But what of those left behind?
New Past Lives piece addressing a few unanswered questions.
Music for late, pensive nights. “Left Here Alone” - Faunts.
Melinda, collected and sometimes unfinished sketches.
All the best stories – from the fairy tales, to Shakespearean plays, to so many modern films – start with a couple. Sometimes they start in a palace, all luxury and golden towers and backstabbing court politics; sometimes they start at a masquerade ball, with simple pretence that quickly turns far too complicated for one’s peace of mind.
However, sometimes they start in a small café somewhere in Aberdeen, with Van Morrison playing softly in the background.
It’s a small place, nothing special or unusual - after all, little restaurants and coffee shops gather round Union Street like a moth to a flame, looking for the shoppers and the tourists. It has, like the others, offers blu-tacked in the window and a grey city street outside. Inside, austere, simple wooden tables are set just far enough apart not to make things look cramped, and straight-backed chairs – old fashioned ones that look as if they’ve been stolen from some poor family’s dining room – huddle around them.
However, certain things differentiate this from any other coffee shop round Union Street…
Red, a gift for a friend. Warning: it’s a kissing story, ultimately.
New photographs.
Ooh. Ooh, you gits, production team.
(Source: expelliarmus)
On Broadchurch
Some mini-meta.
Something that I’ve been thinking about - everything’s beautifully shot, but I have to love the colour work here. I mean:
- In the resolution episode, we see plenty of sunsets and darkening skies. Obvious, but it works well.
- Miller’s house is her happy place - it’s all bright yellows and funky reds. In the dinner party scene in particular, Hardy, with his preference for wearing darker colours, looked like a ghoul. It really worked to show the sense of him not belonging and the town’s perception of him.
- The Latimers’ - all darker colours and greys, to match the mood. Only Danny’s bedroom and his sister’s hideaway that her boyfriend created for her have any colour. Significant, no?
Simple principle, but it’s all beautifully done.
something more
I wish there was something more that I could say,
that I could breathe onto your lips and write on car windows
misted with cold and with air;
temporary is more permanent, sometimes.
I wish I’d a good roof and could tell the world,
breathless and for today someone else entirely,
all the things that you are;
the things I saw in you when you weren’t looking:
In the light on your hair,
in the look in your eyes,
the rhythm of your sleep.
These are the moments with the stumbles and pride;
these are the moments with the early sun, late nights -
smell
of
spring.
Taste of chocolate on the tongue
and smiles
worn
simply,
won
easily.
I wish there was something more that I could say,
that I could ask for dreams or sing songs or even write novels
with right words, tight words, good words;
words to make you promise your heart, somehow.
But today, can I
just now, just once, try
“Hello”?
