Amadeus has always been a bit of a stray cat for me, filled with music that makes my head swim from the very first bars and yet filled with so many idiosyncrasies, so many moments that I am unwilling to swallow as anything other than pure fantasy.
Looking at it as a work of clever fiction, I am all too thrilled with the tumultuous epic-ness of the story, I can separate the man who created what I listen to from the man who's life is portrayed in the film.
Funny. I've never watched a movie mostly for the music in it before.
My favourite part of watching Amadeus last night, aside from a Mr. Pyke scrunched against my hip and knee and faithfully holding the end of a particularly elaborate chunk of macram�, was recognizing the eyes and lisp of the young servant girl employed by a fictional Salieri.
It was one of those "its going to drive me crazy until I figure it out" moments and despite brave guesses last night...
...it finally hit me this morning. She was Michele in O.C and Stiggs. She was the fixation of my favourite character in my favourite personal-cult movie.
Neat.
Yesterday afternoon reached out to me with sheer brightness, threatening me with sunset at any moment.
Yesterday I kissed that same afternoon and coddled it into evening, pointed shovel in hand, impractical boots slipping to find just the right pressure point to drive it into the ground.
I spent maybe an hour, maybe two, digging the trench around the to-be raised vegetable garden, laying brick borders and falling to my bruised knees to dig my fingers into the soil and wrap them about stubborn roots which I tore with such meticulousness from the ground.
I didn't even get it finished, the sun went ahead and set on me despite my outcry of how much I needed it beside me so that I could see where this or that chunk of clay was actually rock that needed to be dug up rather than shattered with the force of a spade being used as an amazon-like spear.
I discovered that the way the earth slopes up towards the house by the compost heap was a secret layer of bricks covered over by mud and time.
I discovered that those damned peonies were planted WAY further down than necessary for such hardy bulbs, and I'm going to spend a lot of time on my knees with a spade and a trowel turning useless roots back into the tiny fibers that feed the soil rather than hold it too taughtly and turn it too hard for survival.
It felt good. Really really good.
Sweat, spades into spears, and looking at it in the gleaming brightness of when today's morning slipped into afternoon, it is awkward and crooked and hardly the neat black mounds of beautiful of a true raised garden
but it lets my heart leap just a little bit in its awkward bricked in greyness.