Kill me. Kill me now. Kill me dead.
I can’t move. So much of pain.
Sweat 1000 is pure evil.
I have to cover 20 kilometres at the Discovery/702 Walk the Talk on Sunday. I don’t think I can make it feeling like this.
Why do people torture themselves like this? I should stick to runs and cycling, right?
I’ve booked another class.
Sanelisiwe made me see a movie I never even contemplated watching. Suddenly, onions popped out of nowhere and my mascara was ruining my face. My eyes were red as a cursed whoever brought those damn onions into the cinema.
Yep, Fault In Our Stars is cracker of a tear jerker. We were all happy, and laughing at the lame jokes, until a moment in the film when suddenly what seemed like happiness was just utter doom. (I hope that was not a spoiler, yikes).
I decided that I needed to read the book. And having worked in the publishing industry when it first came out, I could have gotten it for free and I could have let the onions control my eyes then. But nonetheless, I read it after watching the movie. Sitting in Motherland Rosebank (my most favourite coffee shop) when I reached the turning point of crying, I resisted crying like I’ve never resisted anything more in my life.
Part of the film was in Amsterdam. So I decided, Amsterdam was the next destination of travel. December it is. In the blistering cold. Riding bicycles in snow in weather that would put the Castle Lite Nas concert to shame. (yeah, the concert was terribly cold).
I think I would have been able to do without the film. It’s not bad or anything, but it’s not the greatest either. However, I don’t know if I would have had the Amsterdam inspiration if I hadn’t seen it. Good book. Easy read.
(This is book isn’t that book, though, lol)
It seemed that the summer or winter (depending on your hemisphere) on 2014 was the time of living the French dream. I know of five people who went to live the good life in Paris starting from Roland Garros up until last week.
I was (am) jealous. I want to go to Paris. I want to eat a “croissant” and pronounce the word properly. So I will. I have booked my holiday for July 2015 with Miss Pearlulla Jones. Oh, to be young!
I was talking vacations in Europe over wine, and gin and tonic in Great Dane (my most favourite bar) with Pearlulla when it occurred to me that we haven’t done the Paris trip that we first spoke of in 2011. So I whipped out my 12% battery iPhone, downloaded Airbnb and booked accommodation. Just. Like. That.
I woke up the next day realising what I had done - also I was now officially BROKE (thank goodness I filled up my tank before I headed to Great Dane) - Pearlulla asked if I regretted it. So then I checked out the place I had booked on TripAdvisor - R850 and 2 minute walking distance from the Eiffel Tower, I was a little suspicious - it was perfect and had super reviews.
Therefore, no ragrets.
I’m going to Paris. Oui oui. Bonjour. Comment ça va? Très bien. Monsieur. Au revoir. Je m’appelle Ayanda. Je suis fatigue. Je t’aime. (That’s about all the French I know, shameful)
Now I can book in my leave. Save up some monies as well as make up for the utterly impulsive purchase of accommodation. And practice some French.
Every once in a while I remember that I have a blog with a domain that I purchased, and so the opportunity mustn’t be wasted. However, I haven’t felt inspired to write anything meaningful. (This post isn’t meaningful)
But I’ll try. In the mean time, you need to get your ass to 95 Commissioner Street on Friday from 18:30.
In my quest to become a film snob, I’ve trawled the web to look for ideas and films to watch - specifically documentaries and indies. Is this a hipster thing to do? Probably. Am I a hipster? Not even close. Am I trying to become a hipster? I’m not sure. But I digress.
This is about great films and filmmaking. So I must now venture to the Sundance Film Festival in my lifetime so solidify the film snob status. Next year, hopefully. However, I am two months late with this post. Not a good start, but a start nonetheless.
I came across this project that was partially funded by a Kickstarter campaign. The Measure of All Things looks to me to be a story about humans. Their struggles. Their celebrations. Their beauties. And their insecurities.
I love people. And I love people watching (I swear I’m not a stalker). And I love imagining what their lives would be like. Their dreams and aspirations. What they do when their alone. The conversations they have with one another.
The only problem with The Measure of All Things is that it’s what Sam Green - the director and narrator of the film - calls a live documentary film. What this means is that he attends the screening of the movie, sits on stage as the audience watch the moving pictures and narrates it with a live band or orchestra playing the score. Sounds amazing, doesn’t it? A live theatre production in a sense. But I’ll never get to see it.
But back to the live documentary filmmaking. What an incredible idea. I wonder if there’s anything like this in South Africa.