twittering: the director’s cut.
Tuesday, July 29th, 2008Some recent twittering with directors commentary:
One day ago: Dreading this week at work- final week of a typically half baked project. Still, shoulders back. Smile on. Work the runway, bitch….
And you know what? yesterday, after all that dreading, was fine. One of the things I’d been fretting over - the need to organise and persuade half the Istanbul office to attend a video conference in a weeks time - went off fine. No probs. A -OK. The other bit, is simply a case of getting someone who’s trying to avoid me, and nailing the MoFo down on a deliverable for this weekends Big Implementation. And if it’s not done? We’ll manage. No, I’ll manage.
About 12 hours ago: Gym. Spin class instructor says ‘we’re going up the side of an alpine hill.’ No, love. We are in an airless basement in EC3. With no aircon.
‘Nuff said. Silly cow. Bruno and I rolled our eyes and took our heavy(ish) weights into another room. I discovered I have the weakest triceps on the planet. And there I was thinking my shoulders were puny.
About 12 hours ago: Ooh. The Moroder version of ‘Cat people’ is legend. Perfect for a city heatwave.
And it is. From Bowie’s moody, broody and borderline hysterical performance (one of his last decent vocals) on through the throbbing electronic soundscapes. Not forgetting the beautiful Irena’s Theme and Jogging Chase, which was on every home made mixtape I did in my teens. Oh, dear: Was it my home taping that finally killed music?
About 11 Hours ago: It is pitch dark in Maidenbower. Big storm coming.
Eerie. Still. Silent. A darkness that seemed to be hovering in front of a bright bright light. Nonsense, I know, but it seemed like the world was waiting for something…
About 10 hours ago: O my lord. Its the rapture.
And this was it. Forked lightening. Roaring Thunder. Very primordial. And then the sight of all the Christians on Magnolia Lane standing outside their houses, stark naked, and turning into pillars of light that sped upwards. I claim the rapture. D claims an open-air Methodist wife-swapping orgy struck by lightning.
He may be right, because post rapture, all my fellow investment bankers are at their desks. And surely, if all the good, holy, saved people have been taken up to the left hand of the Lord, this place should be empty.
Oh, wait…