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Tuesday, May 27, 2003 Foggy. So foggy. (Me, not the weather. Outside, it's sunny and beautiful.) Got myself up and out to take care of errands this morning. Managed to drag on clothes without putting anything on backwards. Made it down the stairs without doing a header, got out the front door without walking over anyone. Managed to amble in the direction I needed to go without stepping in any dog poop. Got $$$ out of an ATM. Picked up a cup of café in a joint down la Calle de Hortaleza, a small neighborhood place I've never gone into before, a couple of blocks further away than my usual a.m. watering holes. Decent espresso. The counter guy a real working stiff, hands roughened from years of labor, blabbing away with a couple of guys at the other end of the counter (more of a monologue than a dialogue, really). A 60ish guy sat between me and the two fellas the counter guy regaled -- hair white/longish, handlebar moustache, a pipe. Wearing a tweed sportcoat, reading the international Herald Tribune (in English). Looking like he just walked off a flight from London. On the counter to the other side of him lay a well-read copy of today's El Mundo. A house copy, I think, complete with address label. I considered stepping around Mr. Tweed, picking it up, giving it a quick scan, but did nothing. It was all I could manage to order my cortado and wait for it. A minute later, a guy walks in, unshaven, long hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, dressed neatly, casually. He steps up to the counter by the paper, looks at it. Ascertains that it doesn't belong to the person next to him, then subtly claims it, sliding it an inch or two to the left, where it's directly in front of him. A minute later, he puts his keys on it, leaves them there. Doesn't pick it up to read, but covertly takes possession. I had the feeling it would disappear out the door with him when he left. Ah, well. There are more copies where that one came from. Madrid is awash in morning newspapers. Back out on the street, walking along, a teensy bit less bleary. A tall, attractive black woman pops out of a doorway, apparently having just come downstairs from her flat. She has the end of a leash in one hand, a huge black great dane pops out the door after her, carrying her handbag, happily holding the handle straps in its mouth. She says, "No," takes the bag, the dog immediately adjusts to handbag deprivation, looking around, ears up, eager as it could possibly be to do whatever the hell came next. They disappeared past me. Did errands, stopped quickly in at el Corte Inglés to pick up some vitamin C. Last time I tried, they were out. This time, it looked like they'd restocked. I pick up a container, eyeball it, sure enough: vitamin C. I buy the bugger, head back toward home, stop along the way at one of my usual café joints for a cup of decaf espresso and some churros. Trying to get my still-sluggish system into something resembling a waking state. Get home, pull the vitamins out to toss them in a cupboard, notice that the container reads 'Magnesio' instead of 'Vitamina C.' I swear to you, when I picked the bugger up in the store, it clearly read 'Vitamina C.' How did I do that? Am I switching back and forth between parallel realities? (There are those who would say yes; let's not go there.) Scary. Have homework to do, which I have so far successfully put off, ignored, avoided. A composition. (Mumbled complaining, sound of unhappy teeth-grinding.) The thought of trying to achieve the kind of high-functioning state in which I could toss together a page of Spanish about, er, whatever I could pull together feels like it would be an awful lot of work. Far, far too much painful struggling. I'd have to clean all the sand, lint and useless, tangled threads of directionless thought out of my mental gears so the cogs would have half a chance of engaging. Better to take a walk. Or eat something. Or read something. Or go bowling. Or take a nap. Better, in fact, to do just about anything else. There. I think I have my priorities clear. Two quick things: First: I was not one of those fortunate souls who saw the first installment of The Matrix in the theatres. I didn't know anyone who had seen it, didn't really notice it until it reached one of the local cheap theatres and stayed there for months. Which got me curious after a while. I toyed with the idea of going, never did. Finally bought the CD in a cheap package deal, together the director's cut of Blade Runner. Watched the d.c. of B.R. once or twice. Watched The Matrix many, many times over the last two and a half years. I have had real misgivings about the idea of the sequel(s), wasn't sure I would go see it. What I read and heard about Matrix Reloaded reinforced that general feeling. Well. Yesterday, out of the blue, I got the impulse to go. And, contrary to all my expectations, I loved it. For what it's worth, the intellectualizing I've seen in some reviews about the film should be taken with a shaker of salt. It may that those given to intellectual scratching around will not be able to plug into the rush of this bugger. Or it may be that, like everything else, it's simply an individual thing, that it will work for some and not for others, and all the hype and comparisons with the first installment simply lower the odds of being able to connect with it for what it is. I am not one generally given to 'action films,' and I had a ball. And I am still in genuine awe of two or three of the long action sequences. The burly brawl sequence alone is worth the price of admission. But that's just my opinion. You may feel differently. Second quick thing: For the life of me, I can't remember what the second quick thing was. That's probably good. Later. rws 1:08 PM [+] |