it's a french word, and there is suppose to be a ^ above the a. but this journal is littered with grammar and spelling mistakes, not to mention missed words. (i don't type as fast as i think.) so you'll excuse me if i don't go nuts and find out how to insert it. thank you for your kindness.
(i was watching Out Of Sight instead of working. you know, once upon a time, steven soderbergh could have become an interesting film maker. oh, it doesn't show in this film. it's fairly by the numbers, and all the good stuff is in the elmore leonard novel by the same name. but it's stylish, competent, watchable. george clooney is acting occasionally, and jennifer lopez is great. it's a shame they put that bit on the end that ruins her character (and which isn't in the book), but as i said, soderbergh could have gone on to interesting things. the Limey showed us a touch of this again with a low, dark crawl of factories and the slow trail of cigarette smoke from terrance stamp's hand. but then there was Traffic, the rather insulting drug film that said nothing new, offered nothing new in it's dialogue, gave us cliche upon cliche--could the rich white girl have gone anywhere but the black ghettos for drugs that she paid with sexual favours to horny, good looking black drug dealers who then sold her to middle aged, ugly white men?--and, well... i am sure you see my point. it's a film that says, hey, conservative politics is RIGHT about drugs, about the war on drugs, and about mexicans. just what i love to hear in a film, or anything for that matter. can someone take my dignity out in this bag? send it to soderbergh. maybe he will know what to do with it.)
the flaneur is someone who strolls around cities, loitering. they give off that casual air of indifference, that tip of the hat and cafe slouch that someone like this would obviously want to give out. but it's an act for the flaneur, who is really watching the people of his or her city, tuned into it's secret history, alive with the cities energy and snap, searching for any adventure of any nature.
it sounds very decadent, doesn't it? well. i think it is. it can also be said that the flaneur represents the majority of the books on cities that i have been reading at the moment. edmund white's the flaneur leaps to my mind, as well as books by peter carey and iain sinclair. each different to the others, but suffering, in one way, from the linear plot progression that such a style inevitably brings. it would be hard, i think, to bring my portrait to life with a linear, flaneur strolling narrative.
you know what i like about this livejournal? it doesn't feel like work much. it feels like i am procrastinating, and i like this. it's not all work, obviously, since i rather doubt i will be able to sneak the anti soderbergh stuff into it, but it does allow me to sit here and type merrily away, thinking about the things i am going to have to write. which is good, because i've no idea what i am going to write about this. which is why i came up with this anyway.
it's my hope the get my image of sydney--the image i want--here first. it will make it easier to built. right now i have this big spread of things i don't know how to assemble, and every day someone shines a light a bit further into the darkness, letting me know that i have more work.