september

October 01, 2018


Things i've enjoyed in the month of September:

rosiethorns88 taking the time to answer a longtime Illyrian ponderance:


In context:
So... it's not as slick as the way I see it in my head.
Rhys' little dolphin kicks are kind of ruining the majestic vision I clung to whilst reading the flying scenes but... I'm so happy right now it doesn't even matter.
This shouldn't make me this happy.
But it does.
It really fucking does.
My precious Illyrian babies can dolphin kick all they want.

rosiethorns88, you're a goddamn High Lady if I ever saw one.

.............................................

Finishing Uncle... forever:
Shows like this are why I'm still wounded over losing BBC3.
Sure, it's still online but I'm fucking terrible at remembering to watch anything that isn't firmly rooted in the underbelly of Netflix or Amazon Prime.
Luddite and proud.
I should attempt to remember though, it's produced some of my most beloved shows:

("I'm doing this because I love you." - I've yet to recover from this...)
(they cancelled this fucking magnificent show and it's still fucking unacceptable, although...)
Some Girls
(some of the finest teenage absurdity I've ever witnessed) 
The Fades
(where my love affair with Iain De Caestecker's lovely little face originated)
Gavin & Stacey
(even though I can't watch it anymore because I've seen it seventeen thousand times already)
The Mighty Boosh
("Fiddly dee, fiddly doo, fiddly die!")

Look at all that televisual goodness and explain to me how the BBC could ever think of shunning it to the naughty corner of the internet.
...
Shitheels.

.............................................

I've yet to watch this but I can totally appreciate her mastery of Lana Condor's exceptional eyebrow game.
...
Good god, do I love illustrators.
Protect them.
Protect them all!

Update: TAtBILB has now been seen. Twice. It's cute. Very cute.
...
That's it.
That's all I have.

.............................................

He'll totally get mad.
...
Before anyone starts throwing Severus shade my way, I do know he's a very questionable character.
I do know that.
I accept that.
I agree on oh so many levels.
But I have this unwavering need to protect everyone within the Potterverse.
I can't explain why.
I just need to.
It doesn't mean I'll apologise for their faults.
No way. No how.
I'll address them and address them hard.
But I won't let the entire story be sullied.
Especially when J. K. Rowling does dumb shit that pisses off just about everyone with a working conscience.
Rowling, why are you doing this to us?
For fuck's sake, why when the movie looks this fucking good?!

I just want to enjoy my stories with the hope that they don't offend anyone (including myself) with their content... and this blatant racist, misogynistic bullshit is trying my fucking patience.
Rowling, get your shit together already.
...
Okay, mini-rant over, shade away, I'm ready.
But just remember, I'm a Hufflepuff and we don't have much control over our tear ducts.

For example:

My sister informed me about the latest Potterverse debacle in the early evening and because I was sick (head cold turned chest infection turned Laryingitis-based exhaustion turned just kill me right the fuck now) and weak, I physically clung to her (yes, really, it was super dramatic) and squeakily pleaded that she stop breaking my Potter-loving heart.
There weren't tears but we were getting damn close.
(as I said, I was beyond weak at this point)
...
She patted me on the head and told me everything would be okay.
...
Probably not my finest moment and she was totally lying to me but in my felled bug-like plague-ridden state it made me feel marginally better?

.............................................

Cassandra Jean Piedra:
Something about these I find very soothing.

.............................................

Coralie Jubénot and the reason her Twitter and art makes me hap-hap-happy:


.............................................

The siblings bought me these beauties for my birthday:
(filtered the fuck out of this to hide the shameful level of dust currently residing on my books... sorry books)

I often wonder if this strange affinity I have with these inanimate, lollipop-headed creatures is strange but then I look at them and forget to give a fuck?
Look at Steve's hair.
Look.
At.
It.

.............................................

Jameela Jamil cementing her goddess status:
Full interview, here.

.............................................

American chocolate is like somebody described chocolate but did it by gesturing with their eyebrows
instead of words:
This though?
This is goooooood.
Actual poison but goooooood.

.............................................

Kate's a funny girl:

I dug in my pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill. "Hey, Erra?"
Torch glanced in my direction,
I dangled five bucks at him and let it flutter down in the six-inch space between the ward and the building. "For you!"
Torch strode over and stared at the fiver. "What's this?"
"Some change for you. Buy your flunkies some decent clothes." I dipped my fingers into the jar and smeared thick fragrant paste on my face.
Torch frowned, mirroring the expression on my aunt's face. "Change?"
Oh, for crying out loud. "It's money. We don't use coins as currency now, we use paper money."
He stared at me.
"I'm insulting you! I'm saying you're poor, like a beggar, because your undead are in rags. I'm offering to clothe your servants for you, because you can't provide for them. Come on, how thick do you have to be?"
He jerked his hand up. A jet of flame erupted from his fingers, sliding against the ward. I jerked back from the window on instinct. The fire died. I leaned forward. "Do you understand now?"
More fire.
"What's the matter? Was that not enough money?"

Really funny:

I'd mince him into tiny, tiny, tiny pieces . . .
"I changed my mind about the catnip." He held up the garment. A French maid outfit, complete with lacy apron.
Slayer's hilt was smooth in my fingers. Beast Lord or not, he did bleed.
The poodle growled.
Curran hung the outfit on the back of the door and approached my desk. That's right, come closer. Closer. Closer . . .
He struck at the desk, preternaturally fast. Tiny hairs rose on the back of my neck. I barely saw it. One moment his hand was empty, the next it held my doughnut. He bit it. "Mmm, blueberry."
In my mind, his head exploded.

As in, first three seasons Buffy Summers funny:

I felt hollow and tired. If it wasn't for the wall propping me up, I'd collapse. If I concentrated hard enough, I could wiggle my fingers. Concentrating hurt.
Kate Daniels, deadly sword master. Fear my twitching pinkie.

She's quippy as hell, a smart-ass and I swear to all Atlantan magic she would chuckle at her own jokes if she thought it wouldn't give all and supernatural sundry a free pass to remind her of it every second of every damn day.
(the supes in Atlanta are just douchey like that)
And I didn't know I missed this kind of smart mouth so damn much until I started reading this series:

"Are we going to do this, or will you keep talking?"
My aunt came across the snow, sword raised. Fast. Too fast. A woman that large should've been slower.
Her blade thrust. Quick. I dodged and struck at her side. She parried. Our swords connected. Shock punched my arm. And strong like a bull.
Erra sliced at my shoulder, I blocked, letting her blade slide off my saber, spun, and kicked at her. She leaped back. We broke apart.
My aunt tossed her leather jacket into the snow and motioned to me with her fingers.
"I'm sorry, am I supposed to bring it?"

Buffy was my introduction to strong women.
At least, the first strong woman on tv to resonate with me.
I was in awe the first time I saw her.
She was strong and girly, pretty and smart, a bit weird and oh so very tiny.
(she's an inch taller than me and as all tiny humans know, that's a very important inch... much like guys and dick measuring, I guess)
I'd never seen a woman like her.
She was an actual living, breathing, punching unicorn and it was goddamned magical.
Much like Kate Daniels.
I actually ache when I read these books because fuck me, I just want to be her, sassy mouth and all.
She makes me want my very own glowing sword to slice through the underworld and every now and then threaten my would be shapeshifter boyfriend with when he gets too growly and alpha male.
And this is exactly how Buffy made me feel when I was just a little thing with no idea I could swear like an inebriated sailor and still expect, no, demand respect.
I didn't know I could put on a dress and punch people if they acted like total fuck-knuckles.
(I won't punch anyone, I promise, I'd probably break my hand anyway... limbs of sticks and candy floss, have I)

I had absolutely no clue I could be vulnerable and fierce and acerbic as hell all at once.
I just didn't!
I was a tomboy growing up.
I'm still kind of a tomboy.
Sweatshirts (fleece-lined for the win), jeans and sneakers are my official uniform but I'm not afraid of dresses and pretty things anymore because I know I can do both.

(the queen that is Sarah Andersen)

I can do whatever the fuck I want.
(within reason... I may have been called Little Hitler once due to my propensity for bossiness but I'm still civilised...)
And watching/reading women like Buffy Summers and Kate Daniels helped me see that.
I still want a glowing sword that drips magical ichor though... just saying.

Bonus: She now has an "attack poodle" named Grendel (something I've wanted to name a kitten for years now... as if I couldn't love her more) who's actually a hellhound.
An attack poodle hellhound.
...
He likes cuddles and bin diving.

Bonusfreakingbonus: My ship has officially sailed:

"I worry about you." He dipped his head and looked into my eyes. "I worry something stupid will happen and I won't be there and you'll be gone. I worry we won't ever get a chance and it's driving me out of my skull."
No, no, no, no . . .
We stared at each other. The tiny space between us felt too hot. Muscles bulged on his naked frame. He looked feral.
Mad gold eyes stared into mine. "Do you miss me, Kate?"
I closed my eyes, trying to shut him out. I could lie and then we'd be back to square one. Nothing would be resolved. I'd still be alone, hating him and wanting him.
He grabbed my shoulders and shook me once. "Do you miss me?"
I took the plunge. "Yes."
He kissed me.

You killed me, Team Andrews:

He pulled me closer to him. "Something else will come along. When it does, we'll kill it. Later, something else will show up. We'll kill it, too, and then we'll go home."
I grimaced. "And climb a million stairs trying not to collapse."
"I don't do collapsing."
"Of course not. What was I thinking . . ."
His voice was rock-steady. "We don't live in a safe world. I can't give you the white picket fence, and if I did, you'd set it on fire."
True. "Only if I ran out of kindling."
"Or needed some hardened wooden shards to drive into someone's eye."
I stretched my legs. "You don't actually burn wood to harden it. You turn it over the fire, so it soaks up the heat but doesn't char."
He growled low in his throat. "Thank you for that little nugget of wisdom."
"You're welcome."
You straight up murdered me:

He was mine. He cared for me, he made me lose all sense, he didn't give a damn about my father. He was what I wanted, because he made me happy. I wanted him like I'd never wanted anyone in my life.

I'm so warm inside...

I want to read the next in the series so badly.
Where's Hiddleston when I need him?!

.............................................

This post on Clickhole:
Now this is my kind of advice and yes, I chuckled for a good 5 minutes.

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Dexterous, my dearest of dears, sent me these troublesome two for my birthday:
(Filtered the fuck again because... dust bunnies, oh god, the dust bunnies. And you can still see themmmmm)

And what did I proceed to do within the first 30 seconds of unboxing them?
I ripped Kaylee's arm off.
Clean off.
Total She-Hulk behaviour.
I honestly didn't mean to.
All I wanted was for her to have her arms raised in mechanic-based jubilance but I think I tried to make her a little too jubilant...
As you can see above she's now posed in an eternal state of dismembered fury.
...
I'm a monster.

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Tim Von Rueden:
Oh so many Tank Girl feels.

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Dot Hutchison's The Roses of May:
I remember reading the first in The Collector series and feeling breathless.
Not necessarily because it moved at a rapid pace but because I absolutely, unequivocally, damn well unshakeably needed to know what happened next.
I've encountered this before whilst reading.
It wasn't anything new, not story-wise but it just had something.
Something that had me still turning pages at obscene o'clock.
(although that's fairly normal for me. What is a regular body clock? Where does one acquire one of these?)
...
Dot Hutchison knows how to weave a mystery and when it was done, when I had some but not all the answers, I felt... bruised.

Sadness and grief aren't the same thing. It's why they have different words. Maybe it's a subtle distinction, but we don't keep a word in a language if it doesn't still have a purpose of its own. Synonyms are never exact things.

And The Roses of May has deepened that bruise to a fracturing somewhere inside.
Somewhere in my bones.
This is not the same story from before.
I was kind of expecting it be a continuation but Hutchison manages to take the mystery of before and lace it into an equally devastating tale of compulsive depravity.

After, you pluck a single flower from the disintegrating crown and place it on your tongue. Under the copper shock of blood, you can taste the sweetness of honeysuckle.

Which is brilliant enough (she reminds me of Louise Welsh and that's high bloody praise) but within the story there are these... passages that hurt to read.
Passages that articulate how it feels to battle, and I mean battle with mental illness.
Specifically Eating Disorders - Bulimia Nervosa in this case.
I've not fought* with Bulimia myself but something akin to it.
Something physiological/biological rather than psychological.
But the need to control what I put inside my body is there.

[...] my hands are still shaking. My stomach is still cramping with need. It doesn't matter that I know it'll make me sick, that the concrete pain doesn't actually make the emotional pain any better. It doesn't matter that I've learned again and again and again that it doesn't help.
It just matters that it feels like it should.

There's a compartment in my brain dedicated to it.

My stomach is rolling, protesting, but when I finish the first package, I open the second, forcing the damn cookies past the cramping nausea. This is pain that makes sense, this is a pain that will stop as soon as I stop, and I can't stop, because none of this makes sense.

A compartment I desperately wish wasn't there but it is and I need it or shit get's weird.
I may not have BN but I experience aspects of it and to see all those cruel, unforgiving but sometimes brave as fuck thoughts that go through your head on a daily basis written down in print is both painful and comforting and yet again reminds me of this line, that I treasure, from Alan Bennett's The History Boys:

The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.

 When you don't have the words, look to the storytellers.

Dot Hutchison's story isn't really a murder mystery, it's a love letter to the broken and the fractured.

Some people stay broken, others put themselves back together with all the sharp bits showing.

A love letter about love and healing and the strength of being human.

Seeing your own demons reflected back at you, it creates a safe place to just be wounded. It gives permission, in a way, to not be okay. You go to your brothers (and sisters) and not only will they watch over you when you are clearly incapable of doing so yourself, they will never tell you to be anything other than what you are, even if on that particular day what you are is a collapsing wreck of a human being.

A love letter that says it's more than okay to not be okay, you're still brave and worthy and alive, above all things, so very alive.

I am no one's victim


Ps. I need this made into a tv show.
I need it.
It was optioned back in 2016 as a movie with Michael Sugar as producer (Spotlight, The Knick, 13 Reasons Why, The OA) but nothing's been heard since.
I say, ditch the movie, snare Guillem Morales or Baran bo Odar or Jakob Verbruggen or just about any of the directors on The Leftovers into adapting it for tv and then we can have one season of perverse awesomeness per book instead of one two hour movie.
Sound reasonable?
I definitely think so.

.............................................

Season 2 of Atypical:

I'm still waiting for the moment that watching tv shows about mental health stops flooding my heart with pride and gratitude and so much damned warmth.
I hope it never comes.
I really don't.

.............................................

Mandy:

My good friend Scott made me watch this trailer.
His exact words being:

OH OH OH.. I feel like this is your shit, right here.

 And what was my expression during the full 2 minutes 30 seconds of this?
Let me show you:

Scott?
My inner heavy metal, 80s horror-loving creep thanks you.
She thanks you most kindly.

.............................................

Charlie taking on his role as the new Burt Reynolds very seriously:

You see that belly?
I'm not allowed to touch that.
...
But I did anyway.
Who knew marshmallows had such wicked teeth.
...
Now, who wouldn't want such a fearsome jerk for their very own?!
Idiots, that's who.

If he hadn't just strolled into our house and stayed forever with a name already affixed to his fluffiness (not literally, I don't even dare imagine putting a collar on this feral beast), his name would not be Charlie.
Knowing me, he'd be named something fucking ridiculous like Thackery or Grendel or Renfield or Greebo or Crowley or Suriel (Suri for short)... I could continue.
He's definitely Charlie, though.
Or Fluffalumpus.
Or Squishhead.
Or Short Round, as I'm wont to call him these days.

Because, y'know, he's so short.. and so very round.

.............................................

I totally didn't swoon.
Or laugh.
Or cry at the fucking beauty of it all.
...
I totally didn't.

I love anything Del Toro.
Even the mildly shitty Hellboy movies and his questionable adaptation of The Strain (although it's half his book so what the fuck am I even saying?).
But until now nothing he's made has come close to filling the Pan's Labyrinth-shaped chasm he left in my stupid, pitiful chest.
And I've been waiting.
Like a good little acolyte.
And I was rewarded.
Rewarded with riverine riches beyond my most lofty expectations.
...
How does he do this?
Is he a wizard?
Are those the colours he sees in his head?
Because I want to go to there.
It's as if he swallowed Jean-Pierre Jeunet whole and chased him with a creature-flavoured nightcap for good measure.
I didn't know I could care so deeply for an interspecies relationship, especially one where not a damn word is uttered but a whole wealth of emotion is communicated.
...
Truly... he must be a wizard... right?
And it's not just a love story.
It addresses sexual fluidity, sexual independence, ableism, racism, misogyny, homophobia, ageism, our wanton destruction of anything we don't understand and just about every prejudice you can think of.
This is a complex piece of cinema and it just happens to be a heartbreaking love story with an immense amount of visual beauty at the same time.
...
We are not worthy, Del Toro.

Now, behold! All the fan arts:

James Jean
(the origin and the bane of my existence for not having one of these prints... I gotta go cry now)


Alessia Pelonzi


Jennifer Dionisio



Manew Jasu








I've been trying my best to identify the artist behind this but the internet's being a withholding bitch and won't give up the goods... which I hate because posting art without credit is the worst but I'm doing it anyway in the hopes that the artist will hunt me down and give me a good scolding and I can then give them the credit they deserve?
Come on, mystery artist, make me feel bad...



I saved the filthiest for last:

Let's soften that filth with some "Oh god, it's so cute, I'm gonna die" action:
Thank you, Wub for gifting the world the Fish Babs.
My heart is so full.
I was not prepared for "meep".
I was not prepared for anything when it comes to The Shape of Water.

.............................................


* I refuse to say "suffer". It suggests a lack of strength and people with mental illnesses, myself included, are incredibly strong people. It took me a while to realise that. To fight something every single day and not succumb, or to succumb and get back up again, is painful and brutal and it takes an exponential amount of grit. There is suffering, yes but there definitely isn't weakness. 
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