farpastnearfutureeverpresent

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

Love (in all it's forms) is humanizing >>>

there's sooooo much meaning in mark turning and walking back towards helly and so many layers to the scene in terms of both emotions and narrative implications.

up to this point they both thought they were about to die. mark would get gemma out of lumon for his outie, turn into him and wait on his mercy to be sucked into his consciousness in a capacity that might render him into nothing more than an echo or a ghost, and helena would never turn back into helly because mark scout and gemma would expose lumon and terminate the innies' existance. mark s. is staring at this oblivion when he's staring at the door and the woman he doesn't recognize calling out for a version of him that needs him only for the labor he can provide for him in dulling his pain and earning his money and rescuing his wife.

when the red lights turn on over helly she thinks it's already over, that mark got gemma out and she'll never get to see him again. britt said the alarm reminds her of her escape attempt at the staircase, so this is where she runs to on impulse, for the slightest chance she might be able to see him again.

when she calls out his name it's just a single word to all of gemma's cries and pleas, but it's the only time in this scene when "mark" denotes him, the innie. her voice and the sight of her at the end of the corridor ground him back to himself, remind him he is a person, he has people who care about him and love him and want him because of who he is, not who he could be, and that he has things he wants and people he doesn't want to lose. he might have nothing in this world built just to control him but he has this choice and he has her and their love.

when he starts walking to helly he's made that choice with every atom of his body, but she still doesn't understand, she's thinking maybe he wants to tell her something, maybe he's coming just to say goodbye. it only hits her fully when she sees his expression, all the love and desire and rapture there, all the feeling in his heart, that this is real, that he's making this choice, which means she's not about to die and she's not about to lose him. the girl who didn't want to live half a life has become the only thing he wants to live for. it's this sublime moment of disbelief and relief at the enormity of salvation that can be achieved through your actions when you didn't ever hope you could be saved.

and then he takes her hand, and nothing exists in the world but them anymore. the world was built for lovers all along. he looks at her like he wants to drink her in and she finally lets herself have it, lets herself feel joy and pride and this conviction, my love mine all mine, nothing in the world belongs to me but my love does. and triumph, too, she chose well, she gave her heart to him and he's more than worthy of having it, and love as a source of power and lust for life, if it's the two of them against the world nothing can stand in their way.

the music is enormously important here, it coocoons them in their emotional journey, shelters them from the incomprehensible anguish of the outsider. this moment is only for them, their connection something they built and earned and will continue to fight for, independently and in spite of every controlling entity in their lives.

it's an action that is also a statement, a discovery and definition and actualization of self, i'm this kind of person, i'm the kind of person who wouldn't lose you. it's a rubicon moment, a point of no return which is the start of time, a line whose crossing will remap their world.

what he did is life-defining for both of them, the choice to put themselves and their love first, the choice to say i am a person worthy of life and joy and agency. the triumph of the human spirit over the dehumanization of the dystopian narrative.

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

It's hard knowing that there are people who do not like me

and haven't seen the best of me. Their opinions -- if they even think of me at all -- most likely do not hold me in high regard. I was a burden and difficult and troublesome. I made their life harder and they had to remove me from their environment.

It's embarassing more than anything. I know that I'm a person -- and thus good and bad and many other things -- but I take a lot more pride and comfort in the things that make me good (cheerful, encouraging, and warm) than the things that make me bad (burdensome, difficult, and troublesome). I do not enjoy all parts of myself equally. I don't even tolerate all parts of myself equally. I gravitate -- as most do, I'm sure -- to the parts that feel like soft sun on my face. Hell, I lean in towards the parts that feel like oxygen supersaturated wind, that ramp me up into a manic torando. I drag my feet towards the parts that bring me back towards the Earth. I (some parts of me) hate the dirt and the mud. And some of my most crucial parts live there. Unlike (some of) me, they never get to leave. Yet, they have made a home.

These are grounded parts of me. These are the parts of me that accept reality as it is. Sometimes the sun warms them and other times the breeze blusters through, but they cannot rely on it because it is not as steadfast as the mud.

They carve and shape embarassment out of humiliating circumstance and place their small creations along side other titles like; shame, rejection, and jealousy. It is an art gallery I refuse to visit and in doing so, often add to it.

I think I dislike these parts and their collections because I have proof that they are unlikeable. Because others (external) have disliked them. I am someone who tends to trust others over myself. I am someone who, only recently, have pondered the idea that maybe, just maybe, I know whats good for myself and everyone else is simply offering opinions and perspectives that inform, not dictate, the decisions I make.

So I am making a decision, against what the external has told me. I love the dirt. I love the mud. I love the creations of my creatures. They are artists. They make home whereever they go. They are the parts of me that persist without sun and sustinence. I am grateful for them. I will visit their empty bog of slowly melting sculptures and truly appreciate the toil and work of the masterpiece before it coalesces with it's source, ready to made new again -- and carrying more weight of emotion than before.

I love the parts of me that make me feel good because others love them too. I love the parts of me that create their shameful sculptures because they are the parts that fight for me, protect me, and exist in spite of others for me and only me. It is upsetting knowing that these parts of me are not widely loved and adored. They are enough for me. And if I am deserving and work hard, I will be enough for them too.

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

Leafeon

My piece for the Eeveelution-zine back in 2019.

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

the grief of growing

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

people will look at classic dystopian sci-fi like "wow how did the author predict this would happen" and the answer is they didn't. they hoped and hoped this wouldn't happen. (some of them, the lucky few perhaps, even died believing the worst had been averted.) these writers took a look at terrible things happening around them, and imagined a future where these terrible things dominated and warped reality, and they held it up to the audience and said "see? does this future not appall you??? it has already begun."

dystopian fiction isn't a prediction. it is a warning and a PLEA

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

being a symbolism enjoyer should humble you because at the end of the day no matter how eloquently you articulate it youre essentially saying "i love it when things have meaning"

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

This show is very David Lynch and even references Twin Peaks at certain points. The best way I've heard someone explain Lynch's work is that he adopts the aesthetic a soap and lets real people live within it and further, he let the actors play and gave minimal direction. Severance is so similar in my mind because it felt like real people throughout the whole show. These are all people living in a world where a company is doing horrendous things, and there is nothing they can do about it in the immediate present other than live in their circumstance. It's a visceral show and the setting and plot and costumes and everything allows these actors to be their characters and play within their characters. And you get Helly R. watching Gemma, entranced by her. and it makes so much sense and it was never scripted.

britt lower for vanity fair [x]

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

Losing myself to desire

I wanted (to be) her so badly. She is everything I do not see in myself and long for. She is beautiful, I am pretty. She is assertive, I am nice. She is talented, I am skilled. When she speaks, I admire the way she forms sentences fully in her mind before letting the words drip onto the table in controlled rhythmic flow. Sometimes, the facet bursts and there is rage and wrath and hydraulic power. I love (lust?) her for both. When I talk, I flitter and flutter and don't say much of anything at all. A butterfly dance in frantic confusion before landing on the same leaf from which she began her sordid flight. The only power I summon is the faint pulse of a wing that somehow still scratches my vocal cords raw.

She is alone and has told me as much. I am her best friend. She loves me. She would move in with me. She picks me up in (not) her car and drives me to (not) her home. And we smoke her cigarette wrapped joints. She is silly and refined and raw when high. I am paranoid and deep and gentle.

I realize nothing I have written reflects poorly on myself or her. I reflect poorly on myself. There is a certain beauty to be found in every type of person and face and way. But I want (to be) her. But I do not want to be alone.

I am someone who is lonely but not alone, like most I suppose. When I was younger, a friend once told me that "IDK if you realize how much of a positive effect you have on the people around you just by being yourself". I hold that dear to the most core parts of my heart. Why am I trying to be like her -- who is alone (or so she says and she is not one to mince words but carefully curate them. So alone means every syllable in her mouth).

(un)fortunately, I have yet again learned that the only way to be is the way I am. I like who I am and I want to like who I am. I am more stained than I was, when my friend told me something so sweet all those years ago. Who isn't a little more messy and a little more complete -- in a way -- as the years pass. I am getting to know myself and I celebrate the process. I played and will play with identity. The only way to know if the shoe fits is to try it on and go for a walk.

I am calloused from trying to fit into her shoes -- two sizes larger than my own. I rub and bump up against the edges of her high-healed, patent leather. I will bring my roughened skin into my own. Let my bones rest against my cracked, weathered leather. I am glad to have met (been) her and to continue meeting her.

I like the soft willow tree of a personality I bring to others. I admire the tenacity of her prickly pear cactus exterior. I will find a way to make my life serve me and include others within it. Because I love and want to love, not be possessed by love (lust?).

Thimble, Thumble

Timble, Tumble

All I have are the many years ahead of me to carve, the few years behind me to scaffold. I will make it a vicious process

and a gentle one

because when I want (to be) her. I -- truly -- want to be myself. I resonate with something in her that is clawing its way out. I claw the clay and make visceral masterpiece. 

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

Themes in Severance

-- for me -- and others. Add please or read. Enjoy, most importantly

[farpastnearfutureeverpresent]

I hope I can love someone that much someday

from the hunger games. Snow's granddaughter says this to him after viewing Katniss' and Peeta's -- supposed -- love for each other. Not true at this point, but, yet, she wishes to have it.

How essential love is to surrealism for there is nothing more absurd.

Mark S. saves his wife and abandons her for Helly R. and it makes no sense and shes screaming for him because she wants him so bad -- just as badly as he wants her. But, alas, he runs to Helly R. because he -- his innie -- is a full person who craves for something and he craves for her -- Helly -- not his wife -- Gemma - Ms. Casey -- because that's all she is to him is Ms. Casey, but Helly R. is his world. But Gemma is his world. And he runs from love to love.