in the undergraduate course I'll need to aim higher. The target, 10 years from now, is to secure my PhD.