Sometimes I watch films in settings which are very appropriate and inappropriate at the same time.

I saw Hedwig and the Angy Inch projected on the inner wall of large dome in a Canadian river valley with a bunch of elegantly wasted and sexually ambiguous Vancouver burners who later at Burning Man forever ruined the colour orange for me.

I saw Being John Malcovitch, but halfway through the projector broke, or something, and we had to leave the cinema through a narrow plywood portal hidden in the back wall.

Two days after seeing the Blair Witch Project I went camping. Alone. In the middle of nowhere. Without a torch. (Tho randomly, did have a video camera, so had to use the night vision mode to find my way in the dark...)

And last night I watched Das Boot in the hold of a Danish barge with the world's largest amateur built submarine moored off the port side. Sometimes the only way I could tell which side of the screen I was on is that ours had a fully stocked bar.
And less drownings.

So far the only thing I've had to get used to about living on a ship is not knowing whether the ground is actually intermittently swaying, or if I'm having some kind of episode. Look out the window. Is everything else moving? Good, not just me then.

It's mad, after the social mania of Edinburgh, the relative quiet here. People are really nice and there's chats, but a lot of the time (now, for instance) I'm just on my own, chilling in my cell. As in the monastic, not the penitentiary.

And monastic is definitely the word for things as they are in this period. I sleep, I meditate on ways I can enable this bastard contraption to turn around when the sun shines on it; and I work, tending my little sunflower patch of one.
Well, half, currently, but I'm working on that.
Helping it to grow.