Saturday I stayed home all day (except for a two-block walk to a bakery) and did absolutely fuck all. I read, I fussed with my aquarium and, of course, I spent too much time on the web. One good thing though: I watched a video on exercises to do for sciatica and did them. The best part of my day was Skyping with friends. Bruce is visiting Toronto where Beth lives. The three of us spent several weeks in India together not that long ago, so being together again—even on Skype—was a delight.
The movie I watched was Strange Love. It concerns a gay couple whose marriage forces the Catholic employer of one of the protagonists to fire him. As in all American films, the gay protagonist must wind up dead or thoroughly depressed and in this film with two gay leads we get one of each (just as in Brokeback Mountain).
Sunday was more of the uneventful except for two things: The movie Room and in the evening the semi-final of the British Baking Show. Room might have been too much for me to take had I not read the book. It is exquisitely executed and the young man playing five-year-old Jack is truly unbelievable.
And Ruby cried. Poor Ruby had a very bad week on the British Baking Show. She fell apart and she knew it but she got through to the final. There are three fabulous women in the final, each one entirely deserving of their status but Ruby is special. Her personality makes her soul food for me.
And one more surprising thing about Sunday was that I wrote like old times. I did more conscientious writing on Sunday than I have done since, probably, last February when I was putting the final touches on Trudeau, the Felons and Me.
I am writing either a script or a screenplay; I am not sure which way I will go. And with no deadline and no desire to monetize this piece, I am enjoying taking my time with it. It’s working title is Number Seven.
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