For early clarification, Whitey is a cat, not a derogatory reference to anyone or anything.
My father writes:
Whitey’s been awfully sick. He can hardly stand, and his head is wobbling rhythmically back and forth like he has lost his equilibrium. It may be a cold or flu, or it may worse. All I know is, Wednesday night he didn’t struggle when I picked him up to bring him into the garage. Last night and this morning, he is still a little wobbly, but he is back to being touchy. That might be a good sign.
It worries me, though, because this description reminds me of what happened to Rocky right before she died. And that, too, was around the yuletide. I don't know how well I can deal with going home to that situation again.
And Whitey is the end of a line of cats that began with the initial adoption of a calico kitten in 1987 or 1988. Puff had Moppet (f), Rascal (m), Rocky (f), and Yellow Stone (f). And, much to our surprise, after being fixed, Moppet had Smoky (m) and Whitey (m).
Puff died and Moppet and Rascal vanished in Pennsylvania. When we moved to NC, Yellow Stone and Smoky vanished (maybe lost, maybe taken). They were all outdoor cats, so it wasn't impossible that they'd decided to move on, or that somebody else had decided they wanted to keep them.
That left Rocky and Whitey.
Rocky died while I was visiting my folks, on winter break from BU. And now Whitey is our little old man.
I don't know. I always thought of Whitey and Smoky as the young ones, but ... he's pretty old now. Sixteen or seventeen, I think. I feel bad for my parents though. I only hear or read about his condition; they have to watch him slowly fall apart.
It's a day for spiked hot chocolate.
14 December 2007
end of a line
12 December 2007
sequel
I didn't think much of the casting decision before, but I'm starting to get the choice of Heath Ledger in the role of the Joker for the next Batman.
Mostly due to this picture:
Yeah, I'll give it to him. He's scary just sitting there.
My only current dissatisfaction comes from the fact that the so-called trailer for The Dark Knight is nothing more than special-effects tearing up the CGI logo with a voice-over of Christian Bale, Michael Caine, and--very briefly--Heath Ledger.
I guess I was really hoping for something beyond a teaser trailer. Oh, well. Soon enough, right?
I still haven't seen The Golden Compass, but I was calculating what I want to spend on remaining Christmas presents (and postage), and decided to hold off on going to the cinema until I go home. And then I have a list ... which is another good reason to not tell my parents what I want; because, then, they can just take me to see movies, and that can be my Christmas present.
Actually, even my movie list isn't much of a list. The Golden Compass, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, and maybe I Am Legend (but maybe not on that one ... we'll see).
11 December 2007
die in a fire
This morning's--because it's early, and you never know, the day is long--"Die In A Fire" recipient is ... [drum beat here]
Ugly-Kid-On-T!
We'll call him Ukot.
Ukot can ...
What's the story?
I board the train this morning, pay my fare, and sit down. And, as the T starts moving, I start getting bumped in the back of the head. OK, whatever, somebody needs to catch their balance and this will be over soon.
No. The bumping continues past Chestnut Hill Avenue.
Finally, I turn around to find a bag propped against my seat-back, attached to the back of a college kid who is talking to a friend. And, as though sensing the on-coming confrontation, ugly poorly-bearded kid turns his head and looks at me.
Me: Do you mind?
Ukot: Huh?
Me: You're hitting me with your bag, [asshat.]
Ukot: Well, you sat there.
Me: Yeah. It's a seat, [shithead.]
Ukot: There's a million other seats--
And then I turned around and ignored him; because, really, if he wasn't polite enough to move his bag after the initial complaint, arguing isn't likely to convince him. ... Notably, however, these kids did go away after I turned around. So maybe one of them has sense enough not to argue with me this time of the morning, this time of the month.
[Also, "a million other seats"? ... OK, you must be from BC, with math like that... and maybe you should go sit in one of these million seats, since you obviously can't support the weight of your own bag this morning, fuckwit.]
(WARNING: This entry contains expletives and ill-wishing.)
10 December 2007
unknown territory
Of suiting, hair, and the job search.
JCrew.com ... I really like their suiting. It's hard trying to dress the part for interviews. I felt very odd in the H&M dressing room, kind of like a kid playing dress up. The fact that the trousers I was trying on were two inches too long did not help. I could hem them, I know, but I'd rather spend the money on clothing that fits me to begin with.
More on the Dellaria hair-cuts: ... I like when they blow-dry my hair straight, but I never have the patience to do that for myself. Result being that today I feel far more raggedy than I felt on Saturday and Sunday when the 'do was still fresh and un-messed-with.
I'm also feeling that I'm being pulled in many different directions. I know that there's nothing that says I have to accept any job that I don't want. What I want is to leave, but I feel like politics are thwarting me at every turn. It's nothing less than the United States deserves, I know. We make it a living hell for outsiders to legally enter our country; so why should anyone else make it easy for us?
I just don't know ... In spite of the spike of happiness about the agency interviews, I still feel very frustrated about all of it.
09 December 2007
life at random
I had visitors this weekend. Several of them, over the course of the weekend, actually.
John and Rodney arrived late on Friday (or early on Saturday, depending on your point of view).
Saturday was mostly a day of crazy Newbury Street yuletide shopping.
Presents from Lush for the boys, a tea kit from Tealuxe for Michelle, address books from Trident for my grandmothers. I also bought a blazer and a blouse at H&M (I didn't even know there was an H&M on Newbury Street until yesterday).
We also had lunch with Karen at the Boston Beer Works and went for haircuts at Dellaria--amazingly well-priced haircuts, too. It's made my head feel strangely light, but it's a good sensation.
And Saturday never really ended. We didn't come home until 4 o'clock on Sunday morning ... a morning that ended in a session of strip-Mario Kart in which several boys were undressed down to their tighty-whities (none of which were actually white, as fate would have it).
I know. Wish you were here, right?
07 December 2007
ch-ch-changes
"The more things change, the more they remain... insane."
Over the Hedge
I began thinking about the prompt from a personal standpoint (a now-and-then, this December versus last December), but then I quickly moved beyond to the world at large.
I'm far more discontent with my life this December than I felt last December, or at least it seems that way to me now. Last December, I was happy just to have a full-time job with benefits and health insurance. Now, I'm bored with the job, and cannot see it going anywhere.
Last December, I would've said that I didn't feel experienced enough in the workforce to attempt anything better than what I do. This December, I've posted my resume on Monster.co.uk, and I'm feeling confident that my experience, education, and skills can attract something more suitable than my current position. Within the span of a few days, I've already been called by two local recruiters and emailed by two more. I'm hoping to set up meetings for next week and get the ball rolling on my career change.
And on one hand, I feel that this is a healthy development, and that things need to change in order for me to grow as a person, personally and professionally; on the other hand, I feel as though I have been ignoring other activities and other people because I've been consumed with finding new work.
But the world ... how has the state of the world changed since last December? Well, here in the States, we're twelve months closer to a new president; that's something to be [cautiously] grateful for ("the devil you know," etc.).
Last year, there was Iraq (and the year before that, and the year before that, ...); this year, there's still Iraq, but now Iran might also soon be on the menu. YAY.
It's a very bleak world outlook, I know, but--believe it or not--I always hope for the best. I just expect the worst. Call it Weltschmerz.
05 December 2007
synchronized blinking
Okay, so last year (or a few years back, I don't know), there was the "Wizards In Winter" light display being broadcast forever and ever on YouTube.
Well, there's another show that I hadn't seen before.
I love how the cars stop and sit in front of the house for a few seconds. I can just imagine when the drivers must be thinking--
I used to love the rainbow lights on houses when I was younger, but as I've gotten older, I've grown boring ... [ahem] I mean, classy ... and now I prefer the white lights -- especially when it comes to my own family's house.
However, I still love having the rainbow lights on the tree (and lots of them, blinking forever and ever). So I'm not that stodgy, I swear.
... Also, I love icicles.
And that sounds like a completely separate topic, but I don't mean the frozen kind (though they're pretty enough to look at, albeit eye-pokingly dangerous). I'm talking about the tinsel kind of icicles; for those not familiar with it, it's basically free-floating, stringy tinsel that you can hang all over the tree. It makes a big mess, and a lot of it usually ends up on the floor around the tree, but it looks amazing when night has fallen and the Christmas lights are on. It just makes the whole tree sparkle.
really???
I just noticed that I got a "Best of..." from Holidailies for my 3. December entry. Thanks, guys!
Another [real] entry later ...
holding on
Yesterday's [thus far, by me] unanswered Holidaily prompt was: What childhood activity do you miss? and What childhood activities have you refused to give up?
In reference to the holiday season, I think I miss seeing the Christmas tree every day. When I was living with my parents, of course, we would generally pick up a tree at some point at the beginning of December, decorate it, and then leave it up until well after New Year.
Smelling the pine throughout the house, turning on the blinking lights when the sun went down (and it was always down between 1600 and 1700 by the beginning of December), staring at ornaments forever and ever, and having the time to do just that. I miss those things this time of year.
The one thing that I haven't given up is watching all the television specials. Rankin & Bass, as much as I make fun of their productions, is a staple of the holiday season. I can't go through Christmas without watching Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town, Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer, 'Twas The Night Before Christmas, and my favourite, the black-sheep stepchild of Rankin & Bass, The Life and Adventures Of Santa Claus (still unavailable on DVD--you bastards).
I found a dissected clip of it on YouTube, so I will share it the edification of the readership:
... But let's not forget A Charlie Brown Christmas, the A Garfield Christmas Special, or How the Grinch Stole Christmas. It's a lot of television to go through, so we should not be surprised that the Family Channel makes a month out of airing these classics.
03 December 2007
snow, for what ails you
If you don't know about my location history, here's a short rundown. From birth until the summer of 2000, I lived in Pennsylvania. From my Senior year of high school through graduation from Boston University, North Carolina was my official state of residence (though I wouldn't call it home). Now, in my mid-twenties, Boston is home.
It's snowing here today, so maybe it's fitting that today's Holidaily prompt is asking for a snow story. But my snow story is set in my first home, my home of the first seventeen years of my life ...
Back in the 90's, I was a kid; and, during one particularly nasty snow storm, I had a fever.
I was maybe twelve or thirteen at the time and school was canceled for inclement weather. My parents did their usual thing--they knocked on my door when they heard the announcement on the radio, told me to go back to sleep, left for work, and I woke up again a few hours later.
On this day, however, I was sweating bullets. My bed was too warm, my room was too warm, the house was too warm, and every freaking thing I put on was sweaty and gross within ten or fifteen minutes.
And, as I stood in the living room, sweating with fever in a pair of summer shorts and a tank top, I looked out the picture-window at the front lawn. The snow was coming down in giant fat flakes, there were already several inches of the stuff on the ground, and I had a brilliant plan: I would go outside, just as I was, and be comfortable.
And so I did. I put on a pair of my father's sneakers to act as snow-shoes (more weight distributed over a wider surface--I could be a clever kid), a T-shirt for better coverage (because I didn't want my neighbors freaking out too much), and a pair of gloves. And I went out into the snow to make a snow man.
Weirder still, my plan worked (and no sarcasm here at all). Even with the temperature where it was (below freezing), I was perfectly comfortable in shorts and T-shirt for about half an hour. After that point, I started to feel the chill and went back indoors.
And voila! No more fever. I felt better, I wasn't sweating anymore, and my temperature was back to normal.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the magic of snow.
02 December 2007
refugee-wannabe
Ha, I think my parents have just been won over to the idea of my going abroad ... again.
In my Junior year at Boston University, I spent the Spring semester in Auckland, New Zealand. Getting my parents to the point where they were relatively okay with my being half-way around the world was a battle of tooth-and-nail.
Fast forward from 2004 and my return to the States. Ever since graduating from University in 2005, I have had a longing to go out of the country again. And, on a briefly political aside, I kind of feel deeply uncomfortable with the direction the United States is going, and honestly believe that I would better off in Europe or Australasia.
One of my best friends, Rodney was recently accepted into Rutgers' study-abroad programme, and he is going to be in France in the new year. His boyfriend John (also one of my best friends) and I want to expatriate to Germany so that we can practise and better our German language skills, live a European lifestyle, and be close enough to France to visit with Rodney.
My parents have been opposed to this idea since I told them of it. They don't believe in my ability to find work, to be able to afford life in Europe, or to succeed professionally outside of the United States (not that I'm succeeding professionally here; but, conveniently for them, they've been blocking out that little fact). In reality, I think they're still experiencing empty-nest syndrome, and miss being able to see me regularly.
However, I think I may have changed their minds with the use of VOIP.
Yesterday, I talked to them on Skype for about half an hour in the morning and another half-hour in the evening. They were both very excited by being able to see and hear me from hundreds of miles away (you know, without paying anything for the service). And I've begun to believe that what actually bothers them about the idea of my going abroad is that they wouldn't see me (again, it isn't like they see me very often now, but there you go).
What is Skype? Well, if you happen to be out of the VOIP-loop, rather than attempting my own scrambled definition, I will direct you to their official site: Skype.com. It's fun. Go there.
(And, more on that subject, the headset and web camera are off my Yuletide wish-list. A few friends had made various suggestions recently, and I decided to follow through on my own. I went with the over-the-ear, behind-the-head Logitech headset. I also picked up the only web camera that was specified for Mac [on its packaging]. There are others that might work with Mac, but they don't say so, so they're not going to get my business.)
And then my parents were talking about getting me luggage for Christmas, winter clothes for Deutschland, and helping me pay for storage and shipping on possessions that I want to send to them. My mother also said that when John and I decided when we're leaving, we should tell her, and she'll look for cheap air-fare on Interval International (the time-share company that she and my father use). So that's exciting.
They're supposedly picking up a Christmas tree today, which also makes me happy.
They still won't tell me what they want for Christmas, but that's always been their way.
On another Skype-note, I love that the thought-bubble lists what I'm listening to on iTunes. Craziness.
Happy December! (And, again, though it's nothing for which anyone can do anything, I'm also wishing for snow this month.)
01 December 2007
l'heure verte
So after disembarking from the New Jersey Transit at Long Branch last Wednesday, my friends were waiting for me on the ramp to the parking lot. As we piled into John's car, Rodney announced that they had a present for me--and handed me a box of sugar cubes.
And because they had been talking about seeing it at a restaurant a few days earlier, I knew what was coming.
Absinthe.
Well ... sort of. The brand name is Absente, Absinthe Refined.
The difference between this and brands that come from, for example, Alandia, is that it contains no Grand Wormwood (Artemisia absinthium) and little to no Thujone. They've replaced the Grand Wormwood with Southern Wormwood (Artemisia abrotanum), an innocuous cousin. Also, it's not distilled; it's the "macerate & mix" kind. In short, it isn't really absinthe, which is not surprising because absinthe is still mostly illegal in the United States.
The result is that Absente is mostly harmless--or as harmless as any other 110 proof liqueur (our personal result was that we stayed up and laughed until 4:30 on Thursday morning).
There were no "Green Fairies," but the ritual is still fun--even though, as it turns out, we didn't do it quite right.
If you look around on many absinthe sites (and there are a lot), there are several recommendations for the absinthe ritual. The claim is that purists will only accept absinthe straight or in the "traditional French ritual"--slowly dripping ice-cold water on a sugar cube that has been placed on a special slotted absinthe spoon over 1-3 ounces of absinthe. The desired visual effect is a "louche," when the absinthe turns from emerald green to a light milky jade opacity. This will apparently only happen when there is anise present, so if you don't like anise (it's the flavour of black licorice), then you might want to avoid absinthe altogether.
I actually haven't had absinthe in this way since the Czech Stromu brand that I bought while I was living in Auckland, and there was absolutely no "louche," no matter what I did (low, very low anise content). It took me right until the end of my time in New Zealand to finish off that bottle. It's not that it was bad, but it isn't something I would drink all the time.
The ritual that we performed on this Thanksgiving Eve was somewhat different. We poured about two ounces into a glass, set the absinthe itself on fire, and then put it out by pouring the cold water over the sugar cube on the absinthe spoon.
This was not, strictly speaking, the traditional "Bohemian ritual." Actually, before I go on, it should be noted that the "Bohemian ritual" is more of a modern contrivance than it is "tradition." Actual French Bohemians at the turn of the last century were more likely to drink it in the aforementioned "traditional French" way. But I digress. On to the "Bohemian ritual" ...
I quote Absinth24.Net (and correct their spelling where that needed to happen) in their instructions regarding the absinthe fire ritual:
As absinthe usually contains more than 60% alcohol, you should be careful with the Bohemian ritual, as the absinthe in the glass shouldn't begin to burn. [oops.]
a) Pour absinthe over the sugar cube or dip the sugar cube in the absinthe.
b) Light the sugar up and wait until it's fully caramelized.
c) Mix the sugar with the absinthe.
d) Add ice cold water, and you are ready to enjoy the absinthe!
We have a plan to break this out next weekend after more sugar cubes have been acquired, as I opted to leave them behind at Casa Manna.
Actually, I also have a plan to make an order from Alandia at some point, but shhhh, we're not suppose to import the stuff to this country. And, yes, I recognize the idiocy of announcing illicit dealings in a public forum, but I'm telling myself that nobody [official] is reading this ... I'm not sure how Alandia gets around the absinthe ban; but according to their FAQ, if your absinthe gets seized by U.S. customs en route to your address, they'll refund your money.
13 November 2007
panic attack, right now
I kind of feel overwhelmed and that life is running away without me.
I'm going to NC for Christmas and New Year. Apparently.
I'm supposed to be going to NJ for Thanksgiving, but I still haven't bought train tickets (because I've been waiting for there to be enough money in my checking account, but there never is).
I don't know how I'm going to afford to pay the oil bill and December rent, much less Christmas presents. And now I begin to doubt my financial ability to go to Europe with John and Rodney in the coming year.
And I can't talk to my parents, because they're not going to be supportive. They're just going to tell me to stay here, and "I told you so." And then they'll try to talk me into putting money down on a flat I can't afford.
I feel quite absolutely sick. Money is only half the issue.
I'm going to stop editing this entry now.
09 November 2007
thoughts?
On the subject of autism ...
One user wrote in response to today's WonderMark comic: The 'cure autism' movement really strikes a raw nerve with me. It's as offensive as someone trying to 'cure' skin color or homosexuality. I'm sure Eric's heart is in the wrong place, but I'm really afraid of the damage he might be doing by spreading the message that being autistic is wrong and it needs to be cured.
I'm wondering about people's thoughts on this subject--particularly a close friend, if she reads this, because she works with autistic youngsters.
In my reading, there's a growing Autistic Culture, similar to Deaf Culture, that believes autism is not a disorder but a condition and a way of being.
Discuss.
NaNoWriMo means:
Alcohol and caffeine.
The afternoon before yesterday I went to TJ's as promised. Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, Muscat, and Mead ... bitter chocolate ... and chocolate-covered espresso beans.
Had an amusing conversation with the guy at the check-out about the joys of warmed alcohol after I had "informed" him about the fact that they stock mead (and by "informed," his word and not mine, bought a bottle of the stuff, so clearly it must exist somewhere--next to the muscat, port, and sake, specifically). He was quite amazed with the sachets of mulling spice that come conveniently attached the bottle.
I had some of the Cab last night, but noticed that I hadn't finished the glass when I woke up this morning; and, against my experience and better judgment, I swigged what was left (not a lot, thankfully, ugh--wine, it doth a body good, when it's not been sitting around all night).
I wrote a couple decent paragraph prompts on the T this morning, so I'm cutting it short here to go do that instead.
Lay back. Think of Torchwood.
06 November 2007
mmm, lecher
[edit: 7. November, 1233 ... Due to what I have inferred as a request, now with a craptastic attempt at translation! Yay! ... Some artistic license taken where words weren't making a whole lot of sense.]
Le pauvre honteux
[The Poor Ashamed One]
Il l'a tirée
De sa poche percée,
L'a mise sous ses yeux ;
Et l'a bien regardée
En disant : " Malheureux ! "
[He drew it
From his open pocket,
Placed it before his eyes;
And regarded it well
While saying: "Unhappy!"]
Il l'a soufflée
De sa bouche humectée ;
Il avait presque peur
D'une horrible pensée
Qui vint le prendre au coeur.
[He puffed into it
With his moistened mouth;
He was almost terrified
At a horrible thought
That stole into his heart.]
Il l'a mouillée
D'une larme gelée
Qui fondit par hasard ;
Sa chambre était trouée
Encor plus qu'un bazar.
[He wet it
With a cold tear
Which melted by chance;
The room was pierced
Again by more than one bazaar.]
Il l'a frottée
Ne l'a pas réchauffée
A peine il la sentait ;
Car, par le froid pincée,
Elle se retirait.
[He rubbed it
Could not warm it
Hardly felt it;
Because, by the cold pinch
It was withdrawn.]
Il l'a pesée
Comme on pèse une idée,
En l'appuyant sur l'air.
Puis il l'a mesurée
Avec du fil de fer.
[He weighed it
As an idea is weighed,
Pressing it on the air.
Then measured it
With a wire of iron.]
Il l'a touchée
De sa lèvre ridée. -
D'un frénétique effroi
Elle s'est écriée :
Adieu, embrasse-moi !
[He touched it
To his wrinkled lips. --
In a frenzy of fear
He exclaimed:
Goodbye, kiss me!]
Il l'a baisée,
Et après l'a croisée
Sur l'horloge du corps,
Qui rendait, mal montée,
De mats et lourds accords.
[He kissed it,
And after crossed it
On the internal clock,
Which returned, badly resurrected,
In checkmates and heavy bargains.]
Il l'a palpée
D'une main décidée
A la faire mourir. -
- Oui, c'est une bouchée
Dont on peut se nourrir.
[He touched it
With a hand determined
To bring it death.--
--Yes, it is a mouthful
With which one can nourish oneself.]
Il l'a pliée,
Il l'a cassée,
Il l'a placée,
Il l'a coupée ;
Il l'a lavée,
Il l'a portée,
Il l'a grillée,
Il l'a mangée.
[He folded it,
Broke it,
Placed it,
And cut it;
He washed it,
Carried it,
Roasted it,
And ate it.]
- Quand il n'était pas grand, on lui avait dit :
- Si tu as faim, mange une de tes mains.
[--When he was not yet grown, one had said to him:
--When you are starving, eat one of your hands.]
Xavier Forneret
(1809-1884)
01 November 2007
welcome to November
There's a particular part of Beacon St. that inspires me to do bad things to people.
Kid carrying shoulder pads and a football helmet? Little voice says: Run and tackle!!
Three construction workers doubled over and smoothing cement on the sidewalk? Little voice says: *SLAP-SLAP-SLAP!* and RUN AWAY! (to the sound of people squishing head-first into cement).
Car pulls in front of me to go into the video store's parking lot. Little voice says: Slam fistful of keys onto boot and RUN!
And these kinds of thoughts tend to occur between The Fireplace and Vinny T's, level of meanness involved depending upon my mood at the time, of course. And, to be clear, I don't actually do any of these things. But I think about it. And smirk.
moon at dawn
a festive Beacon St. residence
you know, my love of Minis aside--that's still fantastic
And today begins NaNoWriMo ... Good luck to everyone participating this year! I will be struggling along with you.
I think I'm adapting the rules to suit my purpose this year, however. Last year, I aimed, as I did the year before, to make it to 50,000; and I succeeded, in a way. I was working on "Part II" of the novel I began in 2005, and I did write 50,000 words. But I also avoided my main character up until the last 5,000 or so ... that's nearly 100 pages without Mauro in attendance. I'm not sure that swings with most ideas about what a plot should be.
This year, my goal is just to FINISH the novel, regardless of word count. I know it's not the given point of NaNoWriMo, but it's what I want to do with my thirty days. So there. "Part III" and the conclusion of this novel by 30. November.
And, if you're curious: My profile--though there's not much of anything there yet.
11 October 2007
maybe it was just me
Ready to rip Shaw's a new one.
Didn't Midol used to sit with the other pain-killers? You know, Tylenol, Advil, Excedrin, etc.
Is it just too "icky" to put there anymore?
Were men buying the stuff by accident?
When I'm cranky and in pain, I don't want to go on a scavenger hunt. You'd best stock my pain-killers with the other pills. Because I'm thinking, Pain. Pills for pain. Maybe not sitting right next to Tylenol, but certainly in the Tylenol vicinity. Yes?
Hell, keep it in both places, if you must, but don't get clever and move my pain-killers to the "girl" aisle. I'm not looking for Tampax. I'm looking for PILLS.
Am I completely wrong to expect to find Midol with other pain medication?
... On a non-cranky note, I'm really enjoying the Penderecki I purchased from iTunes. His religious intent doesn't interest me much, but he's created some truly beautiful haunting music. Harmony and cacophony all at once. Penderecki is what I imagine when reading the music descriptions in Rice's Memnoch.
27 March 2007
terrible sinking feeling
In which I am too much affected by fan fiction.
My parents, like any two people in a long-term relationship, have had some terrible fights. The ones that I have been present for were some of the most agonising experiences of my life. Seeing two people fight--two people who love one another deeply--makes me feel sick inside. It's that sensation that says something terrible could happen at any moment, but you just don't know what.
My tendency to become immersed in what I'm reading or watching can even make fictional accounts of such things affect me in the same way.
Arkaidy updated her "Across Time" (actually, she's updated it a couple times since my last decent rundown--but I've been sorely neglecting this blog, though I write often enough [about not much of anything sometimes] in my primary LJ).
The beginning of this new chapter sees Ares freed (in, roughly, the present--1999) from the caves where he was imprisoned during the archaeological episode of Xena (set in the 1920s, I think), courtesy Vega's new goddess powers. I think this is my favourite part of the chapter, mainly because of Ares and Strife's reunion.
Ares' reaction (or Kevin Smith's portrayal of that reaction) to Strife's murder always touches me whenever I watch it; because it exhibits the fact that, even though Ares is always giving Strife a hard time, he really does love his nephew. He does value him. And I think that this chapter, following that line of their relationship, illustrates that fact with decent poignancy (but not too much, because this is the GoW, after all).
Another clever tie-in, and still without changing anything canon: "Yes, Virginia, There Is a Hercules." Though, this brings me to my initial feelings of distress.
In that particular episode Hercules, we find the setting in present day (at that time--again, 1999) California and many bad things are happening--and Kevin Sorbo is missing. We don't find out until the end of the episode, but Ares and Strife are the ones wreaking havoc on the world; oh yeah, and Kevin Sorbo really is Hercules.
It's one of my favourite episodes in the series because it blurs the lines of reality and the show that way, and the actors are clearly having a blast lamb-basting the crew and production team with their characterizations (Bruce Campbell as Rob Tapert is just perfect). It is, however, worth mentioning that it's also one of the more infuriating episodes of the season, because it's mainly built on flashbacks to previous episodes.
Anyway, Vega witnesses the terrible things that Strife is doing with Ares and--rightly--gives it to him. So why the dread? Because of the obvious feelings of betrayal about Strife's siding with Ares, and because of Strife's initial callous reaction to those feelings: "That was two thousand years ago! Get over it!"
That got me to wondering about Strife's death experience; obviously, he would know that two thousand years have passed, but has he really felt that passage of time? Through Vega, he's been pulled out of Asphodel--because Callisto killed him in mumblemumble B.C.E.--but would he have sensed all the time he spent there? Was he aware?
For Vega, the two thousand years have passed in relative heart-beat, so the argument doesn't especially apply to her. So then, if Strife didn't feel his death-time and Vega obviously wouldn't have felt it either, the only person for whom this argument works is Ares.
That's not to say that the line is out of place really. It's certainly fitting with Strife's character and past. He clearly loves Vega, but he's been fiercely loyal to Ares--forever, quite literally. Ideally, he would be able to have both of them without one relationship getting in the way of the other. It's just that maybe he's trying to get to that point too quickly.
But the strain passes when Strife realises what he's been doing with Ares, and he and Vega sort of resolve the argument. I still had to sigh some mixture of distress and tentative relief when the chapter ended on that precarious note.
On a less distressed, more delighted note, the scene following "Yes, Virginia" where Vega "wakes up" in the lecture hall, curses, sets the prof straight, and stalks out in a huff--I wish I'd had such a good excuse for the few times I'd actually fallen asleep in lecture. Alas, I think I can only chalk it up to bad sleeping habits. All the same, it was a great moment in the chapter.
munchings and crunchings
There's something nostalgic for me about eating snap-peas.
I haven't had them raw in a long time (though I've had them in Chinese food dishes plenty), but I bought some that came in little snack-packs at Shaws. Baby carrots and snap peas, nothing special. But it's reminding me of eating them fresh from the garden when my family lived in Pennsylvania.
I would "help" my parents collect the vegetables--whatever was ripe at the time. And, with snap-peas in particular, it was very easy to just graze. Grab a handful; sit on one of the box-walls; munch; stare back at Rocko, or Muppet, or Stony, or Smoky, or whichever of the cats would come to see what on earth I was doing; attempt to feed snap-pea to cat; fail; eat it myself. And when the handful was gone, I'd go back for more and start the process over again.
What can I say? Bunny.
Too bad I don't like carrots as much as I like snap-peas. They're all right, but snap-peas ... mmm.
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