Things I enjoyed in the month of February:
“Excelsior," Gansey said bleakly.
Blue asked, "What does that even mean?"
Gansey looked over his shoulder at her. He was once more, just a little bit closer to the boy she'd seen in the churchyard.
"Onward and upward.”
...
Bear with me, I need to check a few things:
Head still attached? Yup.
Ribs still cagey? For sure.
Heart still beating? Indubitably.
Pulse still pulsing? Two fingers to the wrist says, yeah.
Okay then, everything seems in working order.
So, why I do I feel like i'm DYING INSIDE?
This wasn't supposed to happen.
I wasn't supposed to get kicked in the heart by magic.
I was just in a reading panic.
I'd finished Lustlocked the night before and did my usual I have ten thousand books and I don't know what to read dance and thought, Hey! Raven Boys! I've been meaning to read you for actual years, let's do this thing! - there are many exclamation points in my internal monologue. Evidently.
I knew it'd be good. Authors and readers I trust assured me so. But I didn't know it'd be so good it'd heart-punch me into a state of insensible forlornness.
What the fuck, book?
You were supposed to be a soft, magical, somewhat academical read.
Not a new addition to the Great Hall of Literature Soaked In My Own Goddamn Tears.
I didn't agree to that.
You tricked me.
And it hurts!
I'm a walking open wound right now.
Watch me bleed and fester.
...
Gross.
But totally accurate.
And I love it.
I am in Holy Grail heaven.
To the point that before I was even halfway through The Raven Boys, I'd already ordered the second in the series, The Dream Thieves.
I don't normally do that.
A story can turn on you so easily that I like to know for sure I'm all in, dedicated to the story, shipping hard before I take up more space I don't have with paperback goodness.
But not this time.
These Raven Boys and lovely, lovely, lovely Blue had my frigid heart within mere pages.
(I say it's frigid but it's actually mush. I'm mush. When did this happen?)
And it was absolutely because of the story: mortal children searching for the long sleeping Welsh equivalent of Arthur Pendragon, Owain Glyndŵr, to grant them a favour? ... Where do I sign up? The round table with the red dragon on it? Okie dokie. Farewell, unmagical world, I've gotta go see a king about a quest ... Does anyone have a pen, or is blood okay?
...
It actually reminded me a lot of Alan Garner's, The Weirdstone of Brisingamen but obviously a little more grown up, a little more modern, but just as innocently creepy.
All most excellent things.
It was without question about the characters: I couldn't name you a favourite. I wouldn't want to. These boys. These lovely, broken boys. They're so painful to read but so necessary to be read.
Each one of them is stocked full of pain and rage and confusion but it's mirrored with trust and devotion and joy.
They're a family made, not born, and all the better for it.
Gansey with his imposed upper crust smarts, his desperation for magic to be real and true and better.
Gansey himself sat at an old desk with his back to them, gazing out of an east-facing window and tapping a pen. His fat journal lay open near him, the pages fluttering with glued-in book passages and dark with notes. Adam was struck, as he occasionally was, by Gansey's agelessness: an old man in a young body, or a young man in an old man's life.
Stoic Adam and his softness, the unwelcome otherness he tries so hard to disguise.
Being Adam Parrish was a complicated thing, a wonder of muscles and organs, synapses and nerves. He was a miracle of moving parts, a study in survival. The most important thing to Adam Parrish, though, had always been free will, the ability to be his own master.
This was the important thing.
It had always been the most important thing.
This was what it was to be Adam.
Ronan. Jagged, hair-trigger, bird-mother, Ronan.
For several minutes, he watched the raven slurp down grey slime while Ronan cooed at her. He was not the Ronan that Gansey had grown accustomed to, but neither was he the Ronan that Gansey had first met. It was clear now that the instrument wailing from the headphones was the Irish pipes. Gansey couldn't remember the last time Ronan had listened to Celtic music. Niall Lynch's music. All at once, he, too, missed the Ronan that had existed when Niall Lynch had still been alive. This boy in front of him now, fragile bird in his hands, seemed like a compromise.
And Noah. Poor Noah.
Noah stood directly in front of him, hollow eyes on level with Adam's eyes, smashed cheek on level with Adam's ruined ear, breathless mouth centimetres from Adam's sucked-in breath.
Without Blue there to make him stronger, without Gansey there to make him human, without Ronan there to make him belong, Noah was a frightening thing.
These boys.
My Raven Boys.
I'd do anything for them, I'd make it all better if I could.
Just like Blue.
There are no words worthy enough for Blue.
Tears coursed down the other Blue's face. Through some strange magic, Blue could feel them on her face as well. She could feel, too, the sick, rising misery she'd felt in the churchyard, the grief that felt bigger than her. The other Blue's tears seemed endless. One drop slid after another, each following an identical path down her cheeks.
The boy in the Aglionby jumper leaned his forehead against Blue's. She felt the pressure of his skin against hers and suddenly she could smell mint.
It'll be OK, Gansey told the other Blue. She could tell that he was afraid. It'll be OK.
The magic: These days I almost exclusively read Fantasy. It's my genre. I feel it in my bones, my blood, my tears. It's mine. And in this one genre, magic comes in various and plentiful forms. The Raven Boys' spellwork is elemental. Ancient. It doesn't shoot from fingertips or require a wand. It just is. It's part of the earth and its people.
Born before us and to last long after us.
I love this kind of magic.
I love it because it feels like maybe, just maybe, it could be real.
Just like Owain Glyndŵr and his fabled favour.
I've felt that kind of magic.
Not actual magic but the possibility of it.
4am on a winter's night, reading myself into oblivion when it started to snow.
A heavy, blanketing, blinding type of snow.
And everything was orange.
Brilliant, warm, improbable orange.
The culprit of said glow was a streetlamp situated across the patch of green and neighbouring houses beyond my window.
Nothing occult.
Just basic engineering.
But it felt unreal.
A backwards moment in the order of night and day.
Something that shouldn't be but unquestionably must be.
That's what the magic in this story feels like.
Like nature inflamed.
All around him, the forest glowed with afternoon light. Dusty gold shafts pierced the canopy and made dapples of the insubstantial brook to his left. In the slanting light, the leaves were made yellow, brown, pink. The furred lichen on the trees was a murky orange.
The skin on his hand in front of him had become rose and tan. The air moved slowly around his body, somehow tangible, gold flaked, every dust mote a lantern.
There was no sign of night, and there was no sign of anyone else in the trees.
Overhead, a bird called, the first that he remembered hearing in the wood. It was a long, clarion song, just four or five notes. It was like a sound the hunting horns made in the autumn. Away, away, away. It both awed him and saddened him, Cabeswater's brand of bittersweet beauty.
This place should not exist, Adam thought, and at once, he hastily thought the opposite.
The landscape: There's nothing grandiose at first about the setting of this book. A small, fictional, Virginian town by the name of Henrietta that just happens to harbour a prestigious all-boys private school, a heavily trafficked corpse road, a prophetical tree and potentially the resting place of a fabled Welsh king.
Your regular fantasy-infused town.
And it was perfect.
Not over the top.
Not sparking with magic.
Just slumberously misting around the edges of everyday life.
I can't say I wasn't a little disappointed to not spend more time in the private school setting - academic fiction is a particular crutch - but when you're treated to a run-down warehouse as the home to these brilliant, broken boys and a patchworked classic American house filled to the rafters with unassumingly quirky spaewives, you can't really complain, can you?
Well, you could, but you'd be a damn greedy wretch.
...
I love this book.
I love this book for all the above reasons and more.
But what caused the ache in my chest to gradually swallow me whole was the way Maggie Stiefvater wields her words.
Like death by a thousand papercuts.
With sentences more like tiny laments.
Snatched utterances overheard in holy places: the back pew of a church, a quiet corner of a library, at night, in the dark, with that vital someone.
The holy places.
Beside Declan, Girlfriend had her hands to her chest in an unconscious reaction to masculine nakedness. In this case, the naked party was not a person, but a thing: Gansey's bed, nothing but two mattresses on a bare metal frame, sitting baldly in the middle of the room, barely made. It was somehow intimate in its complete lack of privacy.
...
Really, she didn't know if she'd truly like to find out more about the pygmy tyrant. She just liked the name, because, for a five-foot-tall girl, pygmy tyrant sounded like a career.
...
Reaching into his pocket, Adam retrieved a piece of paper and offered it to him.
"What's this?" Gansey studied Adam's erratic handwriting. His letters always looked like they were running from something.
...
"What's this about you and Parrish leaving?"
It wasn't what Gansey had expected. He wasn't sure how to speak without hurting Ronan. He couldn't lie to him.
"You tell me what you heard and I'll tell you what's real."
"Noah told me," Ronan said, "that if you left, Parrish was going with you."
He had let jealousy sneak into his voice and that made Gansey's response cooler than it might have been. Gansey tried not to play favourites. "And what else did Noah have to say?"
With visible effort, Ronan pulled himself back, sorted himself out. None of the Lynch brothers liked to appear anything other than intentional, even if it was intentionally cruel. Instead of answering, he asked, "Do you not want me to come?"
Something stuck in Gansey's chest. "I would take all of you anywhere with me."
The moonlight made a strange sculpture of Ronan's face, a stark portrait incompletely moulded by a sculptor who had forgotten to work in compassion.
...
"Winter," Adam said.
It was impossible, of course, but again, so was everything that had come before it. It was, Gansey thought, like when he'd driven through the Lake District with Malory. After a while, there had been too much incredible beauty for him to process, and it had become invisible.
It was impossible that it was winter. But it was no more impossible than anything else that'd happened.
...
Blue thought about saying I'm sorry about your dad, but instead she just stretched out a hand towards him. Adam gave an unsteady sigh of the sort that she could see from two metres away. Wordlessly, he sat beside her and then laid his head on her lap, his face in his arms.
Startled, Blue didn't immediately react, other than to glance over her shoulder to make certain that the tree hid them from the house. She felt a little like she'd been approached by a wild animal, and she was at once flattered by its trust and worried that she'd scare it away.
Out of context, they may seem unexceptional.
Within the story they are anything but.
Long kept secrets entrusted solely to the reader, to be kept and treasured.
And I will.
I vow it.
Even if these Raven Boys and their beloved Blue break my heart while I do so.
And they will.
They will break my heart.
...
It's gonna be wonderful.
Fan art:
rosiethorns88
John Fenerov
I'd look for more but I'm for real terrified of spoilers.
There's three more books to go.
I will not be spoiled by the internet.
I refuse!
Blue asked, "What does that even mean?"
Gansey looked over his shoulder at her. He was once more, just a little bit closer to the boy she'd seen in the churchyard.
"Onward and upward.”
...
Bear with me, I need to check a few things:
Head still attached? Yup.
Ribs still cagey? For sure.
Heart still beating? Indubitably.
Pulse still pulsing? Two fingers to the wrist says, yeah.
Okay then, everything seems in working order.
So, why I do I feel like i'm DYING INSIDE?
This wasn't supposed to happen.
I wasn't supposed to get kicked in the heart by magic.
I was just in a reading panic.
I'd finished Lustlocked the night before and did my usual I have ten thousand books and I don't know what to read dance and thought, Hey! Raven Boys! I've been meaning to read you for actual years, let's do this thing! - there are many exclamation points in my internal monologue. Evidently.
I knew it'd be good. Authors and readers I trust assured me so. But I didn't know it'd be so good it'd heart-punch me into a state of insensible forlornness.
What the fuck, book?
You were supposed to be a soft, magical, somewhat academical read.
Not a new addition to the Great Hall of Literature Soaked In My Own Goddamn Tears.
I didn't agree to that.
You tricked me.
And it hurts!
I'm a walking open wound right now.
Watch me bleed and fester.
...
Gross.
But totally accurate.
And I love it.
I am in Holy Grail heaven.
To the point that before I was even halfway through The Raven Boys, I'd already ordered the second in the series, The Dream Thieves.
I don't normally do that.
A story can turn on you so easily that I like to know for sure I'm all in, dedicated to the story, shipping hard before I take up more space I don't have with paperback goodness.
But not this time.
These Raven Boys and lovely, lovely, lovely Blue had my frigid heart within mere pages.
(I say it's frigid but it's actually mush. I'm mush. When did this happen?)
And it was absolutely because of the story: mortal children searching for the long sleeping Welsh equivalent of Arthur Pendragon, Owain Glyndŵr, to grant them a favour? ... Where do I sign up? The round table with the red dragon on it? Okie dokie. Farewell, unmagical world, I've gotta go see a king about a quest ... Does anyone have a pen, or is blood okay?
...
It actually reminded me a lot of Alan Garner's, The Weirdstone of Brisingamen but obviously a little more grown up, a little more modern, but just as innocently creepy.
All most excellent things.
It was without question about the characters: I couldn't name you a favourite. I wouldn't want to. These boys. These lovely, broken boys. They're so painful to read but so necessary to be read.
Each one of them is stocked full of pain and rage and confusion but it's mirrored with trust and devotion and joy.
They're a family made, not born, and all the better for it.
Gansey with his imposed upper crust smarts, his desperation for magic to be real and true and better.
Gansey himself sat at an old desk with his back to them, gazing out of an east-facing window and tapping a pen. His fat journal lay open near him, the pages fluttering with glued-in book passages and dark with notes. Adam was struck, as he occasionally was, by Gansey's agelessness: an old man in a young body, or a young man in an old man's life.
Stoic Adam and his softness, the unwelcome otherness he tries so hard to disguise.
Being Adam Parrish was a complicated thing, a wonder of muscles and organs, synapses and nerves. He was a miracle of moving parts, a study in survival. The most important thing to Adam Parrish, though, had always been free will, the ability to be his own master.
This was the important thing.
It had always been the most important thing.
This was what it was to be Adam.
Ronan. Jagged, hair-trigger, bird-mother, Ronan.
For several minutes, he watched the raven slurp down grey slime while Ronan cooed at her. He was not the Ronan that Gansey had grown accustomed to, but neither was he the Ronan that Gansey had first met. It was clear now that the instrument wailing from the headphones was the Irish pipes. Gansey couldn't remember the last time Ronan had listened to Celtic music. Niall Lynch's music. All at once, he, too, missed the Ronan that had existed when Niall Lynch had still been alive. This boy in front of him now, fragile bird in his hands, seemed like a compromise.
And Noah. Poor Noah.
Noah stood directly in front of him, hollow eyes on level with Adam's eyes, smashed cheek on level with Adam's ruined ear, breathless mouth centimetres from Adam's sucked-in breath.
Without Blue there to make him stronger, without Gansey there to make him human, without Ronan there to make him belong, Noah was a frightening thing.
These boys.
My Raven Boys.
I'd do anything for them, I'd make it all better if I could.
Just like Blue.
There are no words worthy enough for Blue.
Tears coursed down the other Blue's face. Through some strange magic, Blue could feel them on her face as well. She could feel, too, the sick, rising misery she'd felt in the churchyard, the grief that felt bigger than her. The other Blue's tears seemed endless. One drop slid after another, each following an identical path down her cheeks.
The boy in the Aglionby jumper leaned his forehead against Blue's. She felt the pressure of his skin against hers and suddenly she could smell mint.
It'll be OK, Gansey told the other Blue. She could tell that he was afraid. It'll be OK.
The magic: These days I almost exclusively read Fantasy. It's my genre. I feel it in my bones, my blood, my tears. It's mine. And in this one genre, magic comes in various and plentiful forms. The Raven Boys' spellwork is elemental. Ancient. It doesn't shoot from fingertips or require a wand. It just is. It's part of the earth and its people.
Born before us and to last long after us.
I love this kind of magic.
I love it because it feels like maybe, just maybe, it could be real.
Just like Owain Glyndŵr and his fabled favour.
I've felt that kind of magic.
Not actual magic but the possibility of it.
4am on a winter's night, reading myself into oblivion when it started to snow.
A heavy, blanketing, blinding type of snow.
And everything was orange.
Brilliant, warm, improbable orange.
The culprit of said glow was a streetlamp situated across the patch of green and neighbouring houses beyond my window.
Nothing occult.
Just basic engineering.
But it felt unreal.
A backwards moment in the order of night and day.
Something that shouldn't be but unquestionably must be.
That's what the magic in this story feels like.
Like nature inflamed.
All around him, the forest glowed with afternoon light. Dusty gold shafts pierced the canopy and made dapples of the insubstantial brook to his left. In the slanting light, the leaves were made yellow, brown, pink. The furred lichen on the trees was a murky orange.
The skin on his hand in front of him had become rose and tan. The air moved slowly around his body, somehow tangible, gold flaked, every dust mote a lantern.
There was no sign of night, and there was no sign of anyone else in the trees.
Overhead, a bird called, the first that he remembered hearing in the wood. It was a long, clarion song, just four or five notes. It was like a sound the hunting horns made in the autumn. Away, away, away. It both awed him and saddened him, Cabeswater's brand of bittersweet beauty.
This place should not exist, Adam thought, and at once, he hastily thought the opposite.
The landscape: There's nothing grandiose at first about the setting of this book. A small, fictional, Virginian town by the name of Henrietta that just happens to harbour a prestigious all-boys private school, a heavily trafficked corpse road, a prophetical tree and potentially the resting place of a fabled Welsh king.
Your regular fantasy-infused town.
And it was perfect.
Not over the top.
Not sparking with magic.
Just slumberously misting around the edges of everyday life.
I can't say I wasn't a little disappointed to not spend more time in the private school setting - academic fiction is a particular crutch - but when you're treated to a run-down warehouse as the home to these brilliant, broken boys and a patchworked classic American house filled to the rafters with unassumingly quirky spaewives, you can't really complain, can you?
Well, you could, but you'd be a damn greedy wretch.
...
I love this book.
I love this book for all the above reasons and more.
But what caused the ache in my chest to gradually swallow me whole was the way Maggie Stiefvater wields her words.
Like death by a thousand papercuts.
With sentences more like tiny laments.
Snatched utterances overheard in holy places: the back pew of a church, a quiet corner of a library, at night, in the dark, with that vital someone.
The holy places.
Beside Declan, Girlfriend had her hands to her chest in an unconscious reaction to masculine nakedness. In this case, the naked party was not a person, but a thing: Gansey's bed, nothing but two mattresses on a bare metal frame, sitting baldly in the middle of the room, barely made. It was somehow intimate in its complete lack of privacy.
...
Really, she didn't know if she'd truly like to find out more about the pygmy tyrant. She just liked the name, because, for a five-foot-tall girl, pygmy tyrant sounded like a career.
...
Reaching into his pocket, Adam retrieved a piece of paper and offered it to him.
"What's this?" Gansey studied Adam's erratic handwriting. His letters always looked like they were running from something.
...
"What's this about you and Parrish leaving?"
It wasn't what Gansey had expected. He wasn't sure how to speak without hurting Ronan. He couldn't lie to him.
"You tell me what you heard and I'll tell you what's real."
"Noah told me," Ronan said, "that if you left, Parrish was going with you."
He had let jealousy sneak into his voice and that made Gansey's response cooler than it might have been. Gansey tried not to play favourites. "And what else did Noah have to say?"
With visible effort, Ronan pulled himself back, sorted himself out. None of the Lynch brothers liked to appear anything other than intentional, even if it was intentionally cruel. Instead of answering, he asked, "Do you not want me to come?"
Something stuck in Gansey's chest. "I would take all of you anywhere with me."
The moonlight made a strange sculpture of Ronan's face, a stark portrait incompletely moulded by a sculptor who had forgotten to work in compassion.
...
"Winter," Adam said.
It was impossible, of course, but again, so was everything that had come before it. It was, Gansey thought, like when he'd driven through the Lake District with Malory. After a while, there had been too much incredible beauty for him to process, and it had become invisible.
It was impossible that it was winter. But it was no more impossible than anything else that'd happened.
...
Blue thought about saying I'm sorry about your dad, but instead she just stretched out a hand towards him. Adam gave an unsteady sigh of the sort that she could see from two metres away. Wordlessly, he sat beside her and then laid his head on her lap, his face in his arms.
Startled, Blue didn't immediately react, other than to glance over her shoulder to make certain that the tree hid them from the house. She felt a little like she'd been approached by a wild animal, and she was at once flattered by its trust and worried that she'd scare it away.
Out of context, they may seem unexceptional.
Within the story they are anything but.
Long kept secrets entrusted solely to the reader, to be kept and treasured.
And I will.
I vow it.
Even if these Raven Boys and their beloved Blue break my heart while I do so.
And they will.
They will break my heart.
...
It's gonna be wonderful.
Fan art:
I'd look for more but I'm for real terrified of spoilers.
There's three more books to go.
I will not be spoiled by the internet.
I refuse!
.............................................
In keeping with the magical beginnings of this post, I give you this celestial little wonder.
I want to live in this star-emblazoned shack so badly.
And I don't even like standing on docks, lest some rogue shark jump up and chomp me.
Thalassophobia is a pain in the ass.
I want to live in this star-emblazoned shack so badly.
And I don't even like standing on docks, lest some rogue shark jump up and chomp me.
Thalassophobia is a pain in the ass.
But for a shack bolstered by stars?
I could suppress it.
I could suppress it.
.............................................
The Magicians season 4:
...
I am in agony.
Unbridled agony.
I sobbed so hard I gave myself a headache.
I went to bed sad.
I tried to read through the sad - I couldn't.
I went to sleep sad.
I woke up sad.
I'm still so fucking sad.
And I need to talk about it.
I need to.
Because this show. This goddamn show. It stole my heart and it just irreparably broke it, and I'm not even mad.
I'm just.
So.
Fucking.
Sad.
So if you're cool with major affects-the-whole-series spoilers, or you've watched season 4 already, highlight the unseen section below and let's cry like idiots together:
[spoiler] Quentin Clearwater is the emo, self-involved, depressive magical offspring of Eeyore and Harry Potter.
He's moody and entitled, infuriatingly idealistic yet so damn pessimistic.
He's brave and cocky and loving and silly and everything.
He's everything.
And you shouldn't love him with such intensity.
You should want to bop him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper every time he complains about everything not being good enough.
How it's all so unfair.
And you will.
Because he's a whiney little shit.
But you'll love him too. To his very bones.
Because he's such an important character.
Especially to me.
Quentin Clearwater is a depressive, suicidal, somewhat gifted magician.
He's the chosen one but one of many, and he's nowhere near the best.
He's really quite ordinary.
Wonderfully ordinary.
And necessary.
So fucking necessary.
His discipline in magic is Repair of Small Objects.
This sounds so tiny. So insignificant. So mundane.
But it's not.
It's a reminder that even the smallest of actions matter.
That those of us who aren't the best, aren't the happiest, aren't centre of attention are necessary.
That we matter.
That in our smallness we matter.
...
This is the part where I start crying again.
Because I'm small, and depressive, and my "discipline" never felt right or enough.
I never felt enough.
So, to have a character like Quentin front and centre of the story, be beloved by the people around him, and be integral to the future of, well, everything?
That means so much to me.
It means the fucking world.
And that isn't diminished by his sacrifice, it's heightened.
You can be imperfect, get everything you want, lose it and still be enough.
Quentin was enough.
How often do we get heroes like this?
I'm so fucking sad to see Jason Ralph leave this show - because it is the end, no backsies - he is Quentin, through and through, but it felt right, even though it's killing me.
It really is killing me.
I can't say it enough: I'm so fucking sad. [end spoiler]
I love this show.
I love that it has no boundaries.
That it surprises me at every turn.
That it's a silly show about magic and alternative universes but actually, actually, it's about so much more.
That it dedicates entire episodes to musical numbers.
That their episode descriptions are always nonsensically accurate.
The way they cast:
(It should really be dorky as hell but it's not. I don't know why. And I'm always kind of in awe of the actors learning all these hand gestures and making it look pretty fucking cool)
The little, monumental things:
At some point I'm going to stop crying.
But I don't think it'll be anytime soon.
Because as I said:
Here's some ridiculously cute fan art to soothe my sobbing heart:
Nina aka. waxanie
Welp.
That didn't work.
I'm leaking again.
Why did you do this to me, Lev Grossman?
Whyyyyyy?
.............................................
Welp.
That didn't work.
I'm leaking again.
Why did you do this to me, Lev Grossman?
Whyyyyyy?
Anddddddd now I'm rewatching all four series because the sad is eating me alive.
This may be a terrible mistake.
...
I forgot how innocent they all were to begin with.
My too pure for this magical world puppers, I love them all so much.
.............................................
.............................................
Octavia Cade's review of The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck:
.............................................
Dory aka. bigbluetang's, Pantone Challenge 2020:
.............................................
It always takes me twelve thousand years longer to see movies than other people.
Which I kind of... like?
The hype's died down.
I can view something without the masses breathing down my neck to have an opinion.
I can take something as it is and judge it more clearly.
But in the case of Hidden Figures? I don't think it would've mattered when I saw it, it'd remain a brilliant fucking movie.
It's still shocking and yet unsurprising to see how oppressed women, specifically women of colour, were not that long ago.
And how far and yet how little things have changed.
These wonderful fucking women.
How dare the world?
Which I kind of... like?
The hype's died down.
I can view something without the masses breathing down my neck to have an opinion.
I can take something as it is and judge it more clearly.
But in the case of Hidden Figures? I don't think it would've mattered when I saw it, it'd remain a brilliant fucking movie.
It's still shocking and yet unsurprising to see how oppressed women, specifically women of colour, were not that long ago.
And how far and yet how little things have changed.
These wonderful fucking women.
How dare the world?
.............................................
Cat Graffam:
back on my sad gay cowgirl shit pic.twitter.com/RaTs0KEqC7— Cat "Herine" Graffam (@catgraffam) January 24, 2020
Bloody love watching other people art.
They make it look so easy.
Whilst any time they tried to make me paint in uni it looked a lot like this:
I'd love to say I'm exaggerating but umm...
.............................................
Talia Hibbert and invisible illness::
...
...
...
Read the whole article, here.
I don't suffer from chronic pain but I do have an invisible illness.
Illnesses, in fact.
Depression is one.
Body Dysmorphia another.
Moderate to severe OCD.
HSP.
Inconsistent Agoraphobia.
Severe Social Anxiety.
None of these present themselves on my body.
They can't be detected with an x-ray.
They can't be stitched up and bandaged.
They exist solely, invisibly inside of me.
Thus, they can be wholly unacknowledged because I can't prove them.
But they're real. They fuck up my entire life. And they are largely ignored because it's easier to label me and oh, about a billion other people, "snowflakes" instead of investing the time to give a shit.
This article hit me hard.
Really hard.
I'm so grateful there are people talking about these issues.
Even if they're not specifically mine.
And the idea of marking your skin to own your pain, untether you from it, is something I can't help but admire. And consider.
My indecisiveness has always stopped me from getting a tattoo. I've yet to come across anything I'd want etched permanently onto my body.
But maybe one day.
A little something, a little fuck you.
And a boat load of alcohol because I possess no pain tolerance.
I'm the person who puts plasters on paper cuts.
Read the whole article, here.
I don't suffer from chronic pain but I do have an invisible illness.
Illnesses, in fact.
Depression is one.
Body Dysmorphia another.
Moderate to severe OCD.
HSP.
Inconsistent Agoraphobia.
Severe Social Anxiety.
None of these present themselves on my body.
They can't be detected with an x-ray.
They can't be stitched up and bandaged.
They exist solely, invisibly inside of me.
Thus, they can be wholly unacknowledged because I can't prove them.
But they're real. They fuck up my entire life. And they are largely ignored because it's easier to label me and oh, about a billion other people, "snowflakes" instead of investing the time to give a shit.
This article hit me hard.
Really hard.
I'm so grateful there are people talking about these issues.
Even if they're not specifically mine.
And the idea of marking your skin to own your pain, untether you from it, is something I can't help but admire. And consider.
My indecisiveness has always stopped me from getting a tattoo. I've yet to come across anything I'd want etched permanently onto my body.
But maybe one day.
A little something, a little fuck you.
And a boat load of alcohol because I possess no pain tolerance.
I'm the person who puts plasters on paper cuts.
.............................................
Angela De Vito's vamps:
Today’s prompt is flight! Yesterday we had Dracula, and today we have his son Alucard from #Castlevania, which I FINALLY got around to watching. Have you guys seen it? You shoulddd. #inktober #vamptober pic.twitter.com/1STPIDlhVm— ᎪᏁᎶᎬᏞᎪ ᎠᎬ ᏉᎥT૦ (@angelaanimates) October 4, 2019
Did I combine three #inktober prompts? Yes, yes I did. School, vegetarian and fast food for @lynnvwang ’s #vamptober pic.twitter.com/zVCirTJ90G— ᎪᏁᎶᎬᏞᎪ ᎠᎬ ᏉᎥT૦ (@angelaanimates) October 15, 2019
Today’s prompt is “young” so I decided that Claudia from Interview with the Vampire was perfect. Poor girl eternally trapped in a child’s body. I love the book and the movie....I should go back and re-read it. Keep your vampire suggestions coming for #vamptober #inktober! 🧛♂️ 🦇 pic.twitter.com/k0cbQuGJTK— ᎪᏁᎶᎬᏞᎪ ᎠᎬ ᏉᎥT૦ (@angelaanimates) October 2, 2019
.............................................
First of all: everybody's wrong.
This cover is so much better than the old one.
The old designs make me cringe.
But this?
This is going on my shelves. Non-existent shelf space be damned.
One quibble, however: why the hell doesn't the UK get the hardback edition?
I know we're a country full of unworthy, uppity twats but come on?
Hardback me.
Secondly but most importantly:
This is their dynamic.
This is how they flirt.
This is how I die.
It's gonna be glorious.
And she just might be my bookish soul-kin:
This cover is so much better than the old one.
The old designs make me cringe.
But this?
This is going on my shelves. Non-existent shelf space be damned.
One quibble, however: why the hell doesn't the UK get the hardback edition?
I know we're a country full of unworthy, uppity twats but come on?
Hardback me.
Secondly but most importantly:
We have a date, people.
We have a date!
Let's celebrate with some Nessian fan art by Liz Parkes:
This is their dynamic.
This is how they flirt.
This is how I die.
It's gonna be glorious.
Sidenote: I now worship at the altar of Liz Parkes' bookstagramming illustrations:
Rainbow Rowell's, Fangirl
Jenny Han's, To All the Boys I've Loved Before
Sally Thorne's, The Hating Game
Laura Thalassa's, Pestilence
Samantha Young's, Fight or Flight
And she just might be my bookish soul-kin:
.............................................
Word of the Day:
The Maccabees?
Who'da thunk it?
.............................................
Do you ever look at something and think, yup, that's the one, that's for me.
I do.
A lot.
I do.
A lot.
.............................................
The Good Place fourth final season:
That's it.
All I have to say.
And not just because I'm happy sobbing inside.
See ya 'round, perfect show.
You were the loveliest.
Keep it sleazy:
Andy aka. reaandull
.............................................
...
.............................................
Hannah Detterbeck's little literature:
Unfortunately, none of these are available as prints.
Total bummer.
I'd sell my soul to Ember and Umber for the Fillory and Further illustration.
But alas, I'll just have to hold myself a pity party to the year's worth of adorably illustrated mixtapes Detterbeck's made:
.............................................
C. S. Pacat's, Kings Rising:
"It was one kingdom, once."
Laurent wasn't looking at him when he said it, and it was a long moment before he lifted his eyes to Damen's waiting ones, and Damen's breath caught at what he saw there, the odd shyness of it, as though Laurent was asking instead of answering.
"Yes," said Damen, feeling light-headed at the question. And then he really did feel light-headed, because Laurent's face was so transformed by the new light in his eyes that Damen almost didn't recognise him, the expression full of joy.
Is self sadomasochism a thing?
Can you do that?
Because if you can, I'm a goddamn savant.
First, I softly euthanised my heart with The Raven Boys.
Then, old Vic Frankenstein came out of retirement to both resurrect and patchwork the fuck out the bloody mess of muscle and sinew that used to be my heart, only to then brutally savage it with the season 4 The Magicians finale.
For some reason the end of The Good Place led to vampirism? I dunno. Weird stuff, you guys. Weird fucking stuff.
And that's how I currently find myself looking down upon a stake violently lodged inside my chest cavity after reading the last in the Captive Prince trilogy.
It's one of those big, comedy, Hammer Horror stakes as well.
Just to really twist those splinters in.
C. S. Pacat never, ever, gives me the story I expect, which is both a curse and a blessing.
For our last sojourn with her royal boys, I presumed there'd be a... coming to blows.
A full on fulmination of lies, betrayal, angst and hopefully a little hate-fucking to round things off.
...
This is not what happened.
Or at least, this is not what happened in the dramatic fashion I, with my simple, non-authory brain, anticipated.
Because C. S. Pacat is not a predictable storyteller.
She's measured and calculated and very, very honest.
She knows her characters, she knows them better than anybody ever will and she won't, under any circumstances, compromise their integrity just to make her narrative more "emotionally flashy".
She doesn't even have to.
The quiet, pointed angst between her two kings has more believability than any over-the-top, dramatic-for-the-sake-of-drama love story I've ever, and will ever, read.
And I've read my fair share of drama babies losing their shit over couple woes.
That's not Pacat''s boys.
Instead, in the finale of the Captive Prince trilogy, we start with them separated.
Both knowing their tentative trust is now wrecked beyond measure and like them, we're in a state of limbo until someone makes the first move.
If he was aware of anything beyond the fight, it was of an absence, a lack that persisted. The flashes of brilliance, the insouciant sword work, the bright presence at this side was instead a gap, half filled by Nikandros's steadier, more practical style. He had grown used to something that had been temporary, like the flash of exhilaration in a pair of blue eyes for a moment catching his own. All of that tangled together inside him, and tightened, through the killing, into a single hard knot.
...
It took so long.
"I miss you."
It took so damn long.
"I miss you too."
I nearly self-immolated.
He said into the stillness, "I think if I gave you my heart, you would treat it tenderly."
"I'd never hurt you."
But this is what Pacat does.
She won't hand you your greatest literary wish without making you sweat for it at least a little.
The payoff, though?
Oh, the sweet, sweet payoff.
"I would have," said Damen, "if I'd had the chance to court you properly. If I'd come in state to your father. If there had been a chance for our countries to be—" Friends. He felt the mood shift, thinking of the past. Laurent didn't seem to notice it.
"Thank you, I know exactly how it would have been. You and Auguste would have been slapping each other on the back and watching tournaments, and I would have been trailing around tugging on your sleeve, trying to get a look in edgewise."
Damen held himself very still. This easy way of speaking of Auguste was new, and he didn't want to disturb it.
After a moment, Laurent said, "He would have liked you."
"Even after I started courting his little brother?" said Damen carefully.
He watched Laurent stop, the way that he did when he was taken by surprise, and then lift his eyes to meet Damen's.
"Yes," said Laurent softly, his cheeks reddened slightly.
Even when my boys were nearly drowning in vitriol, it was sickeningly wonderful.
"I've come to tell you who I am."
Laurent was so keenly familiar, the shade of his hair, the strapped down clothing, the full lips that he held tense or cruelly repressed, the ruthless asceticism, the unbearable blue eyes.
"I know who you are, Damianos," said Laurent.
Damen heard it, as the interior of the tent seemed to change, so that all of the objects in it took on a different shape.
"Did you think," said Laurent, "I wouldn't recognise the man who killed my brother?"
Each word was an ice chip. Painful, sharp; a shard. Laurent's voice was perfectly steady. Damen stepped back blindly. His thoughts swam.
"I knew in the palace, when they dragged you in front of me," said Laurent. The words continued, steady, relentless. "I knew in the baths when I ordered you flayed. I knew—"
"At Ravenel?" said Damen.
Drawing breath with difficulty, he faced Laurent while the seconds passed.
"If you knew," said Damen, "how could you—"
"Let you fuck me?"
His own chest hurt, so that he almost didn't notice the signs of it in Laurent, the control, the face, pale at any time, now white.
"I needed a victory at Charcy. You provided it. It was worth enduring," Laurent spoke the terrible, lucid words, "your fumbling attentions for that."
It hurt so much it took the breath from his throat. "You're lying," Damen's heart was pounding. "You're lying."
Even when they were warring - physically and mentally - with each other, it still felt like love.
A great love.
A legendary love.
Which is why I'm completely fucked up, right now.
Because they did it.
They beat everyone, they forgave each other.
"I—" He couldn't say it.
"No. Listen to me." He felt Laurent's hand firm on the back of his neck. "I'm not going to let my uncle hurt you." Laurent's blue gaze was calm and steady, as if he had made a decision and wanted Damen to know it. "It's what I came here last night to say. I'm going to take care of it."
"Promise me," Damen heard himself say. "Promise me we won't let him—"
"I promise."
Laurent said it seriously, his voice honest; no game playing, just the truth.
And they got the life they were owed.
With each other.
For as long as they decree it.
Laurent’s breathing was easy, as though he was relaxed and sleepy, lying beside Damen. Damen heard himself say it.
‘There’s a summer palace in Ios outside the capital. My mother designed the gardens there. They say it’s built on Artesian foundations.’ He thought of the meandering walks, the delicate, flowering southern orchids, the sprays of orange blossom. ‘It’s cool in summer, and there are fountains, and tracks for riding.’ His pulse beat with uncharacteristic nerves, so that he felt almost shy. ‘When all this is over . . . we could take horses and stay a week in the palace.’ Since their night together in Karthas, he hadn’t dared to speak about the future.
He felt Laurent holding himself carefully, and there was a strange pause. After a moment, Laurent said, softly, ‘I’d like that.’
Damen rolled onto his back again, and felt the words like happiness as he let himself look up again at the wide sweep of stars.
...
I'm incoherent at this point.
I'd carry on and do my best to tell you why you should read this book.
Convince you that yes, it's a love story and that might not be your thing, but it's stuffed full of war strategy, mind games, violence, politics and more.
I'd try my best to coax you with promises of sex, forbidden trysts and verbal lashings to make your head spin.
I'd even attempt to bribe you with biscuits to crunch yourself silly on whilst I rent myself out as a troubadour to poetically set the scene of these two warring kingdoms.
But really, really, you just need to read it yourself.
That's best way.
It's the only way.
(I'd make a terrible troubadour)
And then you can cry yourself stupid.
Like me.
...
Forever.
Here's a little advice, though.
When you've finished and both yourself and the book are soaked with Alice Lidell-worthy tears, immediately read the unofficial epilogue, The Summer Palace.
Do not stop to grab a tissue.
Don't wait a day to chill the fuck out.
Just read the damn short.
It'll make the blubbering worse but the satisfaction high will be boundless.
"It was one kingdom, once."
Laurent wasn't looking at him when he said it, and it was a long moment before he lifted his eyes to Damen's waiting ones, and Damen's breath caught at what he saw there, the odd shyness of it, as though Laurent was asking instead of answering.
"Yes," said Damen, feeling light-headed at the question. And then he really did feel light-headed, because Laurent's face was so transformed by the new light in his eyes that Damen almost didn't recognise him, the expression full of joy.
Is self sadomasochism a thing?
Can you do that?
Because if you can, I'm a goddamn savant.
First, I softly euthanised my heart with The Raven Boys.
Then, old Vic Frankenstein came out of retirement to both resurrect and patchwork the fuck out the bloody mess of muscle and sinew that used to be my heart, only to then brutally savage it with the season 4 The Magicians finale.
For some reason the end of The Good Place led to vampirism? I dunno. Weird stuff, you guys. Weird fucking stuff.
And that's how I currently find myself looking down upon a stake violently lodged inside my chest cavity after reading the last in the Captive Prince trilogy.
It's one of those big, comedy, Hammer Horror stakes as well.
Just to really twist those splinters in.
But it's a good pain.
A happy pain.
(If you recognise this scene from Being Human, you know exactly what I'm feeling)
Because it's over, it's really over, but oh boy, was it wonderful.
C. S. Pacat never, ever, gives me the story I expect, which is both a curse and a blessing.
For our last sojourn with her royal boys, I presumed there'd be a... coming to blows.
A full on fulmination of lies, betrayal, angst and hopefully a little hate-fucking to round things off.
...
This is not what happened.
Or at least, this is not what happened in the dramatic fashion I, with my simple, non-authory brain, anticipated.
Because C. S. Pacat is not a predictable storyteller.
She's measured and calculated and very, very honest.
She knows her characters, she knows them better than anybody ever will and she won't, under any circumstances, compromise their integrity just to make her narrative more "emotionally flashy".
She doesn't even have to.
The quiet, pointed angst between her two kings has more believability than any over-the-top, dramatic-for-the-sake-of-drama love story I've ever, and will ever, read.
And I've read my fair share of drama babies losing their shit over couple woes.
That's not Pacat''s boys.
Instead, in the finale of the Captive Prince trilogy, we start with them separated.
Both knowing their tentative trust is now wrecked beyond measure and like them, we're in a state of limbo until someone makes the first move.
If he was aware of anything beyond the fight, it was of an absence, a lack that persisted. The flashes of brilliance, the insouciant sword work, the bright presence at this side was instead a gap, half filled by Nikandros's steadier, more practical style. He had grown used to something that had been temporary, like the flash of exhilaration in a pair of blue eyes for a moment catching his own. All of that tangled together inside him, and tightened, through the killing, into a single hard knot.
...
It took so long.
"I miss you."
It took so damn long.
"I miss you too."
I nearly self-immolated.
He said into the stillness, "I think if I gave you my heart, you would treat it tenderly."
"I'd never hurt you."
But this is what Pacat does.
She won't hand you your greatest literary wish without making you sweat for it at least a little.
The payoff, though?
Oh, the sweet, sweet payoff.
"I would have," said Damen, "if I'd had the chance to court you properly. If I'd come in state to your father. If there had been a chance for our countries to be—" Friends. He felt the mood shift, thinking of the past. Laurent didn't seem to notice it.
"Thank you, I know exactly how it would have been. You and Auguste would have been slapping each other on the back and watching tournaments, and I would have been trailing around tugging on your sleeve, trying to get a look in edgewise."
Damen held himself very still. This easy way of speaking of Auguste was new, and he didn't want to disturb it.
After a moment, Laurent said, "He would have liked you."
"Even after I started courting his little brother?" said Damen carefully.
He watched Laurent stop, the way that he did when he was taken by surprise, and then lift his eyes to meet Damen's.
"Yes," said Laurent softly, his cheeks reddened slightly.
Even when my boys were nearly drowning in vitriol, it was sickeningly wonderful.
"I've come to tell you who I am."
Laurent was so keenly familiar, the shade of his hair, the strapped down clothing, the full lips that he held tense or cruelly repressed, the ruthless asceticism, the unbearable blue eyes.
"I know who you are, Damianos," said Laurent.
Damen heard it, as the interior of the tent seemed to change, so that all of the objects in it took on a different shape.
"Did you think," said Laurent, "I wouldn't recognise the man who killed my brother?"
Each word was an ice chip. Painful, sharp; a shard. Laurent's voice was perfectly steady. Damen stepped back blindly. His thoughts swam.
"I knew in the palace, when they dragged you in front of me," said Laurent. The words continued, steady, relentless. "I knew in the baths when I ordered you flayed. I knew—"
"At Ravenel?" said Damen.
Drawing breath with difficulty, he faced Laurent while the seconds passed.
"If you knew," said Damen, "how could you—"
"Let you fuck me?"
His own chest hurt, so that he almost didn't notice the signs of it in Laurent, the control, the face, pale at any time, now white.
"I needed a victory at Charcy. You provided it. It was worth enduring," Laurent spoke the terrible, lucid words, "your fumbling attentions for that."
It hurt so much it took the breath from his throat. "You're lying," Damen's heart was pounding. "You're lying."
Even when they were warring - physically and mentally - with each other, it still felt like love.
A great love.
A legendary love.
Which is why I'm completely fucked up, right now.
Because they did it.
They beat everyone, they forgave each other.
"I—" He couldn't say it.
"No. Listen to me." He felt Laurent's hand firm on the back of his neck. "I'm not going to let my uncle hurt you." Laurent's blue gaze was calm and steady, as if he had made a decision and wanted Damen to know it. "It's what I came here last night to say. I'm going to take care of it."
"Promise me," Damen heard himself say. "Promise me we won't let him—"
"I promise."
Laurent said it seriously, his voice honest; no game playing, just the truth.
And they got the life they were owed.
With each other.
For as long as they decree it.
Laurent’s breathing was easy, as though he was relaxed and sleepy, lying beside Damen. Damen heard himself say it.
‘There’s a summer palace in Ios outside the capital. My mother designed the gardens there. They say it’s built on Artesian foundations.’ He thought of the meandering walks, the delicate, flowering southern orchids, the sprays of orange blossom. ‘It’s cool in summer, and there are fountains, and tracks for riding.’ His pulse beat with uncharacteristic nerves, so that he felt almost shy. ‘When all this is over . . . we could take horses and stay a week in the palace.’ Since their night together in Karthas, he hadn’t dared to speak about the future.
He felt Laurent holding himself carefully, and there was a strange pause. After a moment, Laurent said, softly, ‘I’d like that.’
Damen rolled onto his back again, and felt the words like happiness as he let himself look up again at the wide sweep of stars.
...
I'm incoherent at this point.
I'd carry on and do my best to tell you why you should read this book.
Convince you that yes, it's a love story and that might not be your thing, but it's stuffed full of war strategy, mind games, violence, politics and more.
I'd try my best to coax you with promises of sex, forbidden trysts and verbal lashings to make your head spin.
I'd even attempt to bribe you with biscuits to crunch yourself silly on whilst I rent myself out as a troubadour to poetically set the scene of these two warring kingdoms.
But really, really, you just need to read it yourself.
That's best way.
It's the only way.
(I'd make a terrible troubadour)
And then you can cry yourself stupid.
Like me.
...
Forever.
Here's a little advice, though.
When you've finished and both yourself and the book are soaked with Alice Lidell-worthy tears, immediately read the unofficial epilogue, The Summer Palace.
Do not stop to grab a tissue.
Don't wait a day to chill the fuck out.
Just read the damn short.
It'll make the blubbering worse but the satisfaction high will be boundless.
Trust me.
His smile widened.
Laurent said, "What?"
"You were watching the road," said Damen.
I have to get back to my feral sobbing, now.
There's a Pool of Tears to be rivalled.
My boysssssss.
My beautiful boysssssss:
Coralie Jubénot aka. Merwild
Kim aka. chem-doodles
Dorothy Yang
January Sun
His smile widened.
Laurent said, "What?"
"You were watching the road," said Damen.
I have to get back to my feral sobbing, now.
There's a Pool of Tears to be rivalled.
My boysssssss.
My beautiful boysssssss:
I wanted to imagine my own cover for The Summer Palace, from the #captiveprince series. Thanks again to @cspacat for these boys!💛💛💛 pic.twitter.com/D7IvfwfEdS— Coralie Jubénot (@Merwild) November 15, 2016
.............................................
My Giant Nerd Boyfriend by Fishball:
Help, I've been swallowed whole by an adorable couple webcomic.
And I'm only a quarter of the way through...
Look at this adorable bullshit:
.............................................
.............................................
A re-telling of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight with Dev "levelled the fuck up" Patel.
Andersen, telling it like it is:
If it's by A24 and someone bursts into flames in the trailer, nothing will stop me from seeing it.— Sarah Andersen (@SarahCAndersen) February 13, 2020
.............................................
Lurgy:
Finally caught whatever demon lurgy's been making the rounds since before Christmas and my sister fetched my pathetic ass some supplies.
I think there's only so much Sesame Street Honkers mimicry you can take before you stuff a cookie down your sibling's throat.
That or the premenstrual whining tipped her over the edge.
I dunno.
She fed me.
I'm happy.
I think there's only so much Sesame Street Honkers mimicry you can take before you stuff a cookie down your sibling's throat.
That or the premenstrual whining tipped her over the edge.
I dunno.
She fed me.
I'm happy.
.............................................
Those lines...
Those muted colours...
Those stances...
.............................................
This video will most likely disappear at some point.
Because, copyright.
So, if it's gone when you get here, and you're watching Daybreak - because you have excellent taste - keep an eye out for this scene in episode 8, Post Mates.
Every single human should hear this speech.
Because, copyright.
So, if it's gone when you get here, and you're watching Daybreak - because you have excellent taste - keep an eye out for this scene in episode 8, Post Mates.
Every single human should hear this speech.
.............................................
.............................................
Anachronistic:
More of this, please.
just thinkin about anachronistic/fantasy period costume design pic.twitter.com/6MeGDrjwSu— SB❄️ (@SBeep_) January 19, 2020
More of this, please.
.............................................
Sex Education season 2:
This show gives me fucking life.
And this season?
The girls.
Oh, the beautiful girls.
Episode 7.
It's all about episode 7.
This show gives me fucking life.
And this season?
The girls.
Oh, the beautiful girls.
Episode 7.
It's all about episode 7.
And this squishy moment:
It's not often I happy cry but somehow, Sex Education dragged it it out of me.
And then I saw this fan art by Rachel Xin and I was a total goner:
Aimee's little face!
I'm kind of obsessed with the Mollie Rose shoot she did for Glamour:
She's perfect.
.............................................
I'm kind of obsessed with the Mollie Rose shoot she did for Glamour:
She's perfect.
.............................................
Defending Jameela Jamil:
The internet's an ugly, vile place overrun by trolls and bigots.
I would have spoken on this earlier but Jameela asked me not to. Please read x pic.twitter.com/edpC3BRwd8— James Blake (@jamesblake) February 14, 2020
The internet's an ugly, vile place overrun by trolls and bigots.
But sometimes, every now and then, it's used for the right reasons.
Leave Jameela Jamil the fuck alone, 'kay?
Leave Jameela Jamil the fuck alone, 'kay?
.............................................
Dinosaurs in Love:
Tom Rosenthal is the reason my sister will sporadically start singing about Watermelons.
His daughter, Fenn - kick-ass name - has definitely inherited his glorious weirdness.
This is now my anthem for the next six months.
At least until Em finds something just as wondrous to earworm me with.
Fenn, my nearly 4 year old daughter, recorded her first ever solo song today. She came up with all the words herself and I helped her a little bit with the tune. It’s called ‘Dinosaurs in Love’. 🦕❤️🦕 pic.twitter.com/erCgG0sUvP— Tom Rosenthal (@tomrosenthal) January 28, 2020
Tom Rosenthal is the reason my sister will sporadically start singing about Watermelons.
His daughter, Fenn - kick-ass name - has definitely inherited his glorious weirdness.
This is now my anthem for the next six months.
At least until Em finds something just as wondrous to earworm me with.
.............................................
.............................................
Ben Aaronovitch's, Foxglove Summer:
Dominic stared at the werelight.
"What the hell is that?' he asked.
"It's a magic spell," I said, and Beverley snorted.
"Show off," she said.
"I said I was going to do magic," I said.
"But . . ." Dominic floundered around for bit before pointing at me accusingly. "You said that there's weird shit, but it normally turns out to have a rational explanation."
"It does," said Beverley. "The explanation is a wizard did it."
"That's my line," I said, and Beverley shrugged.
Fuck yeah.
...
Those were the exact words I hoarsely breathed - throat infections are delightful - into the night when I finished Peter Grant's fifth foray into the quaintly supernatural alt-London Ben Aaronovitch has so kindly weaved for him.
Because, well, fuck yeah!
This time out with Peter was completely bonkers, beyond bonkers, but somehow oddly... tranquil?
Set during the peak of summer in a small Herefordshire village by the name of Leominster, Aaronovitch manages to take our boy from his stubbornly embedded city roots, plonk him the middle of an idyllic, Fae mess, whilst simultaneously capturing that lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer feeling.
You know the one?
Where your bones are so infused with sunshine you feel almost godlike?
Helios reborn for the sole pleasure of running through sprinklers, inhaling orange Calippos, and seeing who can catch the best accidental burn from dozing too long in any available patch of grass.
I'm sure if it didn't completely refute the laws of nature this book would be radiating heat and giving off a healthy dose of steam.
If I concentrate hard enough, I can even convince myself it smells of those heady days of sun-soaked freedom.
The only other time I can remember experiencing this sensory anomaly whilst reading is from, coincidentally, the summer of 2013 - a year before Foxglove Summer was published and just before my birthday - with my hands reverently wrapped around Laurie Lee's, Cider with Rosie.
It's almost hypnotic the way the seasons effuse themselves from the pages of these two stories.
For those few hours each night, reading by torchlight in the dark - the best and only way to read - it wasn't the last throes of Scotland's weak excuse for a winter, but the summers of my childhood.
The summers that probably weren't as glorious as I remember but the memory is, skewed or not.
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, those adolescent days weren't filled with the hot mess my beloved nerd, PC Peter Grant finds himself in for the duration of his stay in the countryside.
This is where the aforementioned "bonkers" sets in.
Missing children.
Possible alien sightings.
Sentient bees.
Feral unicorns.
Dub-con river insemination?
Yeah, you heard right.
I n s e m i n a t i o n.
...
Bonkers, I tell you.
Absolutely fucking bonkers.
But my boy's a professional; PC Grant doesn't flinch in the face of snarling unicorns.
In actual fact, he taunts them with magical iron sticks.
The night may be dark and full of terrors, I thought, but I've got a big stick.
Because he's a little ridiculous at times and self-preservation seems to evade his thought process in the face of the supernatural.
I squared my shoulders, hefted Hugh's staff and walked into the kitchen, fixed the beast outside with my eyes and said, "Oi, sunshine! Cut it out."
But that just makes me love him more.
And after the previous book, with that terrible betrayal still fresh enough to make my heart flinch, I wanted him to get a win.
A proper ass-kicking defeat over the other-worldly shit-biscuits who take such delight in fucking my boy up.
And he did.
In so many ways.
But my favourite came in the form of a certain river goddess by the name of Beverley Brook.
Give me a sec, I've got some major swooning to perform.
Okay, I'm cool, all done.
For now at least.
Because Beverley Brook.
Goddamn, Beverley Brook.
When we initially met her in the first in the series, I liked her. She was interesting. Knew how to hold her own and tease Peter enough to make him squirm - always delightful to observe.
But that's pretty much all we were given.
Four books in and a few brief appearances wasn't much to weigh my feelings for her on.
As I said, I knew I liked her and I've had a low-key ship for her and Peter since their first meeting but even so, she was very much a side character.
That is until Aaronovitch decided to put me out of my misery and finally buddy-up her and Peter for an entire book, sans the rest of the ramshackle cast so we could get the full Peter/Bev experience.
And they're worth the alone time.
Beverley Brook is funny as hell, regal in her ownership of herself, at times bloody frightening and in general, one capable badass goddess.
It's adorable to watch Peter fall to pieces just looking at her.
And that would have been enough. They could have remained flirty friends who occasionally solve paranormal crimes together, but Aaronovitch obviously heard my pitiful pleas into the literary aether, kindly did me a solid and didn't stop there.
Oh no.
He went full wish fulfilment and made them adorable and flirty and bang each other's brains out before, during, and after they solved their fucked up little Arcadian mystery.
...
I feel so spoiled.
My shipping cup runneth over.
Usually authors make me work so much harder for my ships to sail.
And they do it with angst and will they/won't they bullshit.
(I'm not denigrating this method, I enjoy it immensely, but sometimes an easy romance is just what I need. See: Grace Draven's, Radiance/Eidolon; favourite laid back couple ever. Come on, The Ippos King, I need me a definitive release date; I'm dying over here)
And there simply wasn't any of that.
None whatsoever.
It was just decided.
They were a thing.
Peter and Bev forever.
Cue barf noises.
Beverley Brook stepped onto the footplate and pointed a shotgun straight at the Queen's head – I recognised the Purdey from my trunk. It was nice to see it getting an airing.
Beverley herself was wearing an oversized leather jerkin and jeans. Her dreads had been tied into a plait down her back and a pair of antique leather and brass goggles were pushed up onto her brow.
"Put your hands on your head," she said, "and step away from the boyfriend."
I'm so happy.
And mildly suspicious it was all a little too easy.
But let's ignore my pessimistic brain and concentrate on the fact that somehow, somehow, I've managed to yet again read a book about the Fae without meaning to.
...
I feel slightly hunted.
And pretty okay with that.
They are my number one supernatural species at the moment after all; especially when they're the pernicious strain I love so dearly.
And the Fae in Foxglove Summer are most certainly pernicious.
Prickish.
Perverse.
Profane.
All the P's.
You can't literally rob the cradle and not be considered one of the bad guys.
But again, with all the occult ne'er-do-wells knocking around, it wasn't the most obvious "villain" that got my attention.
No.
It was this:
WTF R U doing in the sticks? LESLEY ♥︎
I dropped the book.
I swear to you.
I dropped the fucking book.
I can't say it enough but I love Peter Grant.
He's just such a... person.
He's magical and nerdy and a top class copper but above all that, he's a good man.
Even when he's been betrayed, he's still trying to understand the other person's side.
He won't cast them off.
He's not that person.
I hit the tree again and it hurt my hands even worse.
Because getting angry doesn't help, or weeping or pleading or just fucking trying to be reasonable. Because she lost her face, man. Because that had to be like having your identity ripped away. Because you're looking in the mirror and a hideous stranger is staring back. And what would I do if I was her, if I was given that choice? – like there would even be a decision. And getting angry doesn't bring back her face or unmake the choice that she made. Any more than it made a difference when Dad wouldn't get out of bed or when Mum just flat out told you that your stuff was needed by somebody else. When the people you need stuff from are more interested in something else.
At some point the stick broke.
There were probably manly tears.
A rare quality in literary heroes.
In people in general.
Peter Grant's good people.
If only he was real.
For now I'll just continue to fan-cast in my head.
Latest front-runner for Peter?
This pretty thing:
He can act too.
I'm not completely shallow.
(As Istredd in the The Witcher. Watch The Witcher already, you fools)
Bonus adorable Peter content:
"Would you like a cup of tea?" asked Zoe.
"I tell you what," I said. "You make the tea and I'll wash up."
I'd got there just in time – another twenty-four hours and the Environment Agency would have declared the sink a Site of Special Scientific Interest and refused us access. I did briefly consider taking a broom to the spider webs in the corners, but you don't get the full Studio Ghibli from me without a sizeable cash advance.
...
This boy...
.............................................
I'm not completely shallow.
Bonus adorable Peter content:
"Would you like a cup of tea?" asked Zoe.
"I tell you what," I said. "You make the tea and I'll wash up."
I'd got there just in time – another twenty-four hours and the Environment Agency would have declared the sink a Site of Special Scientific Interest and refused us access. I did briefly consider taking a broom to the spider webs in the corners, but you don't get the full Studio Ghibli from me without a sizeable cash advance.
...
This boy...
.............................................
I see:
`snl making a wes anderson horror movie parody is probably the best and funniest thing i’ve seen pic.twitter.com/idiVeuzCH2— b (@laurieslaurence) February 15, 2020
Have you ever seen anything more perfect?
.............................................
Klaus:
I only cried a little...
It hurts!
That ending...
.............................................
Lola Vagabonde:
.............................................
Gourmet Makes:
This show is my happy place.
My sister got me into it - she's much better at Youtube than I am - and I spent the duration of whatever chest infection/Bronchitisy demon lurgy was trying to eat my lungs alive, watching the whole two series - at least what they have so far on Amazon - without really stopping.
Because Claire Saffitz is an adorable genius and I sadistically enjoy watching her struggle-bus.
You haven't lived until you've seen a mini meltdown over Kit-Kat wafer.
You just haven't.
And don't even mention tempering chocolate.
Seriously. Don't even.
Only problem is, though... this show makes me hungry. Ravening beast hungry.
And I have no Snickers or Oreos or Lucky Charms to stuff down my mouth-hole while I watch.
...
A travesty, I tell you.
But I'll endure the rabid need to feed if it means I get to watch these idiots take trash-candy and make it taste even better.
Although, how you improve on a Ferrero Rocher, I'm not entirely sure. And why have I never realised it's just Nutella inside? ... Ferrero make Nutella.
I'm so stupid.
My favourite episodes so far:
Kit-Kat
Skittles
Snickers
Ferrero Rocher
Reese's Peanut Butter Cups
Twix
(Righty tighty, lefty loosey!)
Starburst
(They're Opal Fruits. They will always be Opal Fruits)
Watch this if you enjoy cooking mysteries and rabid teasing.
Available here, here, and here:
Bon Appétit
Youtube
Amazon
(They're still loading up season 2... and I'm way too impatient for this nonsense ... to Youtube!)
.............................................
Anwitacitrya:
See that position?
All through high school.
Maths is the devil's work.
...
Featuring Maeve Atropa Riddle aka. Mae from anwitacitrya's ridiculously cool webcomic, Mae & Hilde.
It's just getting started but the aesthetic alone is enough to keep my creeping on WEBTOON for more.
.............................................
Fangs:
If you're not reading Fangs, what the hell are you even doing?
Klaus:
Oh man, I haven't felt this way since The Iron Giant. You only have to say "Superman" in a one mile radius and I'm bawling my goddamn eyes out.
...
And this might have been worse!
Ack!It hurts!
That ending...
It's official.
I have a new Christmas movie to add to the all-time collection.
And it's a beauty.
Now for some thirsty fan art:
You can't pull (spoilers) The Ghost and Mrs. Muir's ending on me and expecting me to believe all no homo happening during the film— Tench (@_tench_) November 15, 2019
---
I drew it way before seeing the film but i still love how it turned out pic.twitter.com/tKLj0OqrSK
The yellow curtain scene was just... UGH!! And visually stunning as well as the rest of the movie! That lighting and colors!! pic.twitter.com/U23JFG9yYV— Tench (@_tench_) November 16, 2019
christmas husbands pic.twitter.com/PW5JWhIuOR— mishka 🐭 comms open (@lindebergart) November 17, 2019
— 볼차라 (@alonsie) November 21, 2019
cupid and vixen pic.twitter.com/CTPrQASdUo— loving males is gay nontheless (@blondadonis) November 23, 2019
And some background appreciation:
I spent a great deal of this movie salivating over light-play.
Lola Vagabonde:
There is no God. I am ghost and ghosting and ghosted. I hunt myself pic.twitter.com/T42zpOTPOH— 🌹 lola vagabonde 🌹 (@lolavagabonde) November 21, 2019
.............................................
Gourmet Makes:
This show is my happy place.
My sister got me into it - she's much better at Youtube than I am - and I spent the duration of whatever chest infection/Bronchitisy demon lurgy was trying to eat my lungs alive, watching the whole two series - at least what they have so far on Amazon - without really stopping.
Because Claire Saffitz is an adorable genius and I sadistically enjoy watching her struggle-bus.
You haven't lived until you've seen a mini meltdown over Kit-Kat wafer.
You just haven't.
And don't even mention tempering chocolate.
Seriously. Don't even.
Only problem is, though... this show makes me hungry. Ravening beast hungry.
And I have no Snickers or Oreos or Lucky Charms to stuff down my mouth-hole while I watch.
...
A travesty, I tell you.
But I'll endure the rabid need to feed if it means I get to watch these idiots take trash-candy and make it taste even better.
Although, how you improve on a Ferrero Rocher, I'm not entirely sure. And why have I never realised it's just Nutella inside? ... Ferrero make Nutella.
I'm so stupid.
My favourite episodes so far:
Kit-Kat
Skittles
Snickers
Ferrero Rocher
Reese's Peanut Butter Cups
Twix
(Righty tighty, lefty loosey!)
Starburst
(They're Opal Fruits. They will always be Opal Fruits)
Watch this if you enjoy cooking mysteries and rabid teasing.
Available here, here, and here:
Bon Appétit
Youtube
Amazon
(They're still loading up season 2... and I'm way too impatient for this nonsense ... to Youtube!)
.............................................
Anwitacitrya:
See that position?
All through high school.
Maths is the devil's work.
...
Featuring Maeve Atropa Riddle aka. Mae from anwitacitrya's ridiculously cool webcomic, Mae & Hilde.
It's just getting started but the aesthetic alone is enough to keep my creeping on WEBTOON for more.
.............................................
Fangs:
If you're not reading Fangs, what the hell are you even doing?
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