The Florida Project
I went to a free screening of The Florida Project on 30th October.
I went with low expectations. It was free and something to do on a Monday night.
It starts with several scenes of screeching, screaming kids enjoying the freedom of the summer holidays. They live on a motel complex and pass the time having spitting contests and partaking in other general mischief.
The story initially unfolds from the kids’ perspective, as the film develops there is a merged outlook as the adult narratives come to the fore.
Essentially it is a story of everydayness, of getting by and surviving. Monee the 6 year old, who goes out to play from daybreak to dusk like it’s the 1970s, lives with her young adult mother in a motel room in a hand to mouth existence. They sell counterfeit perfume to guests at the plush hotel over the freeway, they occasionally have free breakfasts there by pretending that they are guests and they just about make rent every week.
We don’t know how they came to be living there but we do know there has historically been contact with social services.
All the roles bar one are played by non-actors. Wilhem Dafoe, the only professional actor, plays the avuncular figure trying to take care of everyone; shooing a suspected pedophile on his way, and trying to save Monee’s mother from herself and her child.
The mother – clearly cares about her child but is quick to anger and is impulsive. She beats up a former friend and that sets in motion a serious of events that ends with social services coming to take her daughter into temporary care. She is an unsympathetic character which is juxtaposed with the quality of her doing anything to make money to look after her child even if that means selling her body.
Cinematographically the scenes showing Monee in the bath were the most intriguing. We were shown scenes of the 6 year old in the bath time and time again. And frankly it felt uncomfortable. It was only later that I made the connection that every time Monee was in the bath her mother was selling sex or sexual favours.
It’s a well-made film. Sometimes you are aware of the non-actors over acting or over reacting to a direction. Overall its solid but not a film I’d recommend.
This time last year I was struggling with an intensely inconvenient case of acne. Thankfully I’m not breaking out quite so much anymore. So my face has a chance to recover inbetween and the inevitable hyperpigmentation isn’t quite as pronounced.
I’ve managed to settle on a 4 product rotation, with the almost daily application of salicylic acid. This and most likely the reduction of stress in my life has worked wonderfully.
When I found myself in Hackney, hungry and waiting on a film to start at the Picturehouse I was delighted to remember that the Temple of Seiten was around the corner.
I haven’t been 100% raw since January, so fried vegan chicken, bring it on.
I ordered the 2 piece filet. The ‘meat’ is made from Seiten which is wheat gluten and the ‘mayonnaise’, who knows, but Temple of Seiten is a vegan store..
I don’t generally go for meat substitutes. I don’t see the point. They don’t taste of meat, they don’t look like meat, they don’t behave like meat. I’d rather eat a vegetable. But this Seiten stuff is pretty special. The filet rips and tears apart like a piece of KFC.
It was £5 well spent. It was delicious. I wont pretend it tastes of meat but in and of itself as a piece of hot vegan fried fast food it hits the spot.
After 3 years of service my Nutribullet resigned.
I’m glad my hand was forced. It had been underperforming for a while but now that it was gone I had to commit to finding a replacement.
Do I buy the same brand whose product ran its life course in just 3 years or do I go for one of the dupes on the market?
It became a simple case of economics and serendipity.
A replacement Nutribullet was £69.99 and after reading all the recent reviews about the product I began to feel lucky that mine had survived as long as it had. A Nutribullet pro with more power was £129.99, but I wasn’t too keen on the price. And then I went to Lidl one day and discovered this £30, 900w beauty in the aisle…
I’m a kamikaze sewer. I use a pattern merely as a guide.
The only thing that I followed on this Morsbag guide was the instruction to use French seams along the sides of the bag.
Everything else was improvised.
I decided I wanted a shallower, slightly flared bag with longer straps.
So I suppose most of those hours were spent working out what those new dimensions needed to be (and taking apart an old pair of jeans):
- If the straps are too long the bag will kill your shoulders once there’s anything slightly heavy in it.
- Too flared and it will drown your body
- Too shallow, well then, it’s a bag that holds nothing.
The bag is 16 inches deep. 17inches wide at the top and 20 inches wide at the bottom
The infamous-one-hour-to-make straps are 22.5 inches long set in 3 inches from the edge.
Below is a picture of the bag styled with a dress I made this summer and a TKMaxx bought leather jacket.
It was a half inch long when I found it nestled amongst the hairs in my left temple. At first I thought it was the shimmer in the light or the dirt in my hair. But in fact, it was a lone white hair.
Based on my mum’s genetics I didn’t think I’d be looking at grey hairs before I was mid 40s but here I was slap bang in my 30s facing the degeneration of my hair cells and my mortality.
When grey hair was a hypothetical entity I always proclaimed that I wouldn’t dye them, and nor would I pull them out. I wasn’t going to succumb to the rabid behaviour that had infected friends of mine. And whilst I have done neither I do conceal it in my mass of afro coils.
It is literally but one hair and I question my motives for doing this.
Of course, I cannot discount the socialisation that I have been exposed to: women must minimise all physical manifestations of advancing years in order to remain palatable to the male gaze. But it’s not that really, as a Black woman I feel disenfranchised from those sorts of messages I don’t feel included in society’s narrative of women.
The issue is that I am yet to accept that my body is biologically and physiologically in decline and that my mortality once hypothetical is now a clear and present reality.
I tried to make a Morsbag today. And after an hour of pfaffing about I’d only just managed to finish the straps.
I’ve sown for years so it’s a little bit unclear to me why my skill level has improved but my speed has not. (And you don’t even need high skill levels to sew a Morsbag, the ability to sew in a straight line will get the job done). But in my case it has merely produced two deep blue denim straps.
Oh well this task will go on…