Things I enjoyed in the month of February:
The Library Haunter laying down some truth-bombs:
The Library Haunter laying down some truth-bombs:
no one ever fell in love with reading by being shamed into it. we fell in love with reading because we stumbled on a book we couldn’t put down, that seemed to be bound together with ink and magic.— the library haunter 🦉🎄❄ (@SketchesbyBoze) February 1, 2019
This is exact reason if someone tells me to read something, I will do it but it might take me a decade or so.
You can't rush a girl.
That way lies a tetchy reading experience and quite possibly a much-hated book.
.............................................
Donna June Cooper's, More Than Magic:
I'm officially smitten with the Books of the Kindling series.
Magic-lite?
Characters to fall for?
A landscape I want to hibernate in with a mountain of books, a time-eluding puppy, and a spare Nick McKenzie* if he's available?
Check, check and goddamn, check.
I'm so happy, I could puke.
Oh, and the heroine is yet another badass perfect specimen of a human who I can't even be mad at for her flawlessness because I love her so damn much!
...
I sound mad but I'm so not mad.
Also.
Also, also, also.
Cooper reminded me of a phenomenon from my childhood that I had wholly forgotten about:
"Grace leaned back on her hands and gazed up at the sky. Long ago she used to lie here in the meadow trying to imagine that the stars were down and the earth beneath her was up and managing, only for a moment, that dizzying certainty that she was going to fall."
I used to do this all the time (usually upside down on an incline).
It used to terrify and thrill me all at once.
Thank you, Donna June Cooper.
For reminding me.
.............................................
Evan Cagle's piece for the Bicentennial Herman Melville celebration collection published by John Arcudi:
Ugh, those lines.
.............................................
The Song of Achilles:
This is the most beautiful love story.
It's doomed from its infancy, without even a shred of hope and I ached my way through each wretched second of it.
Because how could I not?
How could I not follow these two cursed men from their mischievous childhood friendship, to the first tentative brushings of naive love, to their unwavering devotion and loyalty to each other, and finally to their prophesied and pitiless uncoupling?
How could I not?
Strangely, or maybe not strangely, The Song of Achilles and the love story within remind me of a well known and unjustly clichéd passage from the Bible*:
1 Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal. 2 And though I have the gift of prophecy, and can understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have faith, that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 3 And though I give all I possess to the poor, and surrender my body to the flames, [2] but have not love, I gain nothing.
4 Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; 5 does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; 6 does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; 7 bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
8 Love never fails. But whether there are prophecies, they will fail; whether there are tongues, they will cease; whether there is knowledge, it will vanish away. 9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part. 10 But when that which is perfect has come, then that which is in part will be done away.
11 When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 12 For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.
13 And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
- 1 Corinthians 13
(New King James translation)
To me, this encompasses the relationship between the fabled Achilles and the lesser-known Patroclus.
A fierce, untamed love that could not have been stopped by anyone or anything.
Not by vanity.
Not by human folly.
Not by prophecy.
Not by each other.
Not even by the Gods.
It just is and always will be, no matter the cost.
And it ruined me.
There's this heavy, grieving weight squatting on my chest and I can't soothe it.
All I can think about are those loving sighs of sentences I folded the corners of my page for:
"I hoped that you would come."
"Now I know how to make you follow me everywhere."
"I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me."
"Because you're the reason."
"If you have to go, you know I will go with you."
"Tell me where he is."
"My husband."
"I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell, I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world."
"Forgive me."
"I would not care [...] Whatever you became. It would not matter to me. We would be together"
"I have given them enough. I will not give them this."
"Tell me again."
"I will be there."
"He is half of my soul."
"If he is dead, I will not be far behind."
"Bring him back to me."
"It will never be enough."
"Philtatos. [...] Most beloved."
"Do not leave me here without him."
"I am made of memories."
"A C H I L L E S."
"P A T R O C L U S."
.............................................
Tv:
The Office
My hearrrrrrt.
The original show did nothing for me.
Everything Ricky Gervais is part of does nothing for me.
He's just the absolute worst.
And this stopped me giving America's version of The Office a shot for the longest time.
Thankfully it showed up on Amazon Prime late last year and my sister devoured the full nine seasons with a frightening speed before I could even contemplate watching it.
Her squishy-hearted reaction was reason enough to tell my Gervais-loathing brain to shut the hell up and watch the damn show.
And I did.
And I fell in love immediately.
(Not even kidding, within the first few minutes I was a goner.)
It's hard not to when you're presented with such lovably evil characters (I'm looking at you Jim Halpert).
So, if you're hesitating to watch it, don't.
It's perfect and I miss them all so much already.
The Good Place
There are no words for how much I love these idiots.
If you're not watching by now, get that bullshirt sorted.
Grace and Frankie
Sometimes with a show I love there comes a point where I'm actively willing it to end.
Not because I love it any less but because I don't want them to push it, or ruin it, or it just feels like the right time to round things up.
And that's the case with Grace and Frankie.
Season 5 was a little weaker than the previous four, not hugely, but enough to be noticeable and I just can't see where they can it take from here.
Especially after that little cliff-bomb they fired at us in this season's finale.
Now, if they wanted to do a spin-off with the kids?
I'm so up for that.
So up.
Brianna Hanson is an actual goddess and I would happily watch her shred lesser mortals to pieces with a withering glance.
I just would.
Fleabag
This a re-watch and it won't be my last.
(especially with season two about to hit)
Where did you come from, Phoebe Waller-Bridge?
Truly, where?
You can't be human.
Because what the fuckity fuck does that mean for the rest of us?!
Another re-watch but an accidental one.
They've been showing this in the afternoons on 5STAR and it's like being given a mentally unstable, nostalgia-laced cuddle.
...
And I love it.
I will never not love this show.
And it will never not be John Lithgow's finest hour.
.............................................
Beatriz Rebollo paying homage to The Holy Grail's savage bunny, more formally known as The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog:
My sisters and I quote this movie a frightening amount.
.............................................
Speaking of savages... the fluffmonster returns:
.............................................
Twitter feeding me my feelings through other people's words:
Donna June Cooper's, More Than Magic:
Magic-lite?
Characters to fall for?
A landscape I want to hibernate in with a mountain of books, a time-eluding puppy, and a spare Nick McKenzie* if he's available?
Check, check and goddamn, check.
I'm so happy, I could puke.
Oh, and the heroine is yet another badass perfect specimen of a human who I can't even be mad at for her flawlessness because I love her so damn much!
...
I sound mad but I'm so not mad.
Also.
Also, also, also.
Cooper reminded me of a phenomenon from my childhood that I had wholly forgotten about:
"Grace leaned back on her hands and gazed up at the sky. Long ago she used to lie here in the meadow trying to imagine that the stars were down and the earth beneath her was up and managing, only for a moment, that dizzying certainty that she was going to fall."
I used to do this all the time (usually upside down on an incline).
It used to terrify and thrill me all at once.
Thank you, Donna June Cooper.
For reminding me.
* The men of literature are ruining me.
Evan Cagle's piece for the Bicentennial Herman Melville celebration collection published by John Arcudi:
Ugh, those lines.
.............................................
The Song of Achilles:
...
I'm bleeding internally.
This is the most beautiful love story.
It's doomed from its infancy, without even a shred of hope and I ached my way through each wretched second of it.
Because how could I not?
How could I not follow these two cursed men from their mischievous childhood friendship, to the first tentative brushings of naive love, to their unwavering devotion and loyalty to each other, and finally to their prophesied and pitiless uncoupling?
How could I not?
Strangely, or maybe not strangely, The Song of Achilles and the love story within remind me of a well known and unjustly clichéd passage from the Bible*:
1 Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal. 2 And though I have the gift of prophecy, and can understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have faith, that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 3 And though I give all I possess to the poor, and surrender my body to the flames, [2] but have not love, I gain nothing.
4 Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; 5 does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; 6 does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; 7 bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
8 Love never fails. But whether there are prophecies, they will fail; whether there are tongues, they will cease; whether there is knowledge, it will vanish away. 9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part. 10 But when that which is perfect has come, then that which is in part will be done away.
11 When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 12 For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.
13 And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
- 1 Corinthians 13
(New King James translation)
To me, this encompasses the relationship between the fabled Achilles and the lesser-known Patroclus.
A fierce, untamed love that could not have been stopped by anyone or anything.
Not by vanity.
Not by human folly.
Not by prophecy.
Not by each other.
Not even by the Gods.
It just is and always will be, no matter the cost.
And it ruined me.
There's this heavy, grieving weight squatting on my chest and I can't soothe it.
All I can think about are those loving sighs of sentences I folded the corners of my page for:
"I hoped that you would come."
"Now I know how to make you follow me everywhere."
"I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me."
"Because you're the reason."
"If you have to go, you know I will go with you."
"Tell me where he is."
"My husband."
"I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell, I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world."
"Forgive me."
"I would not care [...] Whatever you became. It would not matter to me. We would be together"
"I have given them enough. I will not give them this."
"Tell me again."
"I will be there."
"He is half of my soul."
"If he is dead, I will not be far behind."
"Bring him back to me."
"It will never be enough."
"Philtatos. [...] Most beloved."
"Do not leave me here without him."
"I am made of memories."
"A C H I L L E S."
"P A T R O C L U S."
* I'm not religious. I'm not arrogant enough to believe in nothing, or wholly in one thing either. I think I'm just waiting for proof. Hard, definitive proof. I do think the Bible can be a beautiful story though. With terrible and wonderful things within. It's how you read them that matters. And the amount of festering, prejudiced-laced excrement you have to wade through to find them.
.............................................
Tv:
My hearrrrrrt.
The original show did nothing for me.
Everything Ricky Gervais is part of does nothing for me.
He's just the absolute worst.
And this stopped me giving America's version of The Office a shot for the longest time.
Thankfully it showed up on Amazon Prime late last year and my sister devoured the full nine seasons with a frightening speed before I could even contemplate watching it.
Her squishy-hearted reaction was reason enough to tell my Gervais-loathing brain to shut the hell up and watch the damn show.
And I did.
And I fell in love immediately.
(Not even kidding, within the first few minutes I was a goner.)
It's hard not to when you're presented with such lovably evil characters (I'm looking at you Jim Halpert).
So, if you're hesitating to watch it, don't.
It's perfect and I miss them all so much already.
There are no words for how much I love these idiots.
If you're not watching by now, get that bullshirt sorted.
Sometimes with a show I love there comes a point where I'm actively willing it to end.
Not because I love it any less but because I don't want them to push it, or ruin it, or it just feels like the right time to round things up.
And that's the case with Grace and Frankie.
Season 5 was a little weaker than the previous four, not hugely, but enough to be noticeable and I just can't see where they can it take from here.
Especially after that little cliff-bomb they fired at us in this season's finale.
Now, if they wanted to do a spin-off with the kids?
I'm so up for that.
So up.
Brianna Hanson is an actual goddess and I would happily watch her shred lesser mortals to pieces with a withering glance.
I just would.
This a re-watch and it won't be my last.
(especially with season two about to hit)
Where did you come from, Phoebe Waller-Bridge?
Truly, where?
You can't be human.
Because what the fuckity fuck does that mean for the rest of us?!
Another re-watch but an accidental one.
They've been showing this in the afternoons on 5STAR and it's like being given a mentally unstable, nostalgia-laced cuddle.
...
And I love it.
I will never not love this show.
And it will never not be John Lithgow's finest hour.
.............................................
Beatriz Rebollo paying homage to The Holy Grail's savage bunny, more formally known as The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog:
My sisters and I quote this movie a frightening amount.
.............................................
Speaking of savages... the fluffmonster returns:
He likes the roof.
He likes to make you follow him around the house while he's on the roof.
...
He's a feral idiot.
And I love him.
“I was made for the library, not the classroom. The classroom was the jail of other people’s interests. The library was open, unending, free.” ― Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me https://t.co/dDAk6nXSYv #quoteoftheday #wednesdaythoughts— Penguin Random House (@penguinrandom) February 6, 2019
.............................................
So soft.
So lovely.
So makes me want to body-swap our hands and hijack his sweet, sweet talent.
* See here, for a better quality image.
.............................................
Janelle Monáe at the 2019 Grammys:
Oh my GOD my eyes and soul and ears have been BLESSED https://t.co/uxlsY5YCAv— Chaz Stein (@Charlotte_Stein) February 11, 2019
...
I am basically Eleanor and Rihanna's calf for this:
I am basically Eleanor and Rihanna's calf for this:
— The Good Place is in the dot of the "i" (@nbcthegoodplace) November 11, 2018
How in the name of fuck did she win not a single award?
HOW?!
She. Made. A. Movie!
...
I call marginalising bullshit.
.............................................
.............................................
Who has two greedy thumbs and preordered this within seconds?
.............................................
Envy of Angels:
(Excuse the excessive filtering. I downloaded a new editing program and got carried away...)
"The first and most unbreakable [rule] is this: Sin du Jour does not, nor will it ever, serve werewolves.
They also don't serve werewolf."
Oh, Matt Wallace.
Where are you?
Seriously.
Where. are. you?
I need to hug your face for creating this screwy little world that I want to lay down in, wait for my body to decompose into something supernatural, and then wait for Sin du Jour to retrieve my corpse and use it for leftovers (I'm so no arrogant enough to think I could be a main course...).
It's that fucking good.
Within the first fifty pages there's a giant praying mantis attack, a rather violent supernatural initiation and a severed fucking arm:
"Something weighty hits Darren in the chest, breaking him loose of the paralysis.
He immediately and instinctively hugs his arms against his chest, catching and holding the object that just collided with it.
It is soft.
It is warm.
It is hairy.
It is dripping.
Darren looks down.
It is Ritter's severed arm."
The delivery of those lines alone is enough to make me swear fealty to the King of unruffled weird that is Matt Wallace.
But it gets better.
And weirder.
(With a captured angel eating a cupcake at one bizarrely heartwarming point - you won't even believe what angel tastes like.)
And funnier:
"There are groups . . . races . . . of folks you'd only know from stories. They exist, they ain't from stories, and they live and work and . . . they're just folks, here, among us. Government knows about it, keeps it under wraps. They negotiate with 'em to keep the secret, keep the peace. It's like a diplomatic agency. It's just one you don't hear about, because that's the whole point. We contract with them."
"And demons—"
"Are one of those groups."
"Like, from Hell?"
"Sometimes. And sometimes from Park Avenue."
Be still my sass-relishing, weirdly-hungry-now, fantasy-loving heart.
It's a full series.
One book for each sin.
...
A little safety warning: If clowns freak you out. If zombies freak you out. If zombie clowns put the fear of holy fuck into you then... read Envy of Angels anyway, it's worth the trauma! Trust me...
.............................................
As I said to my sister...
"I WANT THEM ALL!"
"I WANT THEM ALL!"
.............................................
I've seen a fair few gallbladders (cats are sickos; tiny, fluffy Jack the Rippers) and they've never been this cute:
.............................................
Emily made me watch this.
Emily.
Not my sister.
I'll call her that again when I forgive her for PUNCHING A HOLE IN MY HEART!:
I'm ugly crying.
It's awful.
.............................................
.............................................
Brittin Oakman by way of iheartintelligence:
What would I do without strangers using words to soothe my internal struggles?
.............................................
Brittin Oakman by way of iheartintelligence:
What would I do without strangers using words to soothe my internal struggles?
.............................................
.............................................
When I saw this for the first time my heart kind of went "WHOOMF".
It's so beautiful and I want one.
It's so beautiful and I want one.
.............................................
Kangaroo Words:
Kangaroo Words:
A 'kangaroo word' is a word that contains the letters of a related synonym inside it, such as BLOssOM, cHickEN or hoNOuraBLE.— Quite Interesting (@qikipedia) February 22, 2019
I didn't know these existed.
...
I feel so warm inside.
.............................................
I'll just be sitting here quietly.
Preparing myself for some kinky fuckery.
.............................................
As a rule, I couldn't give a fuck about the Oscars because, well, y'know, but this is Olly Colly and she bloody well deserves it:
How do the British end speeches?
By blowing raspberries and fawning over magical ladies.
Yup.
I love her.
I love her so damn much.
Also, Emma Stone losing her mind over the win is almost as precious as the above mentioned blowing of raspberries:
How do the British end speeches?
By blowing raspberries and fawning over magical ladies.
Yup.
I love her.
I love her so damn much.
Also, Emma Stone losing her mind over the win is almost as precious as the above mentioned blowing of raspberries:
And then there's this motherfucker just lowkey ruining us for all other men:
When will this end, Evans?!
that Evan Cagle piece reminds me of Nicolas Delort's work, whomst'd've been appreciating. it's pretty freaking great:
http://www.nicolasdelort.com/
http://nicolasdelort.tumblr.com/
especially
http://www.nicolasdelort.com/fullsize/endoftheroad.jpg
http://www.nicolasdelort.com/fullsize/crash.jpg
http://www.nicolasdelort.com/fullsize/wonder.jpg
it's so good it makes me feel bad
Oh, I know him, I know him well.
...
Which means I curse his name on the regular because goddamnit, how the fuckity fuck does he do this? Is it sorcery? It must be sorcery 0_0
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