Every once in a rare while I watch a movie which doesn't leave me railing against the loss of two hours of my life.
Last night it was Buckaroo Banzai. We spent an extra two hours just playing with the DVD, the extra scenes, all the little pieces
and none of it was a waste of anything, not like 90% of what I've crippled my brain with over the years.
Eating jerk chicken wings and the grease on our fingers and faces shone with an evening dedicated to junk and playtime, Jamaican references in the movie and Jamaican food and all of a sudden --
I was remembering my first conversation with Marc about the Rainbow-ites bar in Montreal --
and my first conversation with GetNaked Peter (from the ski team) and that same bar
and I was remembering every time I'd ever mentioned "jerk food" to someone only to find them staring strangely at me because they'd never heard of it
and here I was in a town where your local fast food delivery place makes it
and not only that,
but last night's was better than the jerk chicken we ate on a snorkelling trip in Jamaica, far too many years ago.
In between guffaws and marvelling at the brilliance in Buckaroo, I was remembering the first jerk farm sign I saw along the road near Negril
remembering my childlike confusion
and the feeling was much akin to watching Buckaroo perform brain surgery and realizing
I'm not the only one who likes "The Wizard of Speed and Time", I'm not the only one --
who watches this sort of film
and that means
that there must be more of them.
Brunch was hosted at Mr. Pyke's yesterday, rather than allowing Rob and Kitty to take us out for it again
and leaning for a moment in the kitchen with Kitty while the boys bitched in the dining room
Kitty and I had a second, then third moment of
"you mean I'm not the only one?"
and we didn't even have to use words after the first time.
I remember the first time I had that feeling.
It is still just as wonderful thirteen years and three months later.
And to quote Adam-runs-the-anim�-nights e-mail:
"The more flesh-flavored crackers we create, the closer we get to admitting
to ourselves that we are, culturally speaking, batshit insane." -- Lore
Fitzgerald Sj�berg
Batshit insane, and this morning there were four emails gracing my box
promising hugs
some of them travelling to Toronto arms outstretched
some of them from beautiful women that I haven't seen or heard from in years, promising much the same.
Yesterday after brunch which lasted going on five hours, we (three blondes plus Mr. Pyke) sat splayed in the sun on the picnic table in the backyard
and wrestled with our tired brains.
Yesterday, so late into the evening that it was already today'
I spoke of other things, the sort that you almost never get to share with humans.
I fell asleep thinking "I haven't said enough, I shouldn't have stopped myself, I... I, I actually may have felt safe enough to say it all."
But the conversation had flown right past the moment which I had choked on, and bloomed a thousand new roads anyway.
A thousand tiny fish to say, irritating people and status games at the club, ghosts from ten years ago on a caf� terasse, conversations about brick walls.
None of it matters, some days, Buckaroo.
And wherever you go, there you are.