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september
October 01, 2020
Things I enjoyed in the month of September:
Laini Taylor's, Strange the Dreamer:
On the second Sabbat of Twelfthmoon, in the city of Weep, a girl fell from the sky.
Her skin was blue, her blood was red.
She broke over an iron gate, crimping it on impact, and there she hung, impossibly arched, graceful as a temple dancer swooning on a lover's arm. One slick finial anchored her in place. Its point, protruding from her sternum, glittered like a brooch. She fluttered briefly as her ghost shook loose, and torch ginger buds rained out of her long hair.
Later, they would say she hadn't shed blood but wept it. That she was lewd, tonguing her teeth at them, upside down and dying, that she vomited a serpent that turned to smoke when it hit the ground. They would say a flock of moths came, frantic, and tried to lift her away.
That was true. Only that.
[...] this girl [...] shaken from some pocket of the sky.
Her feet were bare, her mouth stained damson. Her pockets were all full of plums. She was young and lovely and surprised and dead.
She was also blue.
No...
NO.
Have you ever been overwhelmed, stricken, or even paralysed by helplessness whilst reading someone else's imagined story?
Knowing full well you can't change anything. You can't alter the course of fictional history. You can't do anything but watch, powerless and barren behind an impenetrable wall cast in such wounding clarity.
And you can't look away.
As much as you may want to.
And you can't interfere.
As much as you may need to.
Like in a dream.
Like in a nightmare.
Have you ever felt that?
Helpless, and trapped, and enrapt?
You will, if you read Strange the Dreamer.
You will be invited into a world that feels almost like a memory and lured into playing an impotent god.
This isn't your story, you aren't part of it. You didn't didn't write it, you didn't live it.
You're nothing.
But you watch, you oversee, and you despair because before the story takes its first tentative breath, you're entrusted with the ending.
The horrible, unjust, inescapable conclusion to a story you don't yet know will tear you to pieces.
That will make you laugh, and root for the underdog, and believe, without shame or incredulity, in inconceivable love.
You don't know these things yet.
But you do know how it ends.
And you should be prepared.
But you never will be.
How could you be?
No one is, for that final untethering.
Strange the Dreamer is like a waking dream.
A dream I've had. You've had. Others will have.
It's familiar and alien and clear 'til the point of waking.
When you turn that final page and cannot fathom how it was all so real, or how a life could unfold in a single night of dreaming.
How the further you wake, the more unclear the life you lived mere seconds ago becomes.
How a girl born of blue and Lepidoptera could hold such dominion over other people's dreams and yet be so trapped.
Sarai was seventeen years old, a goddess and a girl. Half her blood was human, but it counted for nothing. She was blue. She was godspawn. She was anathema. She was young. She was lovely. She was afraid. She had russet hair and a slender neck, and wore a robe that belonged to the goddess of despair. It was too long, and trailed behind her, its hem worn to a sheen from dragging over the floor, back and forth. Pacing this terrace, Sarai might have walked as far as the moon and back.
Except, of course, that if she could walk to the moon, she wouldn't come back.
How a scholar of fairy tales with seemingly no power other than his innate goodness and unrivalled imagination can unknowingly possess the capacity to change everything.
It was midsummer, midmorning, in the full light of day. There were no books to hide behind, and no shadows―only Lazlo Strange in his worn gray robes, with his nose that had been broken by fairy tales, looking like the hero of no story ever told.
Or, no story yet told.
How their union is both the beginning and the end.
...
It's simple, really:
Because in dreams there are no rules.
There's only the unknown inside.
Laini Taylor knows this and with Strange the Dreamer she gifts us the dreams we've forgotten.
Those hazy unrealities we felt so acutely and couldn't hold onto, no matter how hard we tried.
...they were just two people sitting at a table regarding each other shyly through a wisp of tea steam.
Inside a dream.
Within a lost city.
In the shadow of an angel.
At the brink of calamity.
Normally, whilst reading, I'm not solely experiencing the story as it unfolds. At the back of mind I'll be forming thoughts and emotions to either put down in a review or to help fully accept what the story means to me when it's over.
This wasn't the case with Strange the Dreamer.
There was no reflection, no internal ponderings, there was only the story, and there was only forward.
As in a dream, you don't look back; you can't look back.
Moved by some invisible Virgil, both unstoppable and welcomed.
I didn't, couldn't think while I was reading this book.
I only felt.
But when I finished?
When I finished there was a hum of Dylan Thomas playing at the forefront of my mind:
A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds
Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds
Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.
She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies
She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.
And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
Sarai, our soft, lapis goddess is that girl of nightmare and madness.
Lazlo, the dream-room she inhabits. The safety she finds refuge in.
The heaven-proof house her cage.
She, the scintillation that changes his everything.
I can't help but see them both in Dylan Thomas' words.
And what a fine synergy to find with a poem I've loved for years, and a book that's softly crept its way into my heart.
An unexpected somnambulism.
Ethereal and brutal.
A dream of blue-skinned goddesses and noses broken by fairy tales.
And the destruction that trails them.
"The Muse of Nightmares," he said. "It sounds like a poem."
A poem? Sarai detected nothing mocking in his voice, but she had to see his face to confirm it, which meant sitting up and breaking the embrace. Regretfully, she did. She saw no mockery, but only . . . witchlight, still witchlight, and she wanted to live in it forever.
She asked in a hesitant whisper, "Do you still think I'm a . . . singularly unhorrible demon?"
"No," he said, smiling. "I think you're a fairy tale. I think you're magical, and brave, and exquisite. And . . ." His voice grew bashful. Only in a dream could he be so bold and speak such words. "I hope you'll let me be in your story."
Strange the Dreamer isn't a book you can easily describe and I'm not sure I'd even want to.
Sometimes a book is better read than described.
I could tell you of the world it inhabits, with its musty, collegiate libraries, uncrossable deserts laced with chitinous deathtraps slumbering in wait of a good meal.
Or of lost-named cities oppressed by metallic, lofty divinities, burnished in blood and avengement.
I could wax lyrical over Laini Taylor's prose which embraces the poetical yet somehow doesn't venture into floridness. It instead begs the question: why aren't all thoughts expressed the way Taylor expresses them?
It was time. She closed her eyes. She closed them tight. Her gift was ugly. She never let anyone see her call it forth. [...] She took a deep breath. [...] And screamed.
It was clearly a scream―the rictus tension in her face, head thrust forward, throat stretched taut―but no sound came out. Sarai didn't scream sound. She screamed something else. It issued forth: a soft, boiling darkness.
[...]
Streaming forth into the night, the darkness fractured into a hundred fluttering bits like windblown scraps of velvet. A hundred smithereens of darkness, they broke apart and re-formed and siphoned themselves into a little typhoon that swept down toward the rooftops of Weep, whirling and wheeling on soft twilight wings.
Sarai screamed moths. Moths and her own mind, pulled into a hundred pieces and flung out into the world.
I could clumsily explain the inescapable reality of prejudice that runs explicitly through Sarai and Lazlo's worlds.
And so Grief and Shame abided in adjoining rooms with the door shut between them, holding their pain in their arms instead of each other.
How it's a stark reflection of our own existences.
I could tell you these things. I could go into more detail.
But I won't.
Because like I said, some things are better read than described.
And Strange the Dreamer is one of these things.
And it's not over.
Even though we're given the ending before the beginning, it's only the ending of one half of the story.
A dream to be continued.
All you have to do is fall asleep.
All you have to do is turn the first page.
Half tangled in the remnants of his dream, Lazlo was still seeing the wide blue eyes of the beautiful blue girl, and he was frustrated to have wakened and lost her so abruptly. If he could get back to the dream, he wondered, might he find her again? He laid the dead moth on the bedside table and fell back to sleep.
Let's fanart:
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Dreamy dresses by Chotronette:
I've always thought if I could afford a proper fairy tale dress, it'd be an Elie Saab creation but I don't know, these Chotronette sparklies are lusting my brain out pretty hard.
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Lavie Tidhar for Tor.com:
As a swear-happy monster, this article made me happy.
But the best part?
Watching the cursing elite take down the puritans in the comments section.
...
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— shitty watercolour (@SWatercolour) September 6, 2020
...
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🪑Rooms🪟🚪 pic.twitter.com/xh3XYVh4F8
— 海島千本 (@Kaisen_Tobiuo) August 16, 2020
Sweet lord, the details.
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I love words created for a particular thing/situation.
Like defenestration and vellichor.
Pediculous may be kinda gross but it is pleasingly specific.
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Chris Sickels of Red Nose Studio for TJ Klune:
Cover art design for books is something I'm mildly obsessed with.
Be it traditional, digital, a mixture of both, it doesn't matter.
If it works, I want to know how.
And when I first saw the cover for the first book in TJ Klune's new series, I went a little apeshit.
Because look at it.
Sculpture? Painted backgrounds? Old school stop-motion vibes?
Uhm...
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The Foxhole Court fan art:
I've only read the first in the All for the Game trilogy, annnnnd... it was okay.
But the fanart?
Oh, the fanart.
Can you say: Cute. as. fuck?
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Who's gonna drive you home, tonight?:
I have information processing issues and even crossing a sidewalk makes me nervous sometimes. I'm almost 30 and l will Never operate a vehicle
— ☆Tuesday☆ (@tuesdaysdead) August 17, 2020
This thread made me so happy because I can't drive.
I've never taken a single lesson.
I have no great desire to change that.
And I've felt guilty and shamed over it since I turned seventeen.
Because, y'know, society says you should do certain things at a certain time when society tells you to.
...
Mmmmmmnope, no thanks.
Having HSP means I overload on sensory information just walking down the street, so how the fuck am I meant to navigate high speed traffic with boundless idiots on the road and not recreate a scene from Mad Max?
...
I'm not, that's how.
Even though speeding away from Doof Warrior and his bungee cords would be kinda epic...
Who am I kidding?
I'd probably wet myself before I even got the engine started.
That fucker's terrifying.
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♥️🖤 A Darker Shade of Magic 🖤♥️ pic.twitter.com/XMaEHy844b
— em (@rudebeetle) September 9, 2020
...
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It's quite beautiful.
Just look at this gem:
Swipe.
You must swipe it.
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I still know all the words.
...
I STILL KNOW ALL THE WORDS.
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Raj Brueggemann and Snorlax:
I've wanted a giant Snorlax pillow for a while.
Brueggemann isn't making that desire any fucking easier with this adorable bullshit.
Maybe I can convince my sister to make me one...
Also, this:
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God's Little Cow and the Business Goose:
whenever the world is too much I think about how the word for ladybug in Gaelic means “God’s little cow” and penguin is “business goose” in Mandarin and it makes things a little better.
— Boze Herrington, library goblin (@BozeReads) September 11, 2020
I don't think I can get over this.
Business goose...
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CuddlyVeedles', Veterinary:
You'd think it'd take the life out of the image but actually, it's the opposite.
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Many kinds of toast:
I'm so tired of having to do things...I want to sit in a night-blooming flower garden and eat many kinds of toast
— Katherine 🕯️✨ (@MageOfSolitude) August 19, 2020
...
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Marion Bordeyne's Dramione AU:
I don't even know if I ship this ship, but I am so here for the fanart.
That second image?
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A gift for my birthday from the rentals.
He just sits at the end of my bed and quietly ruins my life with his stubby appendages.
...
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Dune:
The first trailer for Denis Villeneuve’s DUNE is finally here. #DuneMovie pic.twitter.com/GwWoqWSVzm
— ⊃∪∩⪽ (@DuneNews) September 9, 2020
...
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Other people listen to ASMR, I watch watercolour watermelons.
...
FUCK, this is satisfying.
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Some sense from the Twitter oracles:
We’ve got to abolish this idea that art and books are escapist wastes of time and let ourselves be nourished by rich, beautiful things that aren’t held captive to the tyranny of the news cycle.
— The Library Owl 🌻🧙♀️🦉 (@SketchesbyBoze) September 26, 2020
Telling people who are happy about a thing about how much you think said thing sucks is just kinda rude and the sooner people figure this out, the sooner I will be less inclined to want to throw stuff at them.
— Hillary Monahan (@HillaryMonahan) September 26, 2020
someone said cats are a lesson in consent and so many controlling people hate cats because they can't control them and i haven't stopped thinking about it since
— bunny girl 🐰🐇 (@hleneeh) September 7, 2020
Fall is almost here. Enough with this “beach body” nonsense. What you need right now is a *ghostly body with a detachable pumpkin head* that you can throw at unwary travellers riding on horseback across moonlit meadows.
— Icona📚 (@Iconawrites) August 28, 2020
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Chai and the Gods of Shade and Shadow:
Already wanting to read something and then getting positive reinforcement from the people you follow is up there with surprise Pop Tarts and the sweet, weird pain of a split lip.
...
Is that last part just me?
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My cat's face when I don't open the door at 2:40 in the morning for him like the good servant I'm supposed to be. pic.twitter.com/YZFflVa4KS
— Iruse (@IlseHarting) August 26, 2020
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Shameless season 9:
Our last season with Emmy Rossum (which adorably autocorrected to possum ... she's such a possum) and I am going to miss the shit out her.
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This made me cry 😭😭😭😭 pic.twitter.com/RQW1Zh3yof
— meikiel meyerz. (@TheeGoldBoss) September 9, 2020
God faces the aftermath...... pic.twitter.com/zjfkxF66am
— lize mo petey (@eliza_morey) September 13, 2020
Meatier... Meteor... Meatier...
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Tessa Gratton for Tor.com:
The things you come to understand just by reading other people's stories.
I haven't read any Tessa Gratton yet but I can already tell her writing is going to peel away those layers and find my hidden scales.
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Behold!
And some bloopers for your pleasure:
this ENOLA HOLMES blooper reel is absolute perfection pic.twitter.com/763w7zBq7i
— NetflixFilm (@NetflixFilm) September 28, 2020
And a little Giada Carboni, the current queen of my fangirl heart:
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“Run away, Howl.” pic.twitter.com/bGkIU5zsVz
— Ibon✌🐸💦 (@birdfrogdraws) September 22, 2020
No matter what you are, I will love you. pic.twitter.com/EU0rWL23RH
— Ibon✌🐸💦 (@birdfrogdraws) August 31, 2020
My favorite spirit in Spirited Away is the Radish Spirit!
— Ibon✌🐸💦 (@birdfrogdraws) May 25, 2020
What a chill bro 🥺 pic.twitter.com/UMuCcGQM8e
I want to scream cry on a rock with pals pic.twitter.com/fOwHqgZ6Qg
— Ibon✌🐸💦 (@birdfrogdraws) August 22, 2020
"Find me in the future!" pic.twitter.com/6DTE2oZ4uG
— Ibon✌🐸💦 (@birdfrogdraws) August 24, 2020
I’ve met you once in my mother’s stories. pic.twitter.com/DMckrvlAEh
— Ibon✌🐸💦 (@birdfrogdraws) September 9, 2020
#千と千尋の神隠し pic.twitter.com/9tiIUa3Zlr
— M (@Merasgar) September 6, 2020
🌝 🌚 pic.twitter.com/w25tSTPdF9
— M (@Merasgar) February 29, 2020
#霹靂布袋戲 pic.twitter.com/3ea4cjDggB
— M (@Merasgar) February 9, 2020
#original
— M (@Merasgar) May 11, 2019
20 yrs old today✌️ pic.twitter.com/c3qqkyiN15
There's so much talent on the internet, it's making me mad.
...
In a good way.
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Shallow as fuck.
But oh so pretty.
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Guiding some lost ducklings back to their mum 🍃🦆 pic.twitter.com/Ck57X8cHsh
— sarah webb! (@BearsAreRed) August 31, 2020
muggy boggy summer day 😪 pic.twitter.com/8oCnkRMQBU
— sarah webb! (@BearsAreRed) August 25, 2020
happy valentines !!💖💞 here's another page from my queer selkie comic from last summer, bc I'm still really proud of it :'') pic.twitter.com/GCdlMw3WNH
— sarah webb! (@BearsAreRed) February 14, 2020
the game I worked on last year is looking to hire a new bg artist !!
— sarah webb! (@BearsAreRed) October 21, 2019
It’s a cool project working with wonderful people who know what they’re doing, & it was one of the best jobs I’ve had. Check out the link if you might be interested!🌞✨ https://t.co/889v3GwvWH pic.twitter.com/Pp3OP90ndV
aw man, that adventure time finale 💘 pic.twitter.com/dT2lCqbHHZ
— sarah webb! (@BearsAreRed) September 4, 2018
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Oh, Katherine Ryan.
You beautiful, foul-mouthed salamander.
Never, ever change.
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And it's amazing...
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Sometimes brevity is key.
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