#Maybe the correct answer rather than many paragraphs of ranting was just that

[restnowyourhardshipisover]

i cannot find myself getting 100% behind your c!tomym takes in regards to c!wilbur but damn if I don't want to know more

Yeah, my take's definitely interpretation, no one has to agree with it <3

I think I'd summerize my understanding of current crime boys like this:

Tommy cares deeply for Wilbur, while holding complicated feelings about their past and Wilbur needs Tommy's support to function.

They're both erratic in different ways in terms of not knowing what they want. Or knowing where they want to be emotionally but having no idea how to get there. Tommy's self image is himself as absolutely correct and infalible and Wilbur having as close to the opposite self image as possible.

Tommy genuinely cares for Wilbur, and through that he ends up doing a lot of things that hurt him. I've gone into detail before but for example: Wilbur was talking about when he apologized he felt that people weren't receptive or considered him dangerous. That happened because Tommy took them aside and undercut Wilbur's efforts to apologize. This is amplified by how Tommy's been really uncomfortable with people who he's close to having connections other than their connection to him (such as the betrayal he expressed at Tubbo and Ranboo's relationship).

Tommy takes advantage of his position to isolate Wilbur, out of concern, out of bitterness, out of a desire for the old wilbur back, out of love, maybe any of the above, I personally lean towards all of the above. But it doesn't change that he does it. But like, as much as the motivations are based on genuine feelings Tommy's part, the systematic isolation of Wilbur is an abuse thing.

Why does Tommy have that position? Well, Wilbur's not quite in a place emotionally or physically where he can hold a conversation or get one location to the next without support (support Tommy most often provides). Which I mostly evidence through mechanical minecraft, how Wilbur plays and how he somehow still isn't wearing armor. And Tommy's the one to provide it. Wilbur brings Tommy around with him because without someone to support him he is too traumatized to function (and i mean, purgatory is pretty fucking bad on the trauma scale).

Wilbur's apology to Techno is the first one that Tommy fully can't interject in, and while Wilbur does start suicidally ideating at the end of that conversation it still goes so much better than previous ones because Tommy doesn't immediately reinforce to everyone involved 'Wilbur bad and dangerous'.

I also divert with a lot of sleepy bois fans in my observation of continuity that Wilbur has apologized to Tommy, repeatedly on many topics, but always in the same specific and action driven way that he's apologized to everyone else he's apologized to. Not the blanket "I'm sorry for everything, going forward I'll be exactly who you want" that portions of the fandom (and maybe Tommy) might want. I even think Wilbur's gone farther than he needs to, he's apologized that he wasn't there during exile to punch Dream which... I mean being dead at the time I'd say Wilbur's got a pretty solid reason it's not his fault he wasn't there.

Tommy has a habit of trying to simplify people to what he remembers them for. Wilbur's not the man who once forged Tommy's desires into rhetoric to legitimize them.

Tommy also expressed with some frequency that he doesn't believe Wilbur deserves to be alive (or prior to the revival, deserves to be revived). I don't think Tommy actually believes that deep down, but I do think Wilbur hears it.

Hopefully this clarifies things a bit. I have lots of contradictory crime duo thoughts.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

with this unruly heart of mine

in which we all wish our parents reacted the same way as Alcina does when one of her daughters comes out to her

title is from Unruly Hearts from The Prom because it fit

-----------------------------

MERCUTIO

If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a case to put my visage in. A visor for a visor. What care I What curious eye doth cote deformities? Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.

Alcina read that line over and over again, but she still had no idea what the hell any of it really meant. She sighed and leaned back into the cushions of her seat. If she kept getting caught up on the literary meaning of every other paragraph then she would never finish this damned book.

She picked up the teacup sitting on the stand beside her chair and took a long sip. The tea was of sweet cinnamon on her tongue. It left a much better taste in her mouth than the rather gross relationship between Romeo and Juliet in this book. If the short amount of time the two knew each other wasn’t bad enough, the age gap made her teeth bare and nose wrinkle in disgust. What the hell was this William Shakespeare guy thinking when he wrote this?

The soft sound of bare feet padding against hardwood brought her back to the surface of complete awareness, her focus shifting away from the book and to the late-night arrival watching nearby.

A certain fly child stood, arm on the doorway. Her hair was shaggy from seemingly just waking up--or maybe she hadn’t slept at all in the first place. Unruly blonde locks were sticking up in various directions around her head, framing her face like an adolescent lion’s mane. The nightgown she wore was a size too big and drowning her thin frame.

The light from the fireplace made her golden-amber eyes look hollow.

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“May I sit with you?”

“Of course.”

Slower than she’d ever seen her move before, Bela inched her way onto the cushioned chair beside Alcina’s. She pulled her knees up her chest, bare toes poking over the edge of the seat, and Alcina regarded them with a scrunch of her nose.

“What have I told you about going around the castle barefoot?” Alcina chided gently.

Bela didn’t look away from the flickering fire in the fireplace. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

Something was bothering her.

Bela was a rather fickle little thing. Some days, she wanted to tell Alcina everything, every little fact of the new knowledge she had obtained from her books, all the small details of her latest stories or ideas. Other days, she put up walls and gave vague answers to questions prodded into her sensitive skin, curling into herself like a frightened snail afraid of being interrogated. This seemed to be something of the latter, and Alcina made a mental note to tread lightly to avoid upsetting her daughter.

“I don’t understand this at all,” Alcina said, waggling the book in her hands, trying to make small talk with her distressed child. She didn’t want to pry and further put Bela on edge more than she clearly was, but she couldn’t not do something about her bitter mood. What kind of mother would she be if she didn’t at least attempt to help with her kids’ problems?

“I can hardly make heads or tails of anything they’re saying,” she continued, hoping she wasn’t laying it on too thick.

Bela raised her head from her knees slightly. “What book is it?”

“Romeo and Juliet.”

There was a morbid snort. “How coincidental…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Bela shook her head. “Lemme see. What part are you at?”

Alina pointed out the current line she had reread at least five times over without being able to discern the Shakespearean into modern-day language. Bela, however, looked it over once, scanned the other pieces of dialogue for context, nodded, then explained, “In this scene, Romeo, Mercutio, and Benvolio are sneaking into a party thrown by the Capulets by wearing masks to disguise themselves. Romeo is upset over Juliet and says he isn’t going to dance. Mercutio then teases him over this and turns all of Romeo’s words into gratuitous sexual metaphors to poke fun at him. Mercutio ends up going on this whole rant about Queen Mab of the fairies, who visits people in their dreams until Romeo and Benvolio cut in to get things back on track. Romeo also kinda foreshadows the entire play at one point. See? Right here: ‘I fear too early, for my mind misgives Some consequence yet hanging in the stars Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night’s revels, and expire the term Of a despisèd life closed in my breast By some vile forfeit of untimely death.’ I do believe that is hinting at his eventual fate of death.”

Alcina blinked at her for a moment before smiling fondly and rubbing her head. “Such a smart girl,” she cooed. “I could have never gotten that out of this .”

Bela smiled, but then it quickly disappeared, and she leaned back into her chair, curling up and watching the fire once again.

Now Alcina was really concerned. Bela was never one to let go of praise and affection so easily. Usually, she savored it a bit longer before moving onto something else, but here she was, brushing off Alcina’s words and touch as though they were nothing.

Something was very, very wrong.

However, before she had the chance to take the risk and attempt to ask questions, Bela spoke up.

“Have you ever been in love, Mother?”

Surprised, Alcina asked, “And what brought this up?”

Bela shrugged, not making eye contact. She kept looking at the fire as though she wanted to throw herself into it. Her voice was small, so small. “Just curious.”

“I see,” Alcina nodded. She looked up, thinking for a moment as she wracked her brain of the memories of her past life. “I have been in love before. Many times, actually.”

Bela gave her a curious look, finally pulling her gaze from the flames. “Really?”

“Indeed,” Alcina confirmed. “Though, I do believe that just comes with growing up. You gain lovers, you lose lovers. Some were real, some were fantasies I made up. Some lasted a few days, some a few months, some a few years.” She took a sip of her tea again. “None of them really mattered in the end, though. Clearly.” Another sip.

Bela nodded faintly. “Okay.”

“Have you ever been in love?” Alcina decided to ask.

Strangely, Bela went rigid. Her claws clenched around the sides of her calves as she stared forward with pupils that were constricted into pinpricks. Sweat beaded along the golden crown of her head.

“I-I-- umm…”

Alcina furrowed her eyebrows in worry. She closed Romeo and Juliet with a bookmark to mark her page, then set a hand on Bela’s back. Her daughter was trembling.

“Bela?” Alcina said, keeping her voice soothing and low to avoid setting off the poor girl even further. “Is everything alright? You don’t look well.”

“Yes, yes,” Bela answered her, much too quickly for it to be convincing. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Before Alcina could prod further, Bela shot up to her feet. She began to chew on one of her claws, flexing her free hand at her side in visible agitation. Pieces of her skin broke off into flies and buzzed around her head madly. She seemed to be dissociating in panic.

“Bela,” Alcina rose to her feet slowly, not wanting to accidentally frighten her daughter. “Bela, what’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Bela said, even when she was so obviously far from fine. Her chest was beginning to heave.

“Darling,” Alcina said, and that seemed to get Bela to crack a bit.

With a tight whimper, Bela shook her head. “Hard-- hard to breathe--”

Instantly, Alcina loosely took Bela by the arms and lowered her to the ground. In the firelight, she could see the pallor of her daughter’s increasing panic as it morphed into a complete attack on her anxiety. Bela grabbed her wrists with her claws dug in for desperate grounding, and Alcina let her, even when it stung her skin. Her comfort was far from important in that moment.

“Alright, honey,” Alcina said. “We’re going to do the thing we’ve been practicing, alright? Do you think you can do it?”

Wordlessly, Bela nodded.

“That’s my strong girl,” Alcina said. “Alright, give me five things you can see.”

“Y-you,” Bela stammered. The words shook when they left her lips. “Your hair’s kinda bushy.”

Alcina rolled her eyes in a good-natured way. “Thank you for pointing that out, Bela.”

Bela’s fight instantly gave in at that and she hunched her shoulders in, looking ashamed. Quick to correct herself, Alcina lifted her chin so they could make eye contact.

“I was only teasing you, honey,” Alcina said. “Keep going.”

Bela nodded. “The fire; it’s really pretty. Your-- your, umm, chair; it looks soft. The book; not the best of Shakespeare’s works. And, ah-- the teacup; it has doves on it.”

“Very good,” Alcina praised. “Four things you can feel.”

“The fire’s-- the fire’s warmth. My heart in-- my heart in my throat. The floor under me; I should have worn socks.”

“I told you,” Alcina cut in playfully.

Bela swallowed thickly. “A-and, umm-- and my anxiety. It’s like a Lycan in my chest.”

Alcina frowned at that but quickly wiped it off her face for now. She stroked Bela’s cheek, gaining a spark of hope when Bela leaned into her hand.

“I feel you, too,” Bela said.

“You only needed to name five, little moth,” Alcina said, bopping her on the nose.

Bela just shrugged.

“But you’re doing so well. Can you give me three things you can hear?”

“My heartbeat in my ears; it sounds like thunder. I don’t like thunder. Umm-- the fire crackling; I like that. And-- and a raven outside. I think that’s Merlin. His cawing is kinda raspier than the other birds’. I think he may have hurt his throat at some point.”

A small smile grew onto Alcina’s lips. She continued caressing Bela’s cheek as she talked to her. “Now two things you can smell.”

“Fear,” Bela said almost instantly. Her nose twitched. “I smell fear.”

Alcina could smell it, too. The thickened dread wafting off of her shaken daughter was acrid, bitter, and unsettling.

“Umm--” Bela’s claws fidgeted, clicking against each other softly. “And your tea. Smells like cinnamon. Cinnamon makes me sneeze.”

“One more. One thing you can taste.”

“Fear.”

“Fear?” Alcina echoed, one eyebrow raised. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“What does fear taste like?”

Bela stared down at her claws, which she splayed open before herself. “It-- it has a slightly dull metallic taste that’s mixed with urea, I think. Sometimes it tastes like popping a bloody, pus-filled blister in your mouth and squeezing every drop out with your teeth and savoring it on your tongue. Sucking the wound clean and swallowing it down.” She clenched her fists. “But it doesn’t get clean. It doesn’t dry out. The blister just keeps oozing and oozing until all the discharge comes pouring out of your mouth, but even then it doesn’t stop. Because you can’t force it all down. You can’t just swallow and think it’s done. That’s not how anxiety works. It keeps coming, even when you thought it was gone, and it leaves behind this awful flavor of bitter bile. It’s acidic, too, you know? It melts your chest and stomach and makes you feel like you’re sinking in your own skin.” She looked up at Alcina, and her eyes were shiny and blank. “I taste fear, Mother.”

There was silence between them for just a moment. Bela wasn’t looking at Alcina anymore; she seemed to think the floor was very interesting at that moment. Alcina was still considering her daughter’s dark words, replaying them over and over again until the subtle taste of sour gall spread across her tongue. She swallowed it down and winced when it drooled over the back of her throat like rancid molasses.

“You did it, baby,” Alcina finally said, smiling despite her worry, despite the flavor of fear in her mouth. “I’m so proud of you.”

Bela just nodded. Though she was no longer having a panic attack, she didn’t seem any less upset. Alcina considered letting it go, especially after just having calmed her down, but if something was bothering her daughter so much that she couldn’t breathe when she thought about it too hard, she knew she couldn’t just leave it be. It could escalate into something much, much worse, and she knew damn well that Bela was willing to go to such extremes, if her explanation of fear and the way she kept looking at the fire wasn’t enough proof of that.

“Now,” Alcina saw Bela tense, but she plunged anyway. “I need you to tell me what’s bothering you so I can help.”

Bela shook her head with a strangled whimper.  “I can’t tell you.”

“Bela, I’m your mother. You can tell me anything.”

“You’ll hate me.”

“I won’t hate you.”

Bela was quiet. Then, slowly, she dragged her gaze up to Alcina. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise, Bela. I would never hate you.”

Bela nodded. “Okay.” Her claws clenched into fists against the floorboards, knuckles shaking and turning white. She took several deep breaths before forcing out, “I-- I don’t-- I don’t like people like that. Like how I’m supposed to.”

Silence.

Tears flowed freely from Bela’s eyes and she choked on a sob. Her head hung in shame as her entire body quaked. The poor girl looked terrified, and the sight hit Alcina right in the heart--though she didn’t quite get it.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said.

“No, no-- you don’t understand,” Bela’s breath was coming out thin and raspy again. She sat up straight, claws now knotted in her nightgown, tensing and pulling. “I don’t-- I don’t like people, Mama. The way other people do. The way everyone does. I’ve-- I’ve tried, but--” She cut herself off with a whimper, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“What do you mean?” Alcina asked. Trying to discern Bela’s vague words was like trying to discern Shakespearean. “Do you think you can explain it to me, hun? Like you did with the book and the fear. I want to help you.”

Bela sniffled, then nodded. “I-- I, umm-- I don’t feel anything towards people. Like-- like that. Romantically. And sexually.”

Finally, it dawned on Alcina.

“When I read those cheesy romance books Daniela likes, I don’t get the characters’ feelings at all. Just the thought of being in a relationship like that makes me so uncomfortable and I don’t know why, and that scares me, Mama.” Bela continued, her anguish oozing into every word she spoke. “I don’t like the thought of being tied down to someone like that, but it still feels like something has been stolen from me. That promise of a future with true love and marriage and a fairy tale ending that Daniela always talks about is gone, even though I still want it. Or, at least, I think I want it. I don’t know what I want.” She sniffled, looking miserable. “It’s the same for sexual stuff. When I come to scenes with sex in them in books, it makes my skin feel all weird, like severed hands are crawling all over my body. I get embarrassed and awkward and uneasy, and I don’t understand that, either. It just makes me feel so sick to my stomach.”

There was a pause. Bela was taking several shallow breaths and digging her claws into her legs, so Alcina reached out and took one of her hands, stroking her knuckles with her thumbs.

“Breathe, baby,” Alcina murmured. “Breathe.”

“I’ve-- I’ve tried to force myself to be like everyone else before,” Bela said unexpectedly.

Taken aback, Alcina said, “What?”

Bela swallowed thickly. “With-- with a maiden. You know how I am with them- too nice, too polite. I befriended one of them. We were kinda close. After a while, she started making moves on me. I knew what she wanted for so long, but I kept avoiding it because I was uncomfortable or scared. But then I had this revelation: maybe if I did this with her, I would finally feel something! I would be like everyone else! So I did. With her. And I didn’t like it.”

“Bela…”

“It hurt,” Bela whispered. “Like I was being scraped raw. Or my body was being turned inside out. I felt so sick. Humiliatingly, I started crying during it, but I don’t think she noticed. If she did, she didn’t stop. Not until she was finished. When she was, I threw up after she left. I was so sore.” Alcina squeezed her hand, and she sucked in a sharp breath, “But-- but I had to have liked it! I got, umm--” Her cheeks began to turn red with embarrassment, though Alcina didn’t blame her. Having to explain your sex life to your mother would be awkward for anyone. “I got…wet. And-- and that happens when you’re aroused! So-- so I do like sexual stuff!”

“Oh, sweetie…” Alcina sighed sadly.

Bela hunched her shoulders in. “R-right?”

“Honey, ‘getting wet’ doesn’t always mean you’re aroused,” Alcina said gently. “Simply viewing something erotic, like a naked woman, for example, could trigger this bodily response. It’s also a way for the vagina to lubricate itself to help dull the pain of penetration. You can be in a sexual situation and be wet, but not want to have sex. That’s completely normal and one hundred percent okay.” She lifted her hands to cup Bela’s cheeks. “Wetness is not an acceptable body language for consent. Who were you trying to convince: the maiden or yourself?”

Bela stared at her for a long moment, eyes wide and damp, breath hitched in the back of her throat. Then, she began shaking her head, pulling her hair, and weeping, “No, no-- I wanted it, I wanted it-- I know I did. I’m normal, I’m normal--”

It was truly heartbreaking to see her child in such a way. Bela seemed downright devastated over her own sexuality, to the point where she thought she was disgusting and unnatural for something that was actually completely normal.

Taking her daughter’s hands to keep her from hurting herself, Alcina went to say something, but Bela cut her off, getting to the words first.

“What’s wrong with me?!” Bela cried. “Why-- why am I like this, Mama? Am I broken? Am I heartless? I-- I love you and Cassandra and Daniela! I love Uncle Karl and Uncle Moreau and Auntie Donna and Angie and the Duke! I love reading and animals and writing, but-- but when I-- when I try to-- when it comes to sex and romance, I--” She finally gave up and sobbed.

“Oh, Bela,” Alcina said sadly. “Oh, my poor, sweet girl…” She pulled Bela into her lap and held her close, rocking her back and forth to help comfort her. Her fingers gently ran through Bela’s messy hair. “Shh, shh… You aren’t broken or heartless, sweetheart. This is an okay thing to feel.”

“You-- you don’t think I’m wrong?”

Alcina’s heart twisted at the way Bela looked up at her to say that, her eyes holding so much sadness and pain. She tucked her daughter’s head back under her chin and tightened the embrace.

“Absolutely not. Do you think you are?”

Bela answered in a strangled whimper. Alcina couldn’t help but wonder what put such a thought in her daughter’s brain--though, this was Bela she was dealing with. her anxiety was a wild, bestial thing that made her worry about the most obscene things.

“Did you really think this would change anything?” Alcina asked. “That I could ever possibly love you any less?”

Bela shrugged weakly.

“I-I just…”

That deep shame from before seemed to return and Bela’s head dipped. Alcina felt like she was going to try and pull away, so she tightened the embrace and used one hand to lift the girl’s chin.

“Hey, hey,” Alcina murmured, brushing away fresh tears on Bela’s cheeks. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this, sweetie. There’s nothing wrong with you, either. And if anyone says otherwise, tell me. I’ll eviscerate them.”

That got a tiny, watery giggle out of Bela.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Alcina went on. “Sex and romantic relationships… They aren’t for everyone. And that’s okay. It certainly doesn’t make you broken or heartless.”

“B-but--”

“Hun, look at me. Do I really look like someone who will judge you for being this way?”

Bela shrugged a little. Her little body seemed to have exhausted itself of all its efforts to argue.

Alcina rocked her gently, stroking her hair the way she knew she liked it. “How about I explain something to you, hm?”

Bela looked up at her blearily.

“Your love may not be arousing or romantic, but you want to know what it is like?”

“What?” Bela asked softly.

“Your love is warm and fuzzy, like being wrapped in a blanket during a blizzard. It’s safe and reassuring. Your love is security and shelter. Your love is noticing all the little details, like my bushy hair because it’s late at night or your Uncle Karl’s finger twitching because he’s nervous at the meetings with Mother Miranda but is trying to hide it or Cassandra’s leg bouncing because she’s full of pent up, restless energy. Your love is knowing what makes each of us tick and doing everything in your power to make us feel better when we’re upset. Your love is like the first flower showing up in the snow as winter melts away and the beginning flickers of a tender flame and the gentle fluttering of bird wings.” Alcina let out a soft laugh. “I’m nowhere near as good at details as you are, my darling. But, most importantly, your love is normal and natural and what makes you you. And you shouldn’t have to try and change that for anyone, no matter what.”

Bela stared up at her in silenced awe, tears trickling down her cheeks. Alcina squeezed her reassuringly.

“I want you to know that I’ll always support you, okay?” Alcina said. “I’m always going to be here for you.”

Bela nodded, hiccuping softly. “Thank you, Mama,” she whispered through tiny whimpers. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Bela,” Alcina said. She kissed the top of Bela’s head and purred to her softly. “My perfect, perfect girl.”

[mellicose]

Doctor ... WTF?

An impassioned rant about the steady decline of Doctor Who, the trajectory of the Thirteenth Doctor, and the righteous indignation after The Timeless Children, not only as a Whovian, but as a woman-

I love how certain people are spinning The Timeless Children as being good, yet the BBC has released (2)TWO statements basically telling fans the following:

“Doctor Who is a beloved long-running series and we understand that some people will feel attached to a particular idea they have of the Doctor, or that they enjoy certain aspects of the programme more than others. Opinions are strong and this is indicative of the imaginative hold that Doctor Who has – that so many people engage with it on so many different levels.

We wholeheartedly support the creative freedom of the writers and we feel that creating an origin story is a staple of science fiction writing. What was written does not alter the flow of stories from William Hartnell’s brilliant Doctor onwards – it just adds new layers and possibilities to this ongoing saga.”

Creative freedom, huh? Ask Joe Hill about it. Or Gaiman. The writers, including Chibnall, are only free to do what the Beeb and the other show investors tell them. 

They go on:

“We have also received many positive reactions to the episode’s cliff-hanger. There are still a lot of questions to be answered, and we hope that you will come back to join us and see what happens, but we appreciate that it’s impossible to please all of our viewers all of the time and your feedback has been raised with the programme’s Executive Producer." 

Uglylaughing.gif

There is a huge, monumental difference between 'not being able to please everyone all at the same time' and basically making a whole fandom, New and Classic, young and old, come together with the same level of disgust and disappointment.

I also find the people arguing "Canon? What canon?" about the Doctor now being the Lord and Savior of the Shining World of the Seven Systems to be foolish at best, and disingenuous at worst.

No canon?? So what have I been steeping myself in for years  - a vague approximation of a tale? Please. Of course, writers have embellished and alluded, but tampering with the unspoken but well-known 'no touch' rule about the Doctor's origin is ... well, it's canon, in and of itself...

...which Chibnall completely wrecked, and I can't imagine why. Hubris? By all accounts, he was a fan. I thought Moffat was a dick for bringing back Gallifrey, but now, to me, my disappointment then vs now is like comparing a fart to a shitstorm.

Please excuse the scatological references, but I'm using it deliberately. It is a swirling turd, which I and many others wish we could flush down and forget forever.

In another RadioTimes article - which basically is the BBC - amongst the usual apologetics, Huw Fullerton drops this little gem:

“The glory days of David Tennant et al were in a different TV landscape, and if the Tenth Doctor touched down now it seems unlikely he’d command anything close to the ratings he did over a decade ago.”

Yeah, you can all take a break to have a hearty laugh. Or throw up. Whichever. Did they just hint that, basically, the incarnation of the Doctor who continues to get as much love (if not more) than Four, who still consistently gets thousands of butts in seats in conventions worldwide, and has made the BBC hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling in merchandising “wouldn’t command the ratings he did in 2008?”

As Gary Buechler of Nerdrotic said in his response to this article: “Actually, if David Tennant had been given as many chances as Jodie Whittaker, it would’ve had Game of Thrones-level ratings.”

And I agree. Not because I’m a Tenth Doctor stan, but because it’s just ... categorically true. His seasons consistently got average rating of 7.5 to 8 million viewers - and this in a time before BBCiPlayer, so 7-day catch up ratings meant nothing. It was butts on sofas then, which, to me, speaks of a massive, sustained interest.

But Huw goes on to say that such things mean nothing. And that the huge, telling sink in both overnight and 7-day ratings between the 11th and 12th seasons, and the dismal 4.69m 7 day ratings for The Timeless Children - the lowest for a NewWho finale since its reboot - shouldn’t be taken as a loss of interest from the fandom.

Then, pray tell goodman, what does it mean? Does it mean that fans are following the Thirteenth Doctor’s adventures in spirit? Ratings are tanking. Outside of the precious few who blindly tweet and write articles about the show solely based on its now female protagonist, people are notoriously furious, especially after the execrable season finale.

Yet BBC’s Piers Wenger, who once produced the show, says “I don’t think it’s been in better health, editorially. I think it’s fantastic and I think that, the production values obviously have never been better.”

Right. Okay. So, putting Tom Ford makeup on a pig makes it haute couture, huh? The writing is appalling, and after two excruciatingly painful to watch seasons, the Doctor has failed to appear - all I’ve seen is borderline sociopathic navel gazing from an ‘alien’ wearing a pastel duster.

How dare you besmirch the unfailingly cool reputation of the long coat, Chibnall? Jodie? How?? 

I will not let someone piss on my head and call it rain ... ‘because it’s a woman.’ Assuming I’ll accept it just adds insult to injury. Who do they think we are, as female fans? I will not cosign garbage to further an agenda that is ultimately damaging one of my favorite things ever, Doctor Who. I agree that politics, and a positive moral, have always been a part of DW, but at it’s best the writing was so good that it only added to the entertainment. Now, the BBC is feeding us all the bitter pill, without the kindness to hide it in a piece of tasty cheese. It gives the impression that they believe we are already so indoctrinated that we no longer need artifice!

Well, not only am I not indoctrinated, but I refuse to ingest.

I refuse to allow people to silence me because the Doctor is now a woman, and so am I. That, I shouldn’t say anything, or complain, because it’s an act of rebellion on womankind, not only in entertainment, but in general. Well, to that I say ... er ... I disavow.

Disavow. Disavow.

And this from a woman who once criticized Peter Davison for saying that casting a woman was “a vital loss of a role model for boys,” taking it as a sexist comment when in truth, it was just a relevant narrative concern about gender-swapping the traditionally male-presenting Time Lord. Just changing a character from male to female doesn’t do anything but demonstrate a tone-deafness about the emotional and physical differences between men and women, which exist whether we want to address them or not. This is why genderswap reboots are terrible. They are trying to further the feminist agenda, while surreptitiously painting traditional, every day femininity as weakness, and something to be avoided at all costs. I reject the modern Hollywood representation of what a ‘strong woman’ is meant to be. I can be clever, yet sensitive enough to comfort a friend when they confide their fears about a cancer relapse. I can be funny, and not at the expense of the man in the room. I can be brave, but not at the expense of my friends. The mind boggles as to why they thought their current tack with the Doctor was going to be any good. The Doctor is a woman, but more importantly, she’s a Timelord. Where are they? Is the alien that we’ve known and loved for the last 60 years truly gone away, and Thirteen is from a whole different timeline? If so, I don’t want to know her. 

And it breaks my heart.

Why continue to support a corporation who thinks of me, the fan, as no more than a heartless, thoughtless consumer? A drone? A sheep who has no conscious idea of what I like or need?

I’m done. It’s been two seasons of absolute dreck, with absolutely no sign of a course-correction due to the overwhelmingly negative response. I may be many things, but I’m no masochist - even in the name of love. And Chibnall, knowing that many fans would go back to the classic stories to cleanse ourselves, went back to the beginning and took a giant shit there too. 

Oh, the cleverness! the absolute schadenfreude of not only tampering, but rewriting the Doctor’s origins! I suppose that tells me he truly was once a fan. But no longer. Even if it turns out that the Master is as full of crap as Chibnall and it’s all an orchestrated lie, I don’t care anymore. Every inexplicable, terrible thing that happened before has already exhausted my patience with the narrative.

As veteral DW writer and script editor Terrance Dicks said:

If you’re concentrating on putting forth a political message, rather than on doing a really good show, I think there is a danger, maybe, you can do both but it would be hellish difficult, and I think that there’s maybe a danger that the show wouldn’t as be as good as it could or should be, because you’re not looking at the right aims.”

It seems like all that has been lost in time. Big corporations are buying up beloved science fiction properties, and systematically destroying them by trying to mix their politics into the mythos. [see ‘the fandom menace’]

I say, don’t support things that make you unhappy, in the name of nostalgia. That’s how they continue to upset us, while lining their pockets with our hard earned money. Complaining amongst ourselves, writing emails, or making angry Youtube videos no longer works anyway. Now is the time to just ... let it go. No more special edition DVDs, novelizations, or pretty action figures. Hit them in the pocketbook. We will still have fond memories of better times. I will not let them hijack, retcon, and retool them too.

There is a telling paragraph hidden in the depths of the article, which makes my DW fangirl sink:

It’s not as simple as “the ratings are down so Doctor Who will be cancelled,” as for the publicly-funded BBC there’s an interesting question about exactly what ratings are for beyond bragging rights. Obviously they need to make TV that people want to watch – but which people?

Not us, Huw. That’s who.

[wendyimmiller]

Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!!

July 15, 2020

Cincinnati, Ohio

Dear Marianne,

Thank you so much for your letter dated June 26th. During this chaotic, busy time, it reminded me that I’m still in this relationship, and just as importantly, it reminded me why. I’ll explain this a little later on.

Before I do, I want to address my Facebook overshares. I’ve been accused of this before, and I have brought it up with health professionals. Mental health professionals. Through this I’ve learned new things about myself. Some of it is rather technical, but the short answer is that my oversharing is caused by vodka and tonics. Thing is, my life is hard. Very hard. I live in the Midwest. Where everything sucks. Everything here can either kill you or leave you begging that it does. The Midwest especially hates gardeners. So the drinks are well-deserved, and the things I then say on Facebook are what they are. I do get “likes,” but, to be honest, I’m never really sure if they are true “likes” or just feeble reactions of worried “friends” who don’t know what else to do. Besides, it’s only Facebook. Not like anyone sees it or as if anything could ever come back to haunt me. Right?

This Rant is a bit thin on horticulture, so I’m providing a parallel theme of beautiful Echinacea in photos and captions. This is Echinacea Fiery Meadow Momma.

Another thing before I continue. Apparently, I need to justify vodka and tonics over gin and tonics. That’s fine. I can do that, and it will all be based on things I know to be true. Yes, while gin is basically an English vodka, the addition of juniper berries and other various spices give it a unique flavor. By carefully crafting their recipes, gin makers offer their customers interesting and lovely tasting experiences. Literally, millions of people the world over, English and those they’ve colonized, truly enjoy gin and tonics. Few are faking it. And yet, despite all this, there are some very good reasons why some people cannot drink gin. Mine is that at age 15 I drank way too much of it. Spent an hour, maybe five, enduring the trauma of my body trying its damnedest to expel the entirety of my digestive system onto the asphalt of a drive-in right off the Mosteller Road exit in Sharonville, Ohio. Forty five years later, I’m still unable to disassociate the one thing from the other.

Echinacea Sombrero Orange, it is said, cures hangovers and even prevents teenagers from making poor choices!

So, for me, it’ll remain vodka and tonics, and, my, aren’t they refreshing on a hot day! It doesn’t bother me in the least that the sole purpose of vodka was (and sort of still is) for peasants to make alcohol from whatever spare rotting vegetation was lying around the village, and that the less it tastes like that from which it was sourced, the better. And while I realize that you were probably being snarky when you suggested I resort to Everclear, there’s actually solid reasoning behind your comment. But in my defense, however, I feel compelled to mention that I’ve never made a habit of buying the expensive stuff.

One more stray item before I try to address the real essence of your letter. You referenced the band Cake. Recently, my son has been trying to get me into them, which led me to the horrifying realization that I might be old enough to be your father! Imagine, then, my relief when I remembered that we’ve managed to keep things platonic between us! A trophy girlfriend just wouldn’t work for me. I’m not confident anymore, and just too damned gross. But it did get me thinking about our relationship, as it sometimes seems an odd one. To me, although you are younger, it feels like you are more worldly, learned, and a million times more mature. This makes you the sage. Me? I’m just an (average, at best) student. This gets reinforced every time you correct me when I get parts of things wrong, as I frequently do, or when I get all of it wrong, which also happens. Additionally, you have introduced me to many new things.

Echinacea Purple Emperor.

Case in point, I understood nothing in your letter after the parts about gin and Facebook. I have to admit that almost everything else was like it came from another world. I literally spent days afterward googling the various topics. I questioned friends and family too, and once a random stranger in the park before I began to feel even vaguely acquainted with stuff like Search Engine Optimization, Yoast, and something about worms.

Echinacea Kismet Raspberry.

So, SEO is why all the crap that shows up in my Google feed is written so strangely! And badly. Worse, it felt to me that you also effectively argued that tools like SEO, which exist merely to land any lame writer prime real-estate on a million billion feeds, are to good writing what roomfuls of Macedonian teenagers, their online accounts stuff with thousands of rubles worth of bitcoin, are to honest and intelligent American political debate. It is inevitable, I think you continued, that between them, such bad garden writing and those horrible Macedonian kids capturing the spare-minute attention spans of a million billion lemmings on their feeds, that mankind is doomed to witness the loss of basic human decency, the end of civilization, and fewer and fewer articles by Monty Don. If this is indeed what you were saying, I think you’re on to something!

Echinacea Evening Glow.

But I’m not exactly sure what I can do about it, other than to not care. By this I mean that I write to write, and always have. Even as a kid, I just wrote. All of it crap. As a young adult, I wrote more crap. No voice. No wisdom. Nothing to say and so profoundly aware of it. Eventually I found a passion in horticulture and scraped together some knowledge, and even a little confidence in that knowledge. An utter lack of pride and absolutely no ability to hide anything gave me something that might resemble a voice. Years and years of so many poor decisions infused me with maybe a bit of wisdom. Or at least some good stories. End result is that only now at age 60 am I able to even like some of what I write. Just enough to keep me at it, And just enough that I’m not going to change how I do it. Although, it turns out I might be using too many exclamation points! At least according to a paragraph deep into your letter.

While still in my previous life as an airline employee, I took some part-time jobs in nurseries to learn plants. These were not jobs I needed, and the experience was somewhat enlightening. All the crap that bothered employees who needed their jobs, didn’t mean anything to me. Disputes, rumors, conspiracies, and whatever else that were whispered during down times meant nothing to me. I just didn’t care. If my last day on the job was this one, so what? This informs my approach to garden writing. I do it because I love it, and that’s why I’ll keep doing it. Sure, it would be great if my stuff gets read, and making some money would be really nice, but I’m not going to stop if none of those things ever happen. I’m just going to continue, and I’m going to write as I want it to read. Key phrases or whatever else be damned.

Echinacea Sombrero Lemon Yellow.

Once in a while the best way to play the game is to not play it. This feels like that to me. Today’s glazed glossing of a paper thin spray of half truths will grow old, and a new way will come that might, in fact, look kind of old. I hear the millennials are all listening to Cake on vinyl. Maybe today’s grade-school kids will grow up knowing that quality garden writing is really cool. Maybe they’ll even prefer books. And they occasionally go to a neighborhood shop to buy one. Maybe one from Christopher Lloyd. A few weeks later, one of yours. Possibly even one of mine. Of course, I’ll be dead, but at this point I’m perfectly okay with my genius being discovered after I’m gone.

  Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!! originally appeared on GardenRant on July 15, 2020.

The post Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!! appeared first on GardenRant.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2020/07/experts-expose-the-deadliest-garden-writing-tools-and-five-fabulous-coneflowers-that-defy-news-feed-blues.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[turfandlawncare]

Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!!

July 15, 2020

Cincinnati, Ohio

Dear Marianne,

Thank you so much for your letter dated June 26th. During this chaotic, busy time, it reminded me that I’m still in this relationship, and just as importantly, it reminded me why. I’ll explain this a little later on.

Before I do, I want to address my Facebook overshares. I’ve been accused of this before, and I have brought it up with health professionals. Mental health professionals. Through this I’ve learned new things about myself. Some of it is rather technical, but the short answer is that my oversharing is caused by vodka and tonics. Thing is, my life is hard. Very hard. I live in the Midwest. Where everything sucks. Everything here can either kill you or leave you begging that it does. The Midwest especially hates gardeners. So the drinks are well-deserved, and the things I then say on Facebook are what they are. I do get “likes,” but, to be honest, I’m never really sure if they are true “likes” or just feeble reactions of worried “friends” who don’t know what else to do. Besides, it’s only Facebook. Not like anyone sees it or as if anything could ever come back to haunt me. Right?

This Rant is a bit thin on horticulture, so I’m providing a parallel theme of beautiful Echinacea in photos and captions. This is Echinacea Fiery Meadow Momma.

Another thing before I continue. Apparently, I need to justify vodka and tonics over gin and tonics. That’s fine. I can do that, and it will all be based on things I know to be true. Yes, while gin is basically an English vodka, the addition of juniper berries and other various spices give it a unique flavor. By carefully crafting their recipes, gin makers offer their customers interesting and lovely tasting experiences. Literally, millions of people the world over, English and those they’ve colonized, truly enjoy gin and tonics. Few are faking it. And yet, despite all this, there are some very good reasons why some people cannot drink gin. Mine is that at age 15 I drank way too much of it. Spent an hour, maybe five, enduring the trauma of my body trying its damnedest to expel the entirety of my digestive system onto the asphalt of a drive-in right off the Mosteller Road exit in Sharonville, Ohio. Forty five years later, I’m still unable to disassociate the one thing from the other.

Echinacea Sombrero Orange, it is said, cures hangovers and even prevents teenagers from making poor choices!

So, for me, it’ll remain vodka and tonics, and, my, aren’t they refreshing on a hot day! It doesn’t bother me in the least that the sole purpose of vodka was (and sort of still is) for peasants to make alcohol from whatever spare rotting vegetation was lying around the village, and that the less it tastes like that from which it was sourced, the better. And while I realize that you were probably being snarky when you suggested I resort to Everclear, there’s actually solid reasoning behind your comment. But in my defense, however, I feel compelled to mention that I’ve never made a habit of buying the expensive stuff.

One more stray item before I try to address the real essence of your letter. You referenced the band Cake. Recently, my son has been trying to get me into them, which led me to the horrifying realization that I might be old enough to be your father! Imagine, then, my relief when I remembered that we’ve managed to keep things platonic between us! A trophy girlfriend just wouldn’t work for me. I’m not confident anymore, and just too damned gross. But it did get me thinking about our relationship, as it sometimes seems an odd one. To me, although you are younger, it feels like you are more worldly, learned, and a million times more mature. This makes you the sage. Me? I’m just an (average, at best) student. This gets reinforced every time you correct me when I get parts of things wrong, as I frequently do, or when I get all of it wrong, which also happens. Additionally, you have introduced me to many new things.

Echinacea Purple Emperor.

Case in point, I understood nothing in your letter after the parts about gin and Facebook. I have to admit that almost everything else was like it came from another world. I literally spent days afterward googling the various topics. I questioned friends and family too, and once a random stranger in the park before I began to feel even vaguely acquainted with stuff like Search Engine Optimization, Yoast, and something about worms.

Echinacea Kismet Raspberry.

So, SEO is why all the crap that shows up in my Google feed is written so strangely! And badly. Worse, it felt to me that you also effectively argued that tools like SEO, which exist merely to land any lame writer prime real-estate on a million billion feeds, are to good writing what roomfuls of Macedonian teenagers, their online accounts stuff with thousands of rubles worth of bitcoin, are to honest and intelligent American political debate. It is inevitable, I think you continued, that between them, such bad garden writing and those horrible Macedonian kids capturing the spare-minute attention spans of a million billion lemmings on their feeds, that mankind is doomed to witness the loss of basic human decency, the end of civilization, and fewer and fewer articles by Monty Don. If this is indeed what you were saying, I think you’re on to something!

Echinacea Evening Glow.

But I’m not exactly sure what I can do about it, other than to not care. By this I mean that I write to write, and always have. Even as a kid, I just wrote. All of it crap. As a young adult, I wrote more crap. No voice. No wisdom. Nothing to say and so profoundly aware of it. Eventually I found a passion in horticulture and scraped together some knowledge, and even a little confidence in that knowledge. An utter lack of pride and absolutely no ability to hide anything gave me something that might resemble a voice. Years and years of so many poor decisions infused me with maybe a bit of wisdom. Or at least some good stories. End result is that only now at age 60 am I able to even like some of what I write. Just enough to keep me at it, And just enough that I’m not going to change how I do it. Although, it turns out I might be using too many exclamation points! At least according to a paragraph deep into your letter.

While still in my previous life as an airline employee, I took some part-time jobs in nurseries to learn plants. These were not jobs I needed, and the experience was somewhat enlightening. All the crap that bothered employees who needed their jobs, didn’t mean anything to me. Disputes, rumors, conspiracies, and whatever else that were whispered during down times meant nothing to me. I just didn’t care. If my last day on the job was this one, so what? This informs my approach to garden writing. I do it because I love it, and that’s why I’ll keep doing it. Sure, it would be great if my stuff gets read, and making some money would be really nice, but I’m not going to stop if none of those things ever happen. I’m just going to continue, and I’m going to write as I want it to read. Key phrases or whatever else be damned.

Echinacea Sombrero Lemon Yellow.

Once in a while the best way to play the game is to not play it. This feels like that to me. Today’s glazed glossing of a paper thin spray of half truths will grow old, and a new way will come that might, in fact, look kind of old. I hear the millennials are all listening to Cake on vinyl. Maybe today’s grade-school kids will grow up knowing that quality garden writing is really cool. Maybe they’ll even prefer books. And they occasionally go to a neighborhood shop to buy one. Maybe one from Christopher Lloyd. A few weeks later, one of yours. Possibly even one of mine. Of course, I’ll be dead, but at this point I’m perfectly okay with my genius being discovered after I’m gone.

  Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!! originally appeared on GardenRant on July 15, 2020.

The post Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!! appeared first on GardenRant.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/2Woft0J

[notanicequeen-blog]

Teaching, and Making It Unbearable

Heyo! I'm Elsa, and I'm not an ice queen. Who here has had to sit through an English class? Any grade, any level of schooling, it's okay. I'm not picky.

Ooh, wow, that's a lot of hands.

(Clarification early on: I'm an American, so when I say 'English class,' I'm referring to a class that sometimes on occasion had actual grammar lessons, but for the most part was a literature class. Early on we had separate English and Reading classes, where English taught us the structure of the language and such and Reading was a literature class, but once we got to high school, Reading class was just kind of mooshed into English class, and the entire conglomerate mess had very little to do with language skills, despite the fact that half of my classmates could barely read ad clearly still needed help in that regard, but that's a rant for another time.)

I've had some great English teachers in the past, though by and large, all of them were in college. Here in the States, before you graduate and go to college, schooling is set up to prepare you for standardized tests and that's about it. But trying to teach something like you find in your standard English class to a standardized test is not good in the long run. It's pretty much doomed to failure.

And why is that? Because most things that have to do with literature are subjective. Symbolism? Subjective. Foreshadowing? Subjective. The meaning of basically anything that isn't outright spelled out? Subjective. Nine times out of ten, an author doesn't plan that sort of thing, or they get planned retroactively. I have included some pretty decent symbolism in things, but it happened entirely on accident. I have included foreshadowing, but if it was intentional, then it's because it occurred to me later and then I went back and wrote in the foreshadowing however many pages before the foreshadowed event. On the whole, whatever a book actually means is determined entirely by the reader.

So how, then, does one teach literature to a standardized test?

Basically, the teacher cherry picks bits of symbolism and foreshadowing out of the story and tells you what they mean, and your job is to memorize it. If you disagree, too bad. Your interpretation, your relationship with the story means nothing in this case. The "correct" answer is the one the teacher spoon feeds to you to regurgitate on cue at the appropriate time.

Maybe it doesn't sound so bad, but it's not actually teaching. It doesn't teach you how to engage with the writing. It doesn't teach you how to think critically about what you're reading. It actively quashes the ability to do that, because if you have a dissenting opinion, well, you got it wrong.

(And this is entirely ignoring the fact that the English portion of most standardized tests is an essay that you were utterly unprepared for because you only know how to write a basic five paragraph essay and you haven't been taught how to think critically about anything, so the warped approach to symbolism and foreshadowing and 'THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS' is basically pointless.)

Of course, I did mention that I had good English teachers, too. But what did they do differently? (Well, just based on all of my whining above, you can probably guess.)

Now, don't get me wrong, we were still tested, but test questions were either essays where our answers actually mattered, or they were questions about events and thus about things that were factual rather than opinion-based.

And our opinions in those classes actually mattered. If there were questions in class about whether or not some event or another could be seen coming, or what something meant then there were varied answers, and while we were encouraged to argue to defend our points, our answers were all treated as valid. We were graded on how we engaged with the writing and whether or not we understood it.

I've got a couple examples that I think sum things up pretty neatly.

When my sister was in high school, she had to read The Lord of the Flies, and her teacher hammered home that Piggy was a Christ analogue. When my sister turned in an essay where she explained why she didn't think Piggy was a Christ analogue, she got a C on the paper because the teacher disagreed with her.

While I was in college, I had a young adult literature course for a semester and we had to read The Catcher In the Rye. My professor absolutely loved that book, thought Holden was the greatest character ever, and would talk about all this at length. I didn't particularly like the book, hated Holden Caulfield, and wrote my final paper about why Holden Caulfield was a horrible character. My professor disagreed, clearly, but I got an A on that paper because I could support my logic and because I was still thinking critically about what I was reading.