Tuesday, 15 December 2009

I wouldn't classify myself as a big crier. I cry when appropriate - when I'm hurt, really homesick or when PMSing. But I've sort of made a name for myself in our household by crying when I watch TV programmes or movies. I cried my way through most of the David Tennant series of Dr Who, during episodes of The Wire and Bleak House, and I have cried in movie theatres and in planes while watching nearly any kind of well-made dramatic movie. The one movie that I recall crying openly and hard (like real boo hoo tears) was Children of Men. I mean, I went mentale. I cried during the climatic scene, sobbed in the lobby theatre while describing that scene, and bawled into my scarf while I watched it on a plane. I cry when I see other people cry in documentaries, like I did last week during The Family, both when the son-in-law was sobbing and when the family found out the sex of Kaki's child.* Tears ran down my cheeks when I watched The Motorcycle Diaries on the weekend and sniffed at the humanity of Che. OMG, In America, with it's unrelenting sadness and meloncholy but it's obvious message of hope and faith nearly ended me. I cry particularly hard when men cry and especially when I care about the characters. Not to sound weird, but Dave says he loves when I cry when I watch movies or shows becuase he thinks it's so sweet how emotionally invested I get. I'm pretty sure I get it from my Dad. I remember him crying while watching such illuminating dramas as Bonanza; Murder, She Wrote; Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman; and Touched By An Angel. I even remember him crying to a commercial (probably a phone advert - they are the worst). If he were alive, I'd tell him that I understand those tears now.

I won't argue that I really do get emotionally invested when I watch certain media and that the good stuff sticks with me long after I've turned off the TV. It's also a release, which I like. I guess it's just another thing that makes me me. Are there any programmes/movies you can recall that touched you to the point of tears (or a big, fat, painful, bump in your throat)?

*For the first time ever in my life, I've watched a programme that featured someone with the same name, with the same spelling as me. It feels so weird to hear it on TV but I love it.

Tuesday, 8 December 2009

"The horror. The horror."

When I was thinking of this blog post, I thought about an accompanying photo and title. I chose these to illustrate what I was feeling when I learned of people’s reactions to my previous blog post. In my head, that seminal quote from “Apocalypse Now” took on a slightly sarcastic twinge but accurate nonetheless. I chose this photo of the late, great Marlon Brando as an illustration of perceptions – this big, scary “monster” displaying a vulnerability ready for public consumption. I guess that’s how I see myself when I write on my blogs. I have been, for a few years now, seen as “the other”. Alarmingly apparent in Japan and below the surface here in Scotland, but with me as a constant companion. I have very few local friends here, so when I can’t make like E.T. and phone home, I blog. Now, I have irked others by what I have written in the past and I have found out about it through comments or via a private email or phone call. And that’s cool. To paraphrase Bob Marley, you can’t make everyone happy all the time, so you need to have dialogue to work things out. With that in mind, I’d like to ask to people who read my blog, if I’ve communicated something that is not to your liking or you think is just dead wrong, please let me know. I assume adults read this thing and while I know my audience is small (C7, I still don’t know how to work Analytics!), it’s big to me. I started this thing 4 years ago via Kaki Means Persimmon and I think I self-censored a whole lot less then. But I know that I like writing and expressing myself and being the extrovert that I am, I’m not going to shy away from being as honest as I can be on a public blog. But let me make this clear: this is my blog. Not my husband’s. He doesn’t know what I write and he’s not my editor. I would strongly prefer that if you want to say something about what I’ve written, please say it to me. I promise, I won’t bite. Hard.