I watched Woody Allen’s most recent movie last night, Magic in the Moonlight. It was ok, funnish, etc.
One of the stars of it is Emma Stone, a favourite actress of mine. She’s always so alive and interesting, a person you just know you’d like having around. Every time I see her I’m reminded of a woman I had some involvement with. I lay on the couch remembering that. I remembered a crazy time I went after the woman not really knowing what I intended to do, but tracking her down in a city bar where I made some kind of statement to her great surprise, and was rewarded with a kiss. Years later I remembered how I was in Morocco, in the seaside town of Essaouira. I sat in the corner of a restaurant one night where I seemed the only patron, the night sky directly above in the manner of Moroccan dwellings. I sat there scribbling notes and wondering about another woman while thinking I had fucked up things with the first. I had not seen or spoken to her for a couple of years by then, but had done something foolish, but very human. Far away from home I felt forlorn and uncertain.
I’ve loved some cracking women. Pity I couldn’t have remained friends with at least one of them – if not more.