The Pixies play tonight at the Curling Club; a curling club. I haven't been there since an ill-fated night at Green Street during a Bonspiel (one word or two?), with ridiculous things thrown, photographs taken, spasming laughter, and some drunk girl hitting on me (me -- didn't she get the memo? She had a boyfriend anyway). Joy dancing on a table in front of dirty old men (isn't that what we do everyday of our lives). The Pixies play there tonight. In mere hours. Weird. I doubt I'll be nearly hardcore enough for it, but have I ever been hardcore enough? The minivan episode doesn't count -- we were young, fucked up, and our shoes were on the ceiling.
The scene that really does it for me in Sofia Koppola's Virgin Suicides (besides the sneaking boys in the basement who don't hear Bonnie hanging from the ceiling yet) is the debutantes' "Asphyxiation" party, all those tuxedoed suburbanites in gas-masks, the pale green vapour in the air, the smell of suicide and sociopathy that permeates the entire scene. There are so many good shots in that film; Lux waking up alone in the football field, the entire screen tinted blue, like the residue of her ugly sex with Trip Fountaine. Cecelia, the youngest, the first to die, hovering like a poisoned spirit around everywhere, in brief snatches of time (and later, the imaginary Cecelia as a bride in Calcutta). Watching the movie geared me up for the second book by Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex, in terms of the atmosphere I expect.
Read Shaun Tan's The Red Tree to Andrew last night. The image of a little girl with a dead fish god hovering over her, casting a shadow on top of her, sticks with me. I need to write.
I'm hot, alone, and debating clothes. Then I'm going to write.