Amanda Knox

Hardly breaking news, but I have been, as usual, gripped by this agatha christie-esque murder. As an afficionado of gristle and gore (Killing Mum and Dad, anyone?)*, this murder has all the key components: a beautiful would-be killer (see Basic Instinct), an Italian lover (erm, can't remember any horror films with an Italian stallion but sure there are hundreds), the token ethnic minorities to pad out the story (Rudy Guede and Patrick Diya Lumumba) and an innocent student (kercher)

The media of course blew it up, seeming to swing surprisingly in favour of the black bar-owner's innocence. Of course there was no evidence to convict him or even bring them to trial, but obviously the word of a white girl was enough to arrest. Also, the lure of a 'sex game gone wrong' headline proved to difficult to resist, and despite Knox's parents' belief in her getting off, going so far as to buy her a ticket back home, it seems as though the sentence was given and Knox's head placed on the axe before the jury was out.

As hard as I have tried to come to some sort of decision, to take one side in friends' numerous arguments, I find it impossible to form a bias. This, however, has not proved so hard for a lot of the public and media. For a catholic Italy, Amanda's promiscuity seems to have ran her own death knoll.



* on a side note, my mum came in last night, innocently asked what I was watching and then made an incredibly distasteful joke about me 'not getting any ideas'. brrr, thanks mum.

Basic Instinct

Information

1992
Sharon Stone(Catherine Trammell). Michael Douglas (detective Nick Curran). Dir. Paul Verhoeven.

Notable quotes: 'her magna cum laude pussy just about gone done-a fried your brain'

Cabin Fever

Now, apart from this term being a film about a group of people stuck in a wintery cabin and struck with a flesh-eating virus*, I really had no idea what it meant.

After consulting Wikipedia (so naturally the following knowledge is perfectly true), I found that it is an idiomatic term first used in 1918 to describe 'a claustrophobic reaction that takes place when a person or group is isolated and/or shut in, in a small space, with nothing to do, for an extended period'

Following the snowfall that came on my 21st birthday (december 17th), I had, somewhat optimistically, foreseen frolicking walks with leaping dogs (our dog has been dead for over 2 years), snowball fights, sledging, warm fires and a rosy glow from being outdoors all day. However, the extended period of time with my immediate family has made me long for lanes that have been gritted, or a house not in the middle of nowhere.

Everyone has retreated into different rooms by way of coping - I am now in the attic, feverishly typing and trying to ignore my mum's constant commentary of 'well, now at least you can get some work done.' such is my stubborness that I am now going to spend the rest of this afternoon slumming around, resplendent in my unproductivity. Wishing everyone a pleasant few wintery weeks - hide the axe in case it all gets a bit too The Shining

x



*side note: I love how, ridiculously, Eli Roth was inspired to write this after he got a skin infection on holiday. Because, obviously, that's identical to your screenplay, and not at all lame. also, I could rant about the horrible exploitation-fests that are Hostel I and II, but maybe will save that for another post.

The Murphy

Obviously I realize that this will be covered in practically every gossip blog out there. However, I can't help but feel shocked at the actress Brittany Murphy's death at age 32 from (to quote justjared.buzznet.com) 'a cardiac arrest'. Apparently her mother found her unconscious in the shower, and she was taken to Cedars-Sinai Medical centre in Los Angeles but could not be revived.

For starters, I'm sure she earned her place in every teenage girl's heart with her lovable persona, created in large part from her character in 'Clueless', and further cemented by roles in light rom-coms such as 'Just Married.' She was the doe-eyed ditz that we identified with as the klutzy 'Tai', who tried to break out of her typecasting by her roles in Sin City and 8 Mile. It's interesting that, though Perez Hilton loves to chart in minutiae the lives of screw-ups such as Lindsay Lohan and Courtney Love, he left Murphy, for the most part, alone.

her husband, Simon Monjak seemed an atypical choice for Murphy; overweight and with a shady past, accused of conning women out of money. Hardly the perfect choice for a Hollywood screen star. TMZ is now reporting that he does not want an autopsy performed, an action that, for a woman accused of a drugs overdose, seems suspicious at the very least.

Perhaps Murphy's perceived naivete was really a truism, leading her down an unfortunate road with the wrong man. Perhaps she was in trouble from the very beginning, and managed to stop gossip blogs such as Hiltons' publicizing this by not giving them any evidence. Whatever the case, the death of a young woman is tragic and must be respcted whatever the circumstances; a nuance that TMZ et al. will surely not grasp in these upcoming days.

Here comes the Anna

sigh.
As per usual, I have been back at university for nearly two months now, and any physical delights are being reduced to a bare minimum (apart from sex, of course) Riding and working outdoors in the steady drizzle has become but a fleeting memory, something to mull pathetically over while I am chained to my desk in the library.

I have become like Inga in 'Greenvoe', reducing myself to an intellengtsian, romanticized view of the outdoors, and probably pissing off the rain-soaked factory workers that I run by in doing so. My new favourite activity is to look out of the window, and as as soon as it starts to rain, I start to run. Through puddles and peaty paths, feeling the water come through my trainers as they make a pleasing 'slap' on the ground, feeling the rain soaking through my thin t-shirt and making me into a prime contender for a wet-tshirt contest (though I doubt other contenders would be wearing sports bras underneath)

I feel like Sillitoe's runner as he tears off the bark from a tree and devours it - at one with the elements, all-consuming, devouring mother nature. Pretentious as that may be (actually, pretentious as that is, it's the closest thing I can get to my work down South, mucking out stall after stall, and watching the steam rise from the manure in my wheelbarrow.

Warwick School of Riding

Well, this week has been split into periods of intense productivity and extreme lethargy, so take that as you will.
I have been working a whole bunch - my shifts at the learning grid, a 24hr service for students at warwick university, show no signs of letting up during exam season: in-fact, I seem to be working more and more as the term continues. Part of the problem is I can't turn down shifts: those dollar signs flash beofre my eyes and I am powerless to resist (actually, I get paid in sterling but no-one sees pound signs flashing in front of their eyes- that's just silly.)

I've decided to make a concerted effort to improve my riding technique, and so booked some lessons at the Warwick International School of Riding. Having almost no English experience other than what I have taught myself (or have been taught, by a pony who has blatant disregard for my washing line reins and lack of leg contact ;) ), I was a little nervous when I rolled up. However, the place and facilities were so beautiful, and the people so friendly that I was sufficiently distracted. It bears testament to their professionalism that every new rider is instantly made to feel as if they belong. Janet, the owner, remembered my name after just one lesson. Now, as my boss of four years still calls me every name under the sun rather than my own..lol...this was a nice change!

The horses are really nice, from what I can tell. There doesn't seem to be any of the usual riding-school trickery - cut corners, napping to the back of the ride etc., and all three horses I have ridden: Dylan, Sooty and Senor, are very light on the forehand and quick to accept the contact.

My third lesson, with Janet rather than sara (? - I think), was definitely a change of pace! Now I understand why everyone looks shellshocked after her lesson - lol. Although I have never been shouted at as much in an hour, it really gives you the drive to ride to your potential. I fell apart a bit, resorting to my old technique of standing up for a stop, but her enthusiasm really motivates you to work hard.

I have some goals that I need to make clear in my head:

• a more secure lower leg. I thought I had a good seat from all these years of riding babies, but in sitting trot and canter my feet are literally falling out of the stirrups! Anyone got any tips for me?
• I was told that I was moving my arms too much. However, I think I can forget about this as I did a lot of crap in that lesson, most of it from anxiousness to please!
• deeper seat - again, I think I was tensing from nerves.

All-in-all - RELAX. damm, this english thing is hard! Jumping was amazing though, despite our taking every fence at a trot. I'm glad Sara taught me two-point before Janet's lesson, and I have to say that it far surpasses sitting upright over fallen logs in a western saddle, throwing ur reins out and hoping for the best.

I read that the Cavalry, when jumping was first conceived, were advised to 'sit back, close your eyes, kick with your legs and shout 'hup!''

Times are changing, it seems.

Levin or Anna

or Etienne (see Zola's Germinal)... well, this is the culmination, in essay terms anyway, of my thoughts on country/city, labour/education, ploughs/internet.

I've decided to include Emile Zola's 'Germinal' for what I think is a more accurate depiction of hard physical labour. Don't get me wrong, I was enamoured with Tolstoy's description of the peasants, but 'Germinal' really brought the crushing realities of working with your hands home.

I will post my essay up on here shortly - maybe a struggling student will find it (and feel very free to use it! I understand your pain)

Peace out,
Georgi x