House of Forgotten Thoughts

Me: I was thinking of folding some laundry.

J: Well, there's laundry in the drier.

Me: There's laundry over there. [We have several clean but unfolded baskets in our room at the moment.]

J: (in a sing-song) There's laundry in the attic, and there's laundry on the stair.

Me: I don't know that song.

J: That's because I just made it up.
Ohhh, there's laundry in the drier and there's laundry over there,
There's laundry in the attic, and there's laundry on the stair...
I don't know the rest.

Yesterday, debriefing after watching Flash Gordon, I was talking, awestruck, about the various sexy plot archetypes presented without any whitewash in the movie.

J: And, of course, the thinly veiled homoeroticism of "Sticking our arms into things with Timothy Dalton."
Me: ... Yes. Exactly.

By the way, I am now awestruck that I have never heard Barbarella and Flash Gordon mentioned in the same breath, since they're the differently gendered flavors of the same movie.

I like that movie very much, and it seems like a weirdly well-kept secret. I've heard Barbarella was 'camp' for years. No one ever told me 'camp' meant 'every brazen sex and heroism cliche rolled into an hour and a half.' Every one. I blushed like crazy.

It makes me want to cast my pen aside in shame and despair for writing both too much and too little, though. If I'm going to write straight out of the Id, why can't I be as shameless as Flash Gordon, nobly executed, and Barbarella, trapped in the city of pure sexy evil? And if I am writing things that strike that nerve in myself, even more subtly, is my writing going to be caught out as the cheesy fantasy-fulfillment that it is?

Then I take deep breaths and remind myself that people keep watching Flash Gordon and Barbarella, so apparently the Id still sells.