Things I enjoyed in the month of May:
Kristen Ashley's, The Golden Dynasty:
And I know the difference.
That's why I'm allowing myself this book.
This lovely, dubious, heart-melty, violent-as-fuck-although-i've-totally-read-way-gorier book.
...
It also helps that I was and remain furious that they got rid of my beloved Drogo so quickly in GoT and I now possess a story that gives me the HEA my ship and I so very much deserved.
...
Suck it, Martin.
Suuuuuuck it.
Bonus Charlie-being-a-nuisance behaviour:
Kristen Ashley's, The Golden Dynasty:
I...
It's just...
Hmm...
Well...
Uhm...
But...
....
Fuck it.
This is a very problematic book but I'm letting myself have it.
Flaws and all.
Because I love Kristen Ashley, and I love Fantasyland, and it's fucking fiction.
If I can't gag my moral code whilst reading, essentially, Dany Targaryen and Khal Drogo smut-laced fanfiction, then when the hell can I?!
...
Does this make me morally bankrupt?
Maybe.
Does this mean I would ever let the behaviour that irked me in this story happen to me in real life?
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
(At least I'd hope not. You always aspire to do your best but people are fallible and shit happens. Being human is really fucking hard)
But again, it's fiction and more specifically, it's Fantasy.
My moral code has been bathed in blood since I picked up my first novel and it's only getting more saturated.
But isn't that what stories are for?
Losing ourselves in things we wouldn't accept in real life?
Experiencing unspeakable acts we truly would only want to read about, not actually feel.
It's knowing the difference.
The difference between enjoying a story with questionable morality, and not seeing the question full stop.And I know the difference.
That's why I'm allowing myself this book.
This lovely, dubious, heart-melty, violent-as-fuck-although-i've-totally-read-way-gorier book.
...
It also helps that I was and remain furious that they got rid of my beloved Drogo so quickly in GoT and I now possess a story that gives me the HEA my ship and I so very much deserved.
...
Suck it, Martin.
Suuuuuuck it.
Bonus Charlie-being-a-nuisance behaviour:
(Whenever I video the little fucker, he never does any of his usual cute-but-evil shit; it's like he knows...)
He likes to be involved.
And then totally not involved at all.
But a constant, lurking threat to my ankles while I try and take a goddamn photo.
...
My cat is the worst but... look how fluffy!
(Somebody take the photo vibrancy tool away from me. The leaves look radioactive...)
.............................................
My favourite thing: Soft
.............................................
Oh. My:
A terror in Paris! My variant cover for Buffy The Vampire Slayer #6 will be out this July 🦇🌙 (thank you to @ghgronen and @J9Schaefer ~) pic.twitter.com/MleKkxBrOy— Alexa Sharpe (@alexasharpe_art) April 25, 2019
...
Oh, and then there's this beautiful fucking nonsense courtesy of Evan Cagle:
And Wada's back at it too!:
I can't quite handle how much I'm into this look on Sir Broodsalot.
The amount of Buffy love I've witnessed over the past few months has got me all like...
.............................................
Gunmetal Magic:
SQUISH
SQUISH
SQUISH
...
That's the sound of my heart being doused in ALL. THE. FEELS.
...
Fucking hell, Team Andrews.
Fuck, fuck, fucking hell!
SQUISH
SQUISH
SQUISH
...
That's the sound of my heart being doused in ALL. THE. FEELS.
...
Fucking hell, Team Andrews.
Fuck, fuck, fucking hell!
I was not prepared.
So not prepared.
How do you do this to me every damn time?
Is it sorcery?
You already gave me one couple to ship with all my halfwit heart and then you throw another one at me?
And you use my favourite trope: hate-flirting.
"You still have that invitation to Anapa's birthday bash tonight?"
"Yes."
"Is the invitation for you and a friend?"
"Yes."
"I need to be that friend."
Raphael paused. "You like Anapa for the murders?"
"Possibly. I tried his office. They wouldn't let me through the door. He's got a bulldog in a business suit on staff and she didn't buy my sweet smile."
"You mean you showed her your guns and she didn't faint?"
Ha-ha-ha. "No, honey, you're the only one who does that."
"As I recall, it was usually the other way around."
"I've seen plenty of guns. You have a nice one, but it didn't make me faint."
"That's what you say now."
"Raphael, I don't own this phone. Don't make me break it, because I just gave up my last ten bucks to use it."
His voice was sweet as honey. "Darling, do you need me to loan you some money?"
"I have never in my life needed you to loan me money. If I was dead, and the ferryman needed a coin to take me across the river to the afterlife, and you had the only quarter in existence, I'd tell you to stick it up your ass."
People looked at me. This wasn't going well.
"Andrea . . ."
"The next words out of your mouth better be work-related or I'll drive to your office and shoot you in the gut. Repeatedly."
"Why in the gut?"
"Because it's painful and not life threatening." He was a shapeshifter; he'd heal the bullet wounds.
He laughed. He actually laughed at me on the phone. My head was about to explode.
And you write an involving, gods-filled, blood-soaked mystery for the hate-flirters to solve and shower me with all the wondrous, poison-tongued,foreplay dialogue.
Oh, and just for good measure, a female character who I already loved but now looooooooooove because she takes absolutely no shit, can fuck you up with a glance (her claws are pretty damn effective as well, though)...
I looked at him. "Jeff Cooper, I presume?"
"That's right. You degenerates think you can just come here and push people around." He stabbed his finger into my chest.
The three boudas went from chastised to baring their teeth in a blink.
"Don't put your hand on me again," I said.
He poked his finger into my chest again. "Well, I have something to tell you: don't let the sun set on you in this country, because . . ."
I grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, tripping him with my foot. He went down back first and I caught him by his throat, three feet above the ground, lifted him up a bit and bent down to his face. My eyes glowed with murderous red. "Listen well, because I won't be repeating myself, you racist prick. If you make any trouble for me or my people, I'll hunt you down like the pig you are and carve a second mouth across your gut. They'll find you hanging by your own intestines. The next time you hear something laugh and howl in the night, hug your family, because you won't see the sunrise."
I opened my fingers. He crashed on the ground, his face white as a sheet. He scrambled backward, rolled to his feet, and took off.
The three shapeshifters stared at me, openmouthed.
"That's how you intimidate people. No witnesses and not a mark on him. Get your asses to the car."
...is so vulnerable it makes me ache for her...
I crumpled down on the ground and cried. I'd learned not to cry back then, because the more I cried, the more excited they would get, but I would cry now. Nobody would stop me, and so I sat there and let it all pour out, while Raphael held me and whispered calm, loving nonsense into my ears.
...and she's damn smart without being an asshole.
...
And cuttingly funny.
...
And kind.
...
And I want to squish her face.
And...
And...
...
FUCK!
SO not prepared.
My heart is so fucked by this series and goddamn, I'm loving every second of it.
It is the first time in the Kate Daniels series that I've been furious with a main character, though.
There's a scene (Chapter 3) that made my heart pound.
Actually, physically pound.
No metaphorical pounding, here.
Nuh uh.
Honest to the gods, palpitations.
(I'm still in fucking awe of how literature can do that; it's bonkers)
And why was my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest, Alien-style?
...
Because I. was. livid.
L I V I D.
I think Raphael Medrano broke my brain with these three fucking vicious words:
"She's not you."
...
L I V I D
Sure, it all came good in the end because there was a reason my silly were-hyena was acting like a thundering twat-weasel, but oh boy!
Oh boy, oh boy.
I'm still furious with him.
But in that "I get it, my precious shifter marshmallow; you were hurting and your girl was equally as much of a dick-hole but if you do it again, I'll have the Beast Lord and his Consort fashion your man-parts into a fleshy chandelier" way.
...
It's lucky that Team Andrews fed me all the squishy goodness to counteract my fury because otherwise I might've started breaking shit:
"You matter to me." Raphael said. "You always did, and not because you were a knight or a shapeshifter [...] I don't want to play anymore," he said. "I love you."
"I love you. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I was an ass . . ."
"I'll fight him. I'll fight him with everything I have, but if it comes to that, whatever I do once he takes me over, whatever I say, it's not me." I whispered, my voice so quiet, I wasn't sure he heard it. "No matter what happens, I love you. You will always be my mate. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry we ran out of time."
Raphael squeezed me, pressing me to him. "You listen to me." His whisper was a fierce promise. "He won't have you. We will kill him together. Trust me. I won't let go."
I'm starting to wonder just how many times fictional characters can turn me into a blubbering puddle of oestrogen.
I'm hoping for many.
Lots.
Never-ending
Infinite!
...
Ahh, the spoils of loving literature and being an emotional flight risk.
Throw in some quality ride-or-die-bitch time with my favourite supernatural besties and I'm a fucking wreck:
I patted my horse's neck. Her name was Sugar and she had come from the Keep stables. She was a Tennessee Walker, smart and calm, with high endurance. I liked her color too—she was a red roan of such a pale gentle shade, she almost looked pink.
Kate smirked.
"What?"
"Your horse looks pink."
"So?"
"If you paste some stars on her butt, you'll be riding My Little Pony."
"Bugger off." I patted the mare's neck. "Don't listen to her, Sugar. You are the cutest horsey ever. The correct name for her color is strawberry roan, by the way."
"Strawberry Shortcake, more like it. Does Strawberry Shortcake know you stole her horse? She will be berry, berry angry with you."
I looked at her from under half-lowered eyelids. "I can shoot you right here, on this road, and nobody will ever find your body."
Behind us Ascanio chortled.
They give me the happy sighs.
...
Who am I kidding? The whole bloody thing gives me the happy sighs.
So not prepared.
How do you do this to me every damn time?
Is it sorcery?
You already gave me one couple to ship with all my halfwit heart and then you throw another one at me?
And you use my favourite trope: hate-flirting.
"You still have that invitation to Anapa's birthday bash tonight?"
"Yes."
"Is the invitation for you and a friend?"
"Yes."
"I need to be that friend."
Raphael paused. "You like Anapa for the murders?"
"Possibly. I tried his office. They wouldn't let me through the door. He's got a bulldog in a business suit on staff and she didn't buy my sweet smile."
"You mean you showed her your guns and she didn't faint?"
Ha-ha-ha. "No, honey, you're the only one who does that."
"As I recall, it was usually the other way around."
"I've seen plenty of guns. You have a nice one, but it didn't make me faint."
"That's what you say now."
"Raphael, I don't own this phone. Don't make me break it, because I just gave up my last ten bucks to use it."
His voice was sweet as honey. "Darling, do you need me to loan you some money?"
"I have never in my life needed you to loan me money. If I was dead, and the ferryman needed a coin to take me across the river to the afterlife, and you had the only quarter in existence, I'd tell you to stick it up your ass."
People looked at me. This wasn't going well.
"Andrea . . ."
"The next words out of your mouth better be work-related or I'll drive to your office and shoot you in the gut. Repeatedly."
"Why in the gut?"
"Because it's painful and not life threatening." He was a shapeshifter; he'd heal the bullet wounds.
He laughed. He actually laughed at me on the phone. My head was about to explode.
And you write an involving, gods-filled, blood-soaked mystery for the hate-flirters to solve and shower me with all the wondrous, poison-tongued,
Oh, and just for good measure, a female character who I already loved but now looooooooooove because she takes absolutely no shit, can fuck you up with a glance (her claws are pretty damn effective as well, though)...
I looked at him. "Jeff Cooper, I presume?"
"That's right. You degenerates think you can just come here and push people around." He stabbed his finger into my chest.
The three boudas went from chastised to baring their teeth in a blink.
"Don't put your hand on me again," I said.
He poked his finger into my chest again. "Well, I have something to tell you: don't let the sun set on you in this country, because . . ."
I grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, tripping him with my foot. He went down back first and I caught him by his throat, three feet above the ground, lifted him up a bit and bent down to his face. My eyes glowed with murderous red. "Listen well, because I won't be repeating myself, you racist prick. If you make any trouble for me or my people, I'll hunt you down like the pig you are and carve a second mouth across your gut. They'll find you hanging by your own intestines. The next time you hear something laugh and howl in the night, hug your family, because you won't see the sunrise."
I opened my fingers. He crashed on the ground, his face white as a sheet. He scrambled backward, rolled to his feet, and took off.
The three shapeshifters stared at me, openmouthed.
"That's how you intimidate people. No witnesses and not a mark on him. Get your asses to the car."
...is so vulnerable it makes me ache for her...
I crumpled down on the ground and cried. I'd learned not to cry back then, because the more I cried, the more excited they would get, but I would cry now. Nobody would stop me, and so I sat there and let it all pour out, while Raphael held me and whispered calm, loving nonsense into my ears.
...and she's damn smart without being an asshole.
...
And cuttingly funny.
...
And kind.
...
And I want to squish her face.
And...
And...
...
FUCK!
SO not prepared.
My heart is so fucked by this series and goddamn, I'm loving every second of it.
It is the first time in the Kate Daniels series that I've been furious with a main character, though.
There's a scene (Chapter 3) that made my heart pound.
Actually, physically pound.
No metaphorical pounding, here.
Nuh uh.
Honest to the gods, palpitations.
(I'm still in fucking awe of how literature can do that; it's bonkers)
And why was my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest, Alien-style?
...
Because I. was. livid.
L I V I D.
I think Raphael Medrano broke my brain with these three fucking vicious words:
"She's not you."
...
L I V I D
Sure, it all came good in the end because there was a reason my silly were-hyena was acting like a thundering twat-weasel, but oh boy!
Oh boy, oh boy.
I'm still furious with him.
But in that "I get it, my precious shifter marshmallow; you were hurting and your girl was equally as much of a dick-hole but if you do it again, I'll have the Beast Lord and his Consort fashion your man-parts into a fleshy chandelier" way.
...
It's lucky that Team Andrews fed me all the squishy goodness to counteract my fury because otherwise I might've started breaking shit:
"You matter to me." Raphael said. "You always did, and not because you were a knight or a shapeshifter [...] I don't want to play anymore," he said. "I love you."
"I love you. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I was an ass . . ."
"I'll fight him. I'll fight him with everything I have, but if it comes to that, whatever I do once he takes me over, whatever I say, it's not me." I whispered, my voice so quiet, I wasn't sure he heard it. "No matter what happens, I love you. You will always be my mate. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry we ran out of time."
Raphael squeezed me, pressing me to him. "You listen to me." His whisper was a fierce promise. "He won't have you. We will kill him together. Trust me. I won't let go."
I'm starting to wonder just how many times fictional characters can turn me into a blubbering puddle of oestrogen.
I'm hoping for many.
Lots.
Never-ending
Infinite!
...
Ahh, the spoils of loving literature and being an emotional flight risk.
Throw in some quality ride-or-die-bitch time with my favourite supernatural besties and I'm a fucking wreck:
I patted my horse's neck. Her name was Sugar and she had come from the Keep stables. She was a Tennessee Walker, smart and calm, with high endurance. I liked her color too—she was a red roan of such a pale gentle shade, she almost looked pink.
Kate smirked.
"What?"
"Your horse looks pink."
"So?"
"If you paste some stars on her butt, you'll be riding My Little Pony."
"Bugger off." I patted the mare's neck. "Don't listen to her, Sugar. You are the cutest horsey ever. The correct name for her color is strawberry roan, by the way."
"Strawberry Shortcake, more like it. Does Strawberry Shortcake know you stole her horse? She will be berry, berry angry with you."
I looked at her from under half-lowered eyelids. "I can shoot you right here, on this road, and nobody will ever find your body."
Behind us Ascanio chortled.
They give me the happy sighs.
...
Who am I kidding? The whole bloody thing gives me the happy sighs.
.............................................
Movies:
The Edge of Seventeen
(Even if this wasn't good, I'd still be here for Woody Harrelson as a fuckhead educator with zero tolerance for teenage bullshit. It's so beautiful...)
Someone Great
(A situation where Jane the Virgin doesn't make rage aggressively seep from my pores? Weird)
The Miseducation of Cameron Post
(perfect and terrifying)
Lady Chatterley's Lover
(I did actually really enjoy this but mostly... damn, Richard Madden. Damn, damn, damn)
Me Without You
(Seventy billionth rewatch and I still fucking love it)
The Dirt
(The epitome of "young, dumb and full of cum")
Donnie Darko
(Can I tell you how many times I've watched this? Nope. Can I tell you it's still one the finest fucking movies of all time with one of the all-time best movie scores/soundtracks ever made? ... Don't ask stupid fucking questions)
(The first hour of this was... unnerving. Somehow they managed to nail that very specific brand of fear only experienced in the woods. You know the one. Where you anthropomorphise everything and end up in the foetal position hoping Pan doesn't eat your heart for elevenses? Good stuff, lots of fun, endured a fair amount of it myself in uni when I did this project. Don't go into the woods alone, it's just fucking stupid. Anyway... they ruined it by showing the monster. Rule #1 of Monster Movies: Never show the fucking monster)
And some pretty epic tv:
Glitch
(Every sentient, non-flesh-eating zombie show will always be held up against the best sentient, non-flesh-eating zombie show ever made: Les Revenants; and... this one held up pretty well. Also we're getting a third season because, hello, oh-so-many-unfinished-storylines!)
The Umbrella Academy
(When people talk about their "aesthetic", it makes me want to shave their designer stubble into squirrel patterns and poke breadsticks into their artfully dishevelled buns, but... The Umbrella Academy is so my aesthetic *shudder* I kind of want to punch myself in the face? ... Okay, I'm ready for my bread-sticking; bring on the yeast)
Schitt's Creek: season 5
(My heart... I genuinely think the Levy's are trying to kill me with this show)
Forever
(Such a weird little show. Did I like it? Did I not like it? What the fuck was it even about? ... You can't see but I'm shrugging helplessly at you)
.............................................
Seeing the realities of what it means to be "female" in art is nothing new (just look at Jenny Saville) but it's something I've noticed an increase in.
(Not surprising with women's voices being so damn strong right now)
And I appreciate it.
I love looking at it.
It's confronting and honest and not pretty.
Being female isn't pretty.
At least not all the time.
And for years there's been a standard.
An unliveable standard that no women can truly achieve.
To look a certain way (perfect body, skin like a fucking newborn, flawless hair, eyes of an anime character, fuckable mouth, absolutely no body hair - god forbid).
To act a certain way (meek, obedient, confident but not aggressive, never loud - "what's a curse word?", submissive, smart but not too smart, a madonna, not a whore - whatever the fuck that means, anyway).
Essentially, to be a pretty Stepford wife who'll make you cookies and fuck like an animal in private.
...
Yeah, okay, sure but y'know... fuck off?
Women are loud.
They are bitchy.
They are sexual.
They are lazy.
Dirty.
Unkempt.
Hairy.
Capable.
Foulmouthed.
AND
They are shy
Insecure
Kind
Unconfident
Small
Flawed
Powerful
Weak
Soft
Hard
We bleed ... from our vaginas *pause for cries of disgust*.
We cry.
We scream.
And we're done hiding these things because they're deemed "unfeminine".
Completely fucking done.
And that image up there.
That aggressively female image is champion to some of the many aspects of what femininity really is.
And I fucking love it.
To quote another kickass female artist:
.............................................
Tran Nguyen's cover for Elizabeth Lim's, Spin the Dawn:
.............................................
My favourite thing about The Sad Ghost Club's mission to raise mental health awareness is that they don't try to make it pretty:
They tell it like it is.
That it's exhausting.
That it hurts beyond measure.
That it makes you feel so very ashamed, even when you're pleading with yourself that there's nothing to be ashamed about.
They don't solely behave like cheerleaders trying to buoy the depressed up.
And it may seem counterintuitive but it's actually an extremely necessary part of addressing and surviving mental illness.
One of the most debilitating parts of depression is the loneliness and the isolation, and The Sad Ghost Club's comics let you know that you aren't the only one who feels these awful, numbing, frightening things.
You're not alone.
You're not okay.
But you're not alone.
Yet another reason why art is wonderful.
And why art is needed.
They tell it like it is.
That it's exhausting.
That it hurts beyond measure.
That it makes you feel so very ashamed, even when you're pleading with yourself that there's nothing to be ashamed about.
They don't solely behave like cheerleaders trying to buoy the depressed up.
And it may seem counterintuitive but it's actually an extremely necessary part of addressing and surviving mental illness.
One of the most debilitating parts of depression is the loneliness and the isolation, and The Sad Ghost Club's comics let you know that you aren't the only one who feels these awful, numbing, frightening things.
You're not alone.
You're not okay.
But you're not alone.
Yet another reason why art is wonderful.
And why art is needed.
.............................................
Celaena pushed back the covers, sugar spraying into the air. "Have a candy, Philippa."
"It's seven in the morning." Philippa swept the sugar into her cupped palm. "You'll make yourself sick."
"Sick? Who can get sick from candy?" Celaena made a face and exposed her crimson teeth.
"You look like a demon," said Philippa. "Just don't open your mouth and no one will notice."
"You and I both know that's not possible."
This was a strange one for me.
If you were to ask me what my favourite Fantasy series is, my fairly pretentious but wholly truthful answer would probably be the Gormenghast Tetralogy.
I love it, it's unearthly writing, it feels like somewhere I've been.
...
If you were to ask me what my actual favourite Fantasy series is, it'd be Sarah J. Maas', A Court of Thorns and Roses Trilogy (to be continued with my beloved Nessian at the forefront for the new standalone in the series ... Yay!).
I love it, it's unearthly writing, it feels like somewhere I've been.
These characters mean the fucking world to me and reading the trilogy tore my goddamn heart apart.
...
And it was wonderful.
Oh, so damn wonderful.
I'll fight anyone who tries to take it from me.
Not kidding. I will bite you. There will be blood and probably some retching because y'know, blood...
So, to finally start Maas' debut series and find myself in a state of "I don't love this. Why don't I love this? Have I broken my brain? WHAT. IS. HAPPENING?!" was, to the say the least, a bit fucking distressing?
It's not that Throne of Glass is a bad book.
It's not.
It's a good book.
It's just a very YA book.
Which is also not a bad thing.
YA can be awesome.
But I started my mildly obsessive love affair with Maas' writing with her second series, written three years after ToG came out, and apparently when the more NA themes came to the forefront in her writing.
(I've been assured that the fourth book in the ToG series - released the same year as ACoTaR - is when it turns from YA to NA; bring on the smut)
And maybe I'm wrong because I haven't read more of the ToG series yet but ACoTaR just seems to be when Maas hit her stride, found her voice, nailed it the fuck down.
Which is where I selfishly love her best.
She even did the impossible in that series, of giving me a love triangle and it not making me heave, roll my eyes and curse like a Nega-Muppet simultaneously.
She, in fact, made me love that messy thrupple, revel in it's demise because Tamlin the Tool is the worst and gifted me my favourite couple of all literary time (yes, fuck off, I know there's better but tell that to my Fae-loving heart! ... Also, don't tell Kate and Curran I'm cheating on them ... or Damen and Laurent ... or Idilko and Brishen ... or Simon and Baz ... or Callie and Desmond ... just don't fucking tell!).
So, I have hope, SO much hope, that if I keep reading, keep trusting in Maas, keep getting to know these characters, I will fall as much in love with her debut series as I did her sophomore.
I mean, there's no other choice, right?
She's my High fucking Lady and she can do no wrong.
Right?!
...
Fuck, this is gonna hurt so bad if I'm wrong...
Fuck it.
Anyway.
Yay! for finally starting the ToG series.
I've been side-eyeing it for years and reluctant to start because my brain is an obstreperous twat who can't read more than one series by an author at a time for some wholly inexplicable reason.
Why you gotta be so weird, brain?
Why?
.............................................
(I'm going to need a minute with these two...)
(Technically not part of a Mermay but... it's awesome, so fuck it)
(also not part of Mermay and it wasn't even posted in May but fuck it, it's James Jean and just look at it. Reason enough, yeah?)
.............................................
Word of the Day:
I had no idea "museum" came from "muse" and it makes so much fucking sense that I feel like a complete moron for not knowing.
...
English, you tricksy bastard.
English, you tricksy bastard.
.............................................
I thought they were paintings at first.
I still can't quite process that they aren't paintings.
But look, proof:
Ridiculous.
Beautiful.
More of this sorcery, please.
I still can't quite process that they aren't paintings.
But look, proof:
Ridiculous.
Beautiful.
More of this sorcery, please.
.............................................
Lessons by Ilona:
Go, here for the full tweet.
Read from start to finish.
It won't make sense otherwise.
...
Thank fuck for authors who can address criticism of their work with intelligence and grace (and that beloved edge of sass).
And in this case an old school smackdown of ignorance and judgement.
I love my authors.
I love them so hard.
They make me pay attention.
They make me smarter.
Let's examine Science Fiction of the 60's. Babel-17, exploration of free will and condemnation of propaganda. The Ship Who Sang, exploration of what it is to be human in light of disability. The Man in High Castle. Solaris. 2001 Space Odyssey.— Ilona Andrews Blog Feed (@ilona_andrews) May 9, 2019
Go, here for the full tweet.
Read from start to finish.
It won't make sense otherwise.
...
Thank fuck for authors who can address criticism of their work with intelligence and grace (and that beloved edge of sass).
And in this case an old school smackdown of ignorance and judgement.
I love my authors.
I love them so hard.
They make me pay attention.
They make me smarter.
.............................................
Damn... :
If you are wondering why Bill Nye (@BillNye) is trending. WATCH. pic.twitter.com/B2MEFgkZW8— Karine Jean-Pierre (@K_JeanPierre) May 13, 2019
.............................................
Well, this is just uncalled for:
Welp. I'm crying on a Saturday morning. How are you guys? https://t.co/k4THJBMr1T— Leigh Bardugo (@LBardugo) May 25, 2019
...
.............................................
The newly passed abortion law in Georgia makes me sick on so many levels but as always, as beautifully always, women are coming to my rescue:
"Abortion access saves lives"— Renée Yoxon (@reneeyoxon) May 11, 2019
Strongly worded. Gender neutral. You're welcome.
You can’t take organs from a corpse without the deceased’s written permission, even if it will save lives.— Jennifer Wright (@JenAshleyWright) May 11, 2019
When you outlaw abortion, you’re allowing women less bodily autonomy than the dead.
It’s interesting that removing a fetus that may potentially kill the mother is considered murder, but forcing the mother to carry the deadly fetus to term and lay down her life to birth it is not. #abortion #prochoice #prolife #abortionrights #BoycottAlabama #BoycottGeorgia— Hands always dirty. 🌸🦄 🏳️🌈 (@RayneMillaray) May 15, 2019
— Saturday Night Live - SNL (@nbcsnl) May 19, 2019
Visit The Yellowhammer Fund to donate and help fund women's right to their own bodies.
...
Even having to write that feels barbaric.
It's mine.
Entirely, completely, unquestionably fucking mine.
And no one tells me what to do with it.
No one.
.............................................
.............................................
Naomi Alderman's, The Power:
"The shape of power is always the same: it is infinite, it is complex, it is forever branching. While it is alive like a tree, it is growing; while it contains itself, it is a multitude. Its directions are unpredictable; it obeys its own laws. No one can observe the acorn and extrapolate each vein in each leaf of the oak crown. The closer you look, the more various it becomes. However complex you think it is, it is more complex than that. Like the rivers to the ocean, like the lightning strike, it is obscene and uncontained."
It's taken me days to formulate my thoughts on this.
And I don't think I've even gotten close to the root of them.
But... here goes nothing, or maybe everything:
"The shape of power is always the same: it is infinite, it is complex, it is forever branching. While it is alive like a tree, it is growing; while it contains itself, it is a multitude. Its directions are unpredictable; it obeys its own laws. No one can observe the acorn and extrapolate each vein in each leaf of the oak crown. The closer you look, the more various it becomes. However complex you think it is, it is more complex than that. Like the rivers to the ocean, like the lightning strike, it is obscene and uncontained."
It's taken me days to formulate my thoughts on this.
And I don't think I've even gotten close to the root of them.
But... here goes nothing, or maybe everything:
If you've been on the internet lately, or are in any shape or form... alive, then you will have come across the hashtag #NotAllMen.
It's a fascinating phrase, wielded as a weapon by men whenever women use their voices to call out toxic male behaviour.
...
It's not an unfair statement.
It's just not a necessary statement.
Of course not all men.
Just like not all women.
(It genuinely frightens me how many women aren't on their own sex's side)
We know this.
We're not ignorant.
And we're entirely aware.
More aware than you'll ever comprehend because it's such a demanding part of our lives to divine whether a man will hurt us - physically, mentally, emotionally, or whether he'll stand with us - physically, mentally, emotionally.
That's every single day for a woman.
We don't need to be told that not all men are toxic.
We already know.
And it isn't helpful.
It isn't furthering our cause for our basic human rights.
If anything, it distracts from the conversation, from moving us forward.
It makes it about men.
It makes it about how men feel instead of how a woman feels about her own degradation.
If a man truly believes he would never treat a woman as a lesser mortal, then their reaction shouldn't be to defend their own sex first.
It should be to listen, take in what women are saying, see how deeply wrong it is, because it is wrong, and help us equalise the sexes.
Not take them down or make them feel how we have for millennia.
That isn't what we want.
This isn't misandry.
Never misandry.
Only equality.
And if you are a "well-meaning" man and you can't see that, then I'm sorry, but you are part of the problem.
(A more in depth article can be found, here about the #NotAllMen hashtag)
I think this is why The Power is such a, well, powerful book.
The idea of a latent power with the ability to, in this case, physically fight back against men being woken in women is fascinating.
Because all of a sudden, #NotAllMen becomes #NotAllWomen.
"Gender is a shell game. What is a man? Whatever a woman isn't. What is a woman? Whatever a man is not. Tap on it and it's hollow. Look under the shells: it's not there."
There's a reason this book is called The Power and not The Power of Women, because really, it's about human nature and from our history, when we are given even a modicum of power we abuse it.
Take Britain, for example.
We are a tiny island but at one point we were formidable and we committed some of the world's greatest atrocities.
Atrocities the effects of can still be seen today.
And it was because we had power.
And because we could.
Humans; we're mostly horrible.
And I'd like to say that my gender wouldn't behave this way, especially because historically we've been on the receiving end but... #NotAllWomen.
#NotAllHumans.
It's hard to escape from because it's true.
It doesn't help.
It doesn't change anything.
But it remains unflinchingly true.
And this is what Alderman explores in The Power.
What would an entire sex do if they could turn the tables on their oppressors?
"A dozen women turned into a hundred. A hundred into a thousand. [...] They understood their strength, all at once."
Everyone knows the answer.
And it's fucking horrifying.
But I think, for me, what was the most revelatory and comforting in this whole idea of role reversal was when Alderman wrote about men experiencing firsthand the shame and fear forced on women on a daily basis.
From passing comments by "well-meaners", to rape.
Because I didn't feel vindication.
My wounds didn't feel soothed.
I didn't feel like they deserved to feel my pain just because they inflicted it.
I didn't want them to feel any of it.
Because no one, no gender, no living thing deserves to feel the way I and billions of other women do.
It's unjust.
It's cruel.
It's inhumane.
And that's why this is a brave and, yup, gonna say it again, powerful book.
It's not holding women up as the better sex.
It's not saying that if we had the upper hand we'd live in a utopian society.
It's not saying we'd do any. bloody. better.
It's saying power is dangerous, and seductive, and it doesn't matter who wields it.
It only matters how you wield it.
It's a fascinating phrase, wielded as a weapon by men whenever women use their voices to call out toxic male behaviour.
...
It's not an unfair statement.
It's just not a necessary statement.
Of course not all men.
Just like not all women.
(It genuinely frightens me how many women aren't on their own sex's side)
We know this.
We're not ignorant.
And we're entirely aware.
More aware than you'll ever comprehend because it's such a demanding part of our lives to divine whether a man will hurt us - physically, mentally, emotionally, or whether he'll stand with us - physically, mentally, emotionally.
That's every single day for a woman.
We don't need to be told that not all men are toxic.
We already know.
And it isn't helpful.
It isn't furthering our cause for our basic human rights.
If anything, it distracts from the conversation, from moving us forward.
It makes it about men.
It makes it about how men feel instead of how a woman feels about her own degradation.
If a man truly believes he would never treat a woman as a lesser mortal, then their reaction shouldn't be to defend their own sex first.
It should be to listen, take in what women are saying, see how deeply wrong it is, because it is wrong, and help us equalise the sexes.
Not take them down or make them feel how we have for millennia.
That isn't what we want.
This isn't misandry.
Never misandry.
Only equality.
And if you are a "well-meaning" man and you can't see that, then I'm sorry, but you are part of the problem.
(A more in depth article can be found, here about the #NotAllMen hashtag)
I think this is why The Power is such a, well, powerful book.
The idea of a latent power with the ability to, in this case, physically fight back against men being woken in women is fascinating.
Because all of a sudden, #NotAllMen becomes #NotAllWomen.
"Gender is a shell game. What is a man? Whatever a woman isn't. What is a woman? Whatever a man is not. Tap on it and it's hollow. Look under the shells: it's not there."
There's a reason this book is called The Power and not The Power of Women, because really, it's about human nature and from our history, when we are given even a modicum of power we abuse it.
Take Britain, for example.
We are a tiny island but at one point we were formidable and we committed some of the world's greatest atrocities.
Atrocities the effects of can still be seen today.
And it was because we had power.
And because we could.
Humans; we're mostly horrible.
And I'd like to say that my gender wouldn't behave this way, especially because historically we've been on the receiving end but... #NotAllWomen.
#NotAllHumans.
It's hard to escape from because it's true.
It doesn't help.
It doesn't change anything.
But it remains unflinchingly true.
And this is what Alderman explores in The Power.
What would an entire sex do if they could turn the tables on their oppressors?
"A dozen women turned into a hundred. A hundred into a thousand. [...] They understood their strength, all at once."
Everyone knows the answer.
And it's fucking horrifying.
But I think, for me, what was the most revelatory and comforting in this whole idea of role reversal was when Alderman wrote about men experiencing firsthand the shame and fear forced on women on a daily basis.
From passing comments by "well-meaners", to rape.
Because I didn't feel vindication.
My wounds didn't feel soothed.
I didn't feel like they deserved to feel my pain just because they inflicted it.
I didn't want them to feel any of it.
Because no one, no gender, no living thing deserves to feel the way I and billions of other women do.
It's unjust.
It's cruel.
It's inhumane.
And that's why this is a brave and, yup, gonna say it again, powerful book.
It's not holding women up as the better sex.
It's not saying that if we had the upper hand we'd live in a utopian society.
It's not saying we'd do any. bloody. better.
It's saying power is dangerous, and seductive, and it doesn't matter who wields it.
It only matters how you wield it.
.............................................
The baby Snapchat filter freaks me out a little but this?
This is the cutest fucking thing:
This is the cutest fucking thing:
.............................................
Two years of lurking and they're finally mine:
(They're actually lilac, but I got a little filter happy...)
This photo could've starred my ankles alongside Charlie's fangs wrapped around them but he decided a bumblebee was more interesting.
...
Yay? Or should I be offended?
.............................................
Wow.
Just wow.
She's my fucking hero.
Watch this.
If it's the only thing you watch this year, please make it this.
Specifically the last section - you'll know when you see it - because it's... fucking beautiful, excruciatingly painful, and so bloody important.
Especially right now, always, but right now, christ, right now when women are finally being heard after years of screaming our injustices behind muted doors, it's more important than ever.
Hannah Gadsby makes me proud to be female, and human, and aware.
She makes me feel heard and brave and most importantly, not alone.
As I said, she's my fucking hero.
And Nanette is one of the most bravely honest things I've seen in a while.
Emma Thompson described it as Promethean, like Gadbsy was tearing out her liver every night she performed and it's exactly right.
And it's exactly what people need to witness.
Otherwise, how else are we going to stop feeling like this?
.............................................
Another Word of the Day:
Words are just too fucking cool.
My powers of explaining why... not so much.
.............................................
vizerothree:
...
.............................................
Ayishat Akanbi:
I find myself angry a lot of the time.
I was angry in this Monthlies.
Not unjustly.
But it's there.
And I don't like it.
I don't like feeling that way.
And I want to do better.
Be more patient and compassionate, but not indulgent.
It's such a hard line to walk, especially with the amount of toxicity being spewed on a daily basis.
But I'm still learning.
Still willing to learn, which is almost the most integral part.
But I need people like Ayishat Akanbi to keep reminding me.
Because it's so easy to just soak yourself in hate and indignation.
So damn easy.
.............................................
Laura Thalassa's, Dark Harmony:
Goodbyes are so hard.
So fucking hard.
This is the only part of reading I hate.
If I could read about the characters I love forever (with a caveat that the storytelling remains stellar or magically improves... although in all honesty, the writing could go to hell and I'd probably still read it because I'm trash for my fictional loves), I would do it in a heartbeat.
Because letting them go is so damn hard.
I'm going to miss my mischievous Dark Fae babies so much.
What will I do without their mad innuendo bingo skills?
Des keeps his shirt off for the rest of the night, and the entire female population of this place can't handle it.
Seriously, they can't. It's a problem.
"Everyone is looking at you," I say.
Des sits on the bar, drinking straight from a bottle of fancy whiskey. He's really not supposed to be doing either, but when I told him that, he simply said, "Rules are meant to be broken." Then he winked, took a sip of his whiskey, and I spontaneously orgasmed.
Okay, the last one didn't happen, but it was a near thing.
Or their adorably creepy, adolescent behaviour whilst interrogating dumpster fairies?
Des:
"Cherub," Des says, glancing over at me, "I think the man's shy. One moment he wants my attention, the next he's being a coy minx."
I pull my sixth marshmallow from the fire; it's perfectly golden brown.
Success!
"Men give such mixed signals," I say.
I admit it–I like to toy with my targets as much as Des does. That was always one of my favourite parts of the PI business.
Grabbing a bar of Hershey's chocolate and a graham cracker, I pull my marshmallow off its stick.
Get into my belly.
"They do, don't they?" The Bargainer's eyes brighten, enough to let me know that he likes my brand of wicked.
Callie:
I begin to climb off of Typhus's lap, my thoughts racing ahead to sleeping bodies and shadows, when I pause. "Oh, I almost forgot. There was one more thing." I sit back down on the king's lap, cocking my head to the side. He doesn't know it yet, but this is how a bird sizes up a particularly juicy worm.
"How is it you are so strong?" I ask, my skin still glowing, my voice still harmonzing. I'm burning through magic like I'm a sorority girl throwing back tequila shots in Cabo.
"I already told you," he says between gritted teeth, "I am cobound to my subjects."
"How does one ... cobind themselves to another?" I glance over at Des, who's beginning to pose frozen fairies like they're Christmas reindeer, each position a little more compromising than the last.
How can I possibly survive without Callie's wicked sense of humour?
"Where's the pit?" Temper asks, looking around.
"Up ahead ... My Great Goddess of Fuckery and Other Magical Things." He mumbles the last part.
"Speak up," I command.
His eyes shoot daggers at me. "I said, it's up ahead ... Oh Dark Queen Who Thinks I'm a Douchebucket of the Most Epic Proportions."
Temper smirks. "What is your name again?" she asks him.
He curls his lip at her.
"Callie?" Temper says, calling for a little assistance.
"Answer her," I order.
He grinds his teeth. "Galleghar O'Malleghar, King of Asshats, Killer of Boners, Wannabe Emperor Who Needs to Eat a Bag of Dicks and Die."
The titles clearly got a little out of hand.
Or Des' smart mouth?
The Night King rolls his shoulders, as if to shake off my magic. "So, that's how it feels to be glamoured by a siren," he says, the corner of his mouth curving up just the slightest, "like I've been caught by my balls." He comes in close, his smirk growing. "The whole thing was horribly invasive. I rather enjoyed it."
Or their unabashed love of Harry Potter, which I'd totally forgotten about and it just makes me love them more?
"And all that borrowed magic?" Des continues. "The process is called cobinding, and though Typhus made it sound cavalier and impersonal, it’s not like that," Des says.
I stare down at my fae wine. "Then how is it?"
"Remember those horcruxes in Harry Potter?"
I begin to smile in spite of myself. "Are you seriously dropping an HP reference right here, right now?" I ask, glancing over at Des.
"I have your undivided attention, don’t I?"
"And all my love."
I mean, I knew he was soulmate material before, but this pretty much just sealed the deal.
Or how fucking soft they are with each other?
"I've got you."
"That first night I returned to you," he says, "you cannot know what it felt like, lounging on your bed, knowing you slept in it. My mind was a mess." [...] "I've wanted to sleep with you here," he continues, "your body tucked against mine ... Gods, how badly I wanted to insert myself into this life of yours."
"I wanted to wear a piece of you on me always."
"I would've come for you, love."
"Because I love you and this is where you're happiest."
"Until darkness dies."
...
Hooooowwwwww?!
Goddamnit!
Why does it have to be over?
It's like being mutually broken up with.
All bittersweet and fucking awful but entirely inevitable and agreed upon.
Yuck.
I don't like this.
I mean, I'm fucking ecstatic for my ship because:
"I have a secret."
And yes, I'm happy screaming inside.
And I totally know how a series works; endings aren't a surprise, so I shouldn't be pouting internally.
But... but...
.............................................
Crescent City:
...
.............................................
Adela Reaumurella:
More commonly known as the Green Longhorn, or more fucking adorably, the Fairy Moth.
...
FAIRY MOTH.
These little monsters are a new addition to the garden this year and have been swarming around the lilac doing... well, I don't know what they're doing but it's cute as fuck and long may it continue.
Encourage your bugs, people.
Also, look at these majestic motherfuckers:
Another Word of the Day:
Words are just too fucking cool.
My powers of explaining why... not so much.
.............................................
vizerothree:
.............................................
Ayishat Akanbi:
I find myself angry a lot of the time.
I was angry in this Monthlies.
Not unjustly.
But it's there.
And I don't like it.
I don't like feeling that way.
And I want to do better.
Be more patient and compassionate, but not indulgent.
It's such a hard line to walk, especially with the amount of toxicity being spewed on a daily basis.
But I'm still learning.
Still willing to learn, which is almost the most integral part.
But I need people like Ayishat Akanbi to keep reminding me.
Because it's so easy to just soak yourself in hate and indignation.
So damn easy.
.............................................
Laura Thalassa's, Dark Harmony:
So fucking hard.
This is the only part of reading I hate.
If I could read about the characters I love forever (with a caveat that the storytelling remains stellar or magically improves... although in all honesty, the writing could go to hell and I'd probably still read it because I'm trash for my fictional loves), I would do it in a heartbeat.
Because letting them go is so damn hard.
I'm going to miss my mischievous Dark Fae babies so much.
What will I do without their mad innuendo bingo skills?
Des keeps his shirt off for the rest of the night, and the entire female population of this place can't handle it.
Seriously, they can't. It's a problem.
"Everyone is looking at you," I say.
Des sits on the bar, drinking straight from a bottle of fancy whiskey. He's really not supposed to be doing either, but when I told him that, he simply said, "Rules are meant to be broken." Then he winked, took a sip of his whiskey, and I spontaneously orgasmed.
Okay, the last one didn't happen, but it was a near thing.
Or their adorably creepy, adolescent behaviour whilst interrogating dumpster fairies?
Des:
"Cherub," Des says, glancing over at me, "I think the man's shy. One moment he wants my attention, the next he's being a coy minx."
I pull my sixth marshmallow from the fire; it's perfectly golden brown.
Success!
"Men give such mixed signals," I say.
I admit it–I like to toy with my targets as much as Des does. That was always one of my favourite parts of the PI business.
Grabbing a bar of Hershey's chocolate and a graham cracker, I pull my marshmallow off its stick.
Get into my belly.
"They do, don't they?" The Bargainer's eyes brighten, enough to let me know that he likes my brand of wicked.
Callie:
I begin to climb off of Typhus's lap, my thoughts racing ahead to sleeping bodies and shadows, when I pause. "Oh, I almost forgot. There was one more thing." I sit back down on the king's lap, cocking my head to the side. He doesn't know it yet, but this is how a bird sizes up a particularly juicy worm.
"How is it you are so strong?" I ask, my skin still glowing, my voice still harmonzing. I'm burning through magic like I'm a sorority girl throwing back tequila shots in Cabo.
"I already told you," he says between gritted teeth, "I am cobound to my subjects."
"How does one ... cobind themselves to another?" I glance over at Des, who's beginning to pose frozen fairies like they're Christmas reindeer, each position a little more compromising than the last.
How can I possibly survive without Callie's wicked sense of humour?
"Where's the pit?" Temper asks, looking around.
"Up ahead ... My Great Goddess of Fuckery and Other Magical Things." He mumbles the last part.
"Speak up," I command.
His eyes shoot daggers at me. "I said, it's up ahead ... Oh Dark Queen Who Thinks I'm a Douchebucket of the Most Epic Proportions."
Temper smirks. "What is your name again?" she asks him.
He curls his lip at her.
"Callie?" Temper says, calling for a little assistance.
"Answer her," I order.
He grinds his teeth. "Galleghar O'Malleghar, King of Asshats, Killer of Boners, Wannabe Emperor Who Needs to Eat a Bag of Dicks and Die."
The titles clearly got a little out of hand.
Or Des' smart mouth?
The Night King rolls his shoulders, as if to shake off my magic. "So, that's how it feels to be glamoured by a siren," he says, the corner of his mouth curving up just the slightest, "like I've been caught by my balls." He comes in close, his smirk growing. "The whole thing was horribly invasive. I rather enjoyed it."
Or their unabashed love of Harry Potter, which I'd totally forgotten about and it just makes me love them more?
"And all that borrowed magic?" Des continues. "The process is called cobinding, and though Typhus made it sound cavalier and impersonal, it’s not like that," Des says.
I stare down at my fae wine. "Then how is it?"
"Remember those horcruxes in Harry Potter?"
I begin to smile in spite of myself. "Are you seriously dropping an HP reference right here, right now?" I ask, glancing over at Des.
"I have your undivided attention, don’t I?"
"And all my love."
I mean, I knew he was soulmate material before, but this pretty much just sealed the deal.
Or how fucking soft they are with each other?
"I've got you."
"That first night I returned to you," he says, "you cannot know what it felt like, lounging on your bed, knowing you slept in it. My mind was a mess." [...] "I've wanted to sleep with you here," he continues, "your body tucked against mine ... Gods, how badly I wanted to insert myself into this life of yours."
"I wanted to wear a piece of you on me always."
"I would've come for you, love."
"Because I love you and this is where you're happiest."
"Until darkness dies."
...
Hooooowwwwww?!
Goddamnit!
Why does it have to be over?
It's like being mutually broken up with.
All bittersweet and fucking awful but entirely inevitable and agreed upon.
Yuck.
I don't like this.
I mean, I'm fucking ecstatic for my ship because:
"I have a secret."
And yes, I'm happy screaming inside.
And I totally know how a series works; endings aren't a surprise, so I shouldn't be pouting internally.
But... but...
...
So not in control of my emotions over this that I'm throwing The Notebook at you.
Yikes?
But totally justified because...
MY BABIESSSSS!
MY BEAUTIFUL DARK FAE BABIESSSSSSSSSS!
...
You've got to at least give me some Temper/Malachi time, Thalassa.
Or we could hang out with the other Fae courts?
Or what about those dumpster fairies?
Breakfast with the Day King?
Des' guide to the perfect man-bun?
No?
...
End of a fucking era.
See ya, my Dark Fae babies.
Pay us a visit some time, yeah?
Crescent City:
.............................................
Adela Reaumurella:
More commonly known as the Green Longhorn, or more fucking adorably, the Fairy Moth.
...
FAIRY MOTH.
These little monsters are a new addition to the garden this year and have been swarming around the lilac doing... well, I don't know what they're doing but it's cute as fuck and long may it continue.
Encourage your bugs, people.
Also, look at these majestic motherfuckers:
...Green dragontail butterfly (Lamproptera meges) - Footage by Kazuo Unno pic.twitter.com/eJPi6nskak— Back To Nature (@backt0nature) April 23, 2019
Okay, you supernatural fuckers, it's time to stop this hiding bullshit.
You're not fooling anyone.
And I demand unicorns.
And I demand unicorns.
A fierce post by L!
"I find myself angry a lot of the time."
Man, do I feel this. I, too, was overly enraged about Georgia (and Alabama, and every other garbage state trying to do similar things). I am also normally pretty good at suppressing my snarkiness at work incompetence, but I've noticed that in the past couple months (you know why) my patience has been very limited.
PS. Is that your handwriting?! It. Is. GORGEOUS.
My rage got a little out of control this month... In June we'll be shooting for bunnies pooping rainbows from their fluffy butts!
...
Maybe not.
I hate being this pissed off, Manley. Why's everyone so awful?
Ps. Yes, that's my handwriting and you have to be the only person alive who's ever thought it pleasing to look at.
My art teacher called it schizophrenic =/
...
Fuck! Why can't I just say thank you like a normal?
0_0
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