Things i've enjoyed in the month of April:
Currently rewatching Mad Men for the 4th? time and The Suitcase remains my favourite episode of all time:
Bottle episodes are so incredibly difficult to pull off but The Suitcase delivers it beautifully and artfully.
What makes it even better is that it features, to me, the most important relationship in the entire show.
I could watch these two battle it out and awkwardly, silently understand each other until the end of tv itself.
And for once. Just damn once. This is a love story without the romance and something much more compelling.
And for once. Just damn once. This is a love story without the romance and something much more compelling.
To those who have yet to watch this entirely too wonderful show... for shame!
.............................................
Listening to the Kill Your Darlings score on repeat when i want to shut my brain off:
Watch this movie.
.............................................
I've dreamt of this moment:
And now i'm sick with fear for it.
If you were to ask me to list my Top 5 books, well, firstly i'd scowl at you with enough force that would inform you without a shadow of a doubt that Book Dragons simply do not have Top 5's.
Ever.
Secondly, i'd cave and say the Gormenghast Tetralogy had a permanent spot at the very precipice of my extremely long Top Books Are Awesome I Think I Might Drown In Them list.
So, understandably, when one of my true loves gets adapted to the big screen this odd sensation of unhindered excitement and paralysing dread starts to... simmer.
It might just mean a tiny bit to me.
And when it comes to casting... well, i have a whole Pinterest board dedicated to that... and my dream directors for the project.
...
Neil Gaiman was not included.
And i've got the goddamned fear.
I may have an infinite amount of love for the BBC's deeply flawed 2000 mini-series but that does not mean i will accept another imperfect recreation of Mervyn Peake's fucking masterpiece.
My heart cannot take it!
.............................................
The concluding half of Leigh Bardugo's Six of Crows duology, Crooked Kingdom:
So... my heart's broken. How's everyone else?
I'm knocking this down to 4.5 stars because... (highlight the blank space below for a major spoiler but my reason for throwing star-shaped shade at my lady, Bardugo)
... i feel cheated. Matthias' death was wholly unnecessary and not just because i adored him down to his grumpy, honourable to a fault, Nina-loving, Fjerdan bones but also because it just didn't make sense. It was a shock-kill at best and i fucking loathe when writers do that. It's not being lazy to let your core cast survive. They don't have to be happy. They don't have to be whole. But they can live. Matthias and Nina deserved better. I deserved better. Choose the right ending, for saint's sake.
I truly thought i'd be desperate for more once i'd finished this but if i can't have them all...
My heart hurts.
.............................................
Outlander Season 3:
Not the best of seasons but ugh, these two make my heart all squishy in the most putrid of ways and i don't even care.
Season 4... come to me.
.............................................
Janelle Monáe's PYNK:
The eldest sister showed me this and i'm almost annoyed i didn't find it first.
Go listen to the whole album.
.............................................
Remembering why Frank Ocean's the absolute shit:
This fucking song.
.............................................
It's coming:
I've waited so long.
Okay, i've waited a year but it's felt like a goddamned eternity.
And now it's finally here i just know it's going to take me an age to watch it.
For one very specific reason.
...
It can't end.
It just can't.
.............................................
I like words.
In fact, i love them.
I crave them.
I need them.
They keep me alive.
And at times their etymology can be fascinating.
One of my favourites being mnemonics which can be traced back to Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory in Greek mythology. Mnemosyne being derived from the greek word mnēmē, meaning memory.
Mnemosyne was the daughter of Uranus and Gaia and mother to the nine muses (daddy dearest being Zeus, the big mythological man-whore that he was).
She also presided over a pool in Hades that connected to one of the five major rivers of Hell, Lethe.
Lethe is the river of forgetting.
Dead souls drank from the river in order to forget their past lives and be reborn anew.
In Orphism, initiates were said, in contrast, to drink from the river Mnemosyne to retain a part of their soul when born into a new body.
Thus, mnemonics.
...
It might just be my unwavering awe for anything even remotely related to the mythology of Hell but isn't that endlessly fascinating?
No?
Okay, whatever, you're wrong but moving on...
The above ramble was brought on by the delivery of my Word of the Day in my inbox a few days ago.
The word in question being:
A relatively innocuous word at first glance but actually...
Now, if you're here and you're reading this then you'll already be aware of my obsession with anything Fantasy.
Anything sans tentacles that is. Chapodiphobia is real, people.
My latest liking being that of the Fae.
If it's written, i'll read it.
I'm not even all that fussy about the quality of the writing, i just want moooorrreeeee.
And i'll get it by any means possible.
So when this little word scuttled it's way into my inbox i was more than happy to clock the mention of the Slúag:
Nearing Halloween, or Samhain, it seems easier to let your mind wander to darker things. Cooler nights, blustery winds, dry leaves breaking from the trees and rustling in the dark. Shapes and forms manifest where before there were only shadows. And it is out of those shadows, and a westerly wind, that the Sluagh (also called the Underfolk, The Wild Hunt, or The Host of Unforgiven Dead), has haunted Irish folklore for thousands of years.
The foulest and most dreaded of the realm of Faerie, the Sluagh (pronounced SLOO-AH) was more feared than even Death itself. Death was easy. The Sluagh, now that was something entirely different. Even Death has no choice but to defer to the Sluagh, in an otherworldly race for the immortal souls of the living.
The Sluagh, meaning “host” in Irish, is a group formed from the darkest, most vile creatures imaginable. Prior to the introduction of Christianity into Scotland and Ireland, the Sluagh was more closely associated with “Fae gone amuck,” if you will. They were believed to be some ill-begotten form of faerie folk, with no reason, no loyalty, and no mercy. However, once Christianity came upon the isles, the Sluagh was transformed into a pack of unforgiven, unrepentant, dead sinners. Yes… the Sluagh were thought to be once human.
And humans are still very much their prey. The Sluagh exists on stealing the souls of the living, and especially the dying. Huddling and hiding in forgotten and dark places, they lay in wait for nightfall. Once the sun has left the sky, they strike out, in what, to the untrained or unsuspecting eye, appears to be a vast and ominous flock of large ravens or other birds. Flapping wings, screeching, and a whirlwind of undulating shadows are all you’d witness as the Sluagh descends for an attack. Owing to the folklore of the Wild Hunt, countless cultures and legends still link black birds (and especially ravens) as evil omens or signals of upcoming misfortune.
In Irish mythology, the Sluagh were said to fly in from the west to steal a dying soul before it was given Last Rites. To this day, doors and windows on the west sides of houses are kept closed if there is a sick or dying person at home.
- Kim McNamara Wilson
Again, maybe it's just my inherent fantastical dork being tickled but to me... that's so putridly wonderful i can barely stand it.
What makes if even better is i just started watching the final season of Teen Wolf and the big bad of the first half is The Wild freaking Hunt.
Coincidence or are the Fae trying to fuck with me?
.............................................
Finally finishing Bates Motel:
Em and I have been lurking on Netflix for months for this to finally be released.
Genuinely lurking.
Every few days i'd check to see if magically the final season had appeared and 'lo and behold, there it was, ready to be devoured.
I don't even like the damn show all that much but i got weirdly invested?
This happens more than i'd like.
See: The Alienist. I'm on the penultimate episode. I hate just about everyone. The story is pissing me off to no end. I must know what happens...
Update: I've now finished The Alienist. I am more pissed off than ever. I want those 10 hours of my life back.
.............................................
Sam Green, Treading Water II:
I've been slowly looking through my old sketchbooks from university to, i dunno, spark something in my brain to be an "artist" again?
Or it's just some narcissistic need to see how my brain used to function when it had a purpose instead of whatever it's up to these days.
...
Flailing, mostly.
(i don't know why this is purple but Blogger's refusing to budge so...)
What i have remembered, and was routinely chastised over, is that 90% of my sketchbooks are full of writing, quotes, whole passages on psychological, philosophical and religious theory, and an absolute fuck-tonne of print outs of other artists/illustrators/photographers/cinematographers' work.
The other 10% is made up of my own work.
...
No wonder i had no confidence when every time i opened the safe haven a sketchbook should be and was bombarded with work and words i put on a fucking pedestal.
Note to self: One sketchbook for research | A great divide | One sketchbook for drawing.
Do not intermingle... you moron.
.............................................
Because, Charles.
Fluffy trash cloud.
.............................................
Wolf Alice covering Tim Buckley:
Classic.
Timeless.
Sacrilegiously, i love it more than This Mortal Coil's version.
And Sinead O'Connor's.
And John Frusciante's.
And Dead Can Dance's.
And The Czars'.
...
Wolf Alice, what have you done to me?
.............................................
Listening to the Kill Your Darlings score on repeat when i want to shut my brain off:
Watch this movie.
.............................................
I've dreamt of this moment:
And now i'm sick with fear for it.
If you were to ask me to list my Top 5 books, well, firstly i'd scowl at you with enough force that would inform you without a shadow of a doubt that Book Dragons simply do not have Top 5's.
Ever.
Secondly, i'd cave and say the Gormenghast Tetralogy had a permanent spot at the very precipice of my extremely long Top Books Are Awesome I Think I Might Drown In Them list.
So, understandably, when one of my true loves gets adapted to the big screen this odd sensation of unhindered excitement and paralysing dread starts to... simmer.
It might just mean a tiny bit to me.
And when it comes to casting... well, i have a whole Pinterest board dedicated to that... and my dream directors for the project.
...
Neil Gaiman was not included.
And i've got the goddamned fear.
I may have an infinite amount of love for the BBC's deeply flawed 2000 mini-series but that does not mean i will accept another imperfect recreation of Mervyn Peake's fucking masterpiece.
My heart cannot take it!
.............................................
The concluding half of Leigh Bardugo's Six of Crows duology, Crooked Kingdom:
So... my heart's broken. How's everyone else?
I'm knocking this down to 4.5 stars because... (highlight the blank space below for a major spoiler but my reason for throwing star-shaped shade at my lady, Bardugo)
... i feel cheated. Matthias' death was wholly unnecessary and not just because i adored him down to his grumpy, honourable to a fault, Nina-loving, Fjerdan bones but also because it just didn't make sense. It was a shock-kill at best and i fucking loathe when writers do that. It's not being lazy to let your core cast survive. They don't have to be happy. They don't have to be whole. But they can live. Matthias and Nina deserved better. I deserved better. Choose the right ending, for saint's sake.
I truly thought i'd be desperate for more once i'd finished this but if i can't have them all...
My heart hurts.
.............................................
Outlander Season 3:
Not the best of seasons but ugh, these two make my heart all squishy in the most putrid of ways and i don't even care.
Season 4... come to me.
.............................................
Janelle Monáe's PYNK:
The eldest sister showed me this and i'm almost annoyed i didn't find it first.
Go listen to the whole album.
.............................................
Remembering why Frank Ocean's the absolute shit:
This fucking song.
.............................................
It's coming:
I've waited so long.
Okay, i've waited a year but it's felt like a goddamned eternity.
And now it's finally here i just know it's going to take me an age to watch it.
For one very specific reason.
...
It can't end.
It just can't.
At the very least i want some damn Funkos out of this.
.............................................
I like words.
In fact, i love them.
I crave them.
I need them.
They keep me alive.
And at times their etymology can be fascinating.
One of my favourites being mnemonics which can be traced back to Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory in Greek mythology. Mnemosyne being derived from the greek word mnēmē, meaning memory.
Mnemosyne was the daughter of Uranus and Gaia and mother to the nine muses (daddy dearest being Zeus, the big mythological man-whore that he was).
She also presided over a pool in Hades that connected to one of the five major rivers of Hell, Lethe.
Lethe is the river of forgetting.
Dead souls drank from the river in order to forget their past lives and be reborn anew.
In Orphism, initiates were said, in contrast, to drink from the river Mnemosyne to retain a part of their soul when born into a new body.
Thus, mnemonics.
...
It might just be my unwavering awe for anything even remotely related to the mythology of Hell but isn't that endlessly fascinating?
No?
Okay, whatever, you're wrong but moving on...
The above ramble was brought on by the delivery of my Word of the Day in my inbox a few days ago.
The word in question being:
A relatively innocuous word at first glance but actually...
Now, if you're here and you're reading this then you'll already be aware of my obsession with anything Fantasy.
Anything sans tentacles that is. Chapodiphobia is real, people.
My latest liking being that of the Fae.
If it's written, i'll read it.
I'm not even all that fussy about the quality of the writing, i just want moooorrreeeee.
And i'll get it by any means possible.
So when this little word scuttled it's way into my inbox i was more than happy to clock the mention of the Slúag:
Nearing Halloween, or Samhain, it seems easier to let your mind wander to darker things. Cooler nights, blustery winds, dry leaves breaking from the trees and rustling in the dark. Shapes and forms manifest where before there were only shadows. And it is out of those shadows, and a westerly wind, that the Sluagh (also called the Underfolk, The Wild Hunt, or The Host of Unforgiven Dead), has haunted Irish folklore for thousands of years.
The foulest and most dreaded of the realm of Faerie, the Sluagh (pronounced SLOO-AH) was more feared than even Death itself. Death was easy. The Sluagh, now that was something entirely different. Even Death has no choice but to defer to the Sluagh, in an otherworldly race for the immortal souls of the living.
The Sluagh, meaning “host” in Irish, is a group formed from the darkest, most vile creatures imaginable. Prior to the introduction of Christianity into Scotland and Ireland, the Sluagh was more closely associated with “Fae gone amuck,” if you will. They were believed to be some ill-begotten form of faerie folk, with no reason, no loyalty, and no mercy. However, once Christianity came upon the isles, the Sluagh was transformed into a pack of unforgiven, unrepentant, dead sinners. Yes… the Sluagh were thought to be once human.
And humans are still very much their prey. The Sluagh exists on stealing the souls of the living, and especially the dying. Huddling and hiding in forgotten and dark places, they lay in wait for nightfall. Once the sun has left the sky, they strike out, in what, to the untrained or unsuspecting eye, appears to be a vast and ominous flock of large ravens or other birds. Flapping wings, screeching, and a whirlwind of undulating shadows are all you’d witness as the Sluagh descends for an attack. Owing to the folklore of the Wild Hunt, countless cultures and legends still link black birds (and especially ravens) as evil omens or signals of upcoming misfortune.
In Irish mythology, the Sluagh were said to fly in from the west to steal a dying soul before it was given Last Rites. To this day, doors and windows on the west sides of houses are kept closed if there is a sick or dying person at home.
- Kim McNamara Wilson
Again, maybe it's just my inherent fantastical dork being tickled but to me... that's so putridly wonderful i can barely stand it.
What makes if even better is i just started watching the final season of Teen Wolf and the big bad of the first half is The Wild freaking Hunt.
Coincidence or are the Fae trying to fuck with me?
Finally finishing Bates Motel:
Em and I have been lurking on Netflix for months for this to finally be released.
Genuinely lurking.
Every few days i'd check to see if magically the final season had appeared and 'lo and behold, there it was, ready to be devoured.
I don't even like the damn show all that much but i got weirdly invested?
This happens more than i'd like.
See: The Alienist. I'm on the penultimate episode. I hate just about everyone. The story is pissing me off to no end. I must know what happens...
.............................................
Sam Green, Treading Water II:
I've been slowly looking through my old sketchbooks from university to, i dunno, spark something in my brain to be an "artist" again?
Or it's just some narcissistic need to see how my brain used to function when it had a purpose instead of whatever it's up to these days.
...
Flailing, mostly.
(i don't know why this is purple but Blogger's refusing to budge so...)
What i have remembered, and was routinely chastised over, is that 90% of my sketchbooks are full of writing, quotes, whole passages on psychological, philosophical and religious theory, and an absolute fuck-tonne of print outs of other artists/illustrators/photographers/cinematographers' work.
The other 10% is made up of my own work.
...
No wonder i had no confidence when every time i opened the safe haven a sketchbook should be and was bombarded with work and words i put on a fucking pedestal.
Note to self: One sketchbook for research | A great divide | One sketchbook for drawing.
Do not intermingle... you moron.
.............................................
Because, Charles.
Fluffy trash cloud.
.............................................
Wolf Alice covering Tim Buckley:
Classic.
Timeless.
Sacrilegiously, i love it more than This Mortal Coil's version.
And Sinead O'Connor's.
And John Frusciante's.
And Dead Can Dance's.
And The Czars'.
...
Wolf Alice, what have you done to me?
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