The October wind is cold outside my window, here in my concrete suburb. I light a candle, pour myself a glass of wine and channel-hop between "The Two Towers" and the Eurovision Song Contest 50th Anniversary.
(...ooh, they had Riverdance! I know, I know, I'm completely pathetic, but everything Irish makes me teary-eyed...)
And in between all of this, I'm working on my masterpiece, my novel, my baby book.
How much is art worth, by the way?
Not my own tiny effort at writing something that will probably never be published anyway. But a huge thing like the filming of The Lord of the Ring? The Eurovision Song Contest that most Europeans regard with slight disdain but which most of us watch every year anyway? Each of these must cost millions to make, millions that could be used for feeding the poor or finding a cure for cancer. Each of these make millions too. Make millionaires out of a few people. Good for you, Peter Jackson.
I still go to the cinema. I paid the 8 or 10 euros per film to see the LOTR on the big screen. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of this trilogy and wouldn't have missed it for the world. But I still can't help feeling guilt. I remember the beggars I passed in the streets every day when I lived in Dublin and Cambridge and Helsinki. Here in my tiny city we don't really have beggars - the desperately poor do exist but they are hidden away somewhere. I still remember them.
This world. Why is is so complicated?
Why do I bring the entire world into my blog anyway? Must be drunk.
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