I think I’ve mentioned before that I have a narrator. This voice in my head that tells me what’s happening to me, usually in real time. (Is it just me?) Most frequently the voice mimics Jane Austen. One too many re-treads through Mansfield Park, I think, did me in. However, the voice does shift from time to time from different influences. A book I’m reading, a song I like, or a movie I’m watching. Or, perhaps, the kinds of movies I’ve been watching.
Being as I am spoiled digital rotten, I have a Netflix account with a full DVD and Instant Watch queue. Lately I’ve been trying to make my way through all the films that were nominated for Oscars that I never did get around to actually going out and seeing. Also, I’ve sort of become obsessed with documentaries, because you have no idea how much stuff I don’t know.
So, I’ve been sitting here over the last few weeks – and by sitting here, I of course mean laying in my bed – watching lots of poignant shit. All the while with this Object of Crush in my head and all the ups, downs, and intrigues of a single girl’s life with single girl friends, and the well-intentioned but off-base remarks from male buds swimming in my overactive imagination. Well, wouldn’t you know it, but that voice in my head, well it’s a mix of some sort of indie movie heroine and, well, Morgan Spurlock…you know, the guy from Super Size Me, except this is more like his television series 30 Days.
And it’s like there’s a hidden camera crew following me around for a month while I trip, stumble, start, sprint through my life, which though very mundane and not a very good plot for a movie, is somehow being turned into the next best thing since (500) Days of Summer. (Similar sort of soundtrack, actually.)
But are you ready for the twist? (There’s got to be a twist, right?) In my indie-movie-life-documentary, my role….well, I’m certainly too clumsy to be the hip ingenue, aren’t I? It’s like the bumbling sidekick suddenly became the focus of the film.
It’s totally whacky and zany. It sure as shit ain’t gonna win an Oscar. But maybe, just maybe, it could be a darling at Cannes.
Probably not though, I mean, shit the only thing that happens in this movie is the lead character lies in bed on a Tuesday night, while her friends are out bowling, and types on a laptop about the voice she hears in her head saying something like “For the Next 30 Days, PeggyLuWho will toil under the burden of infatuation and anxiety, lose sleep, write more numerous and self-deprecating, naval gazing blogs than she has in the last two years, while trying to keep up with the endless adventures of best mates. Will she find true love and everlasting frienship? Will she listen to Regina Spektor or The Shins or Vampire Weekend on her iPod tonight?”
Why does this all sound so much more lovely when it’s happening in my head than it does in black and white on my macbook screen?