#this comic run is perhaps the most poetic of the three

[sethnakht]

darth vader (2020-), #26 (pak/ienco)

it’s a podrace! darth vader pilots a podracer through an artificial sandstorm to save sabé, the former double for queen amidala, who has been lost in its center. vader flies alone through a maelstrom manufactured by the empire; as he steers and slices his way past dark obstacles, his mind dwells on the podrace he won as a child slave to help queen amidala, then represented too by sabé while padmé masked herself as a handmaiden. 

before he won that race, vader remembers, he could find his mother even in sandstorms, and promise her he would never leave her. in the subsequent panels, we see the contrasting results of winning: it meant separation from his mother, interrogation by the jedi council over his fear of losing her, his mother’s death, his own subsequent choice to murder the villagers who’d held her hostage, and finally, separation from padmé again because of jedi and sith. specifically, vader remembers how she’d fallen out of their ship into a sand dune, and his jedi master obi-wan ordering him to leave her behind (so they could pursue the sith lord count dooku instead). surrounded by sand with his mother, he was never closer to her; alone in the jedi temple, before his mother’s grave, a smattering of sand kernels was all he had left.

[image caption: panels from two different pages showing vader’s memories of losing his mother - first when he was taken to the temple, then when she died. anakin’s hand is shown in close-up, stray grains of sand in his palm.]

vader wins this race as well. as he once helped queen amidala and her handmaidens leave tatooine, so too does he now save the queen’s shadow. when he arrives at the site where sabé disappeared, he finds anakin’s childhood friend kitster (more context below), who learned how to build pods from anakin and put together the pod that vader has just raced. kitster shows him that sabé has been buried alive under a toppled cylinder. vader lifts it with the force; as she rises from the shallow grave, he remembers his power from before he won the tatooine race and was taken to the jedi - the power to tell his mother, “don’t worry, we’re going to be fine,” and, “I’m not leaving you.”

[image caption: vader saves sabé with kitster’s help, and remembers finding his mother in a sandstorm.]

but it’s not that easy. generated by an energy-eating machine (I think? again, don’t ask me about the lore), the storm doesn’t respond to vader’s attempts to quell it with the force. he realizes that sabé will be consumed by it - he thinks back to leaving padmé behind, her body half-buried in sand - if he fails to call on machine power.

using the cylinder-gravestone from which he’d just freed sabé as armor for himself, sabé, and kitster, vader directs his orbiting flagship to fire upon his location with maximum incinerating force. the result: all the sand in the storm fuses and flattens into a smooth ground of glass. 

the sand still caught in his glove slides down his palm; vader looks at it, looks at it for a long time. this time, it seems, it is not all that he has left: he has saved sabé from death. letting the sand fall from his hand, he lifts sabé and carries her over the glass into the light horizon. 

[image caption: vader steps out from an armored shell into a landscape he’s had incinerated; sand has transformed into black glass. some sand that was caught in his glove falls from his hand; he lets it, then takes sabé from kitster and walks towards a sunlit cloud.]

so ... why is kitster here? vader has come to this place because sabé is as haunted by his mother’s death as he is. troubled by the fact that anakin, a child slave, won a podrace to help royalty, and that his mother was nonetheless left behind in slavery, padmé had directed sabé to find shmi on tatooine. never having met shmi before, as queen amidala did not leave her starship on tatooine, sabé failed to locate shmi on that mission. she did manage to free a small number of slaves, however, including anakin’s childhood best friend kitster, and relocate them. the more immediate context is this: these ex-slaves are now under threat from a crimson dawn operative masquerading as an imperial, or something (don’t ask me about the lore-related details of the plot, I can only grasp at relationships between images). and since vader has vowed to end crimson dawn in the name of restoring “order”, sabé was able to convince him to visit this community, and work with people like kitster to destroy the imperial/dawn weapon that caused the sandstorm in the first place. 

in summary. we are here because of shared grief over shmi and padmé, over shared grief about the results of that first podrace. we have a second race with a parallel result - vader has helped the former queen, again; helped padmé, in a way, again - and a contrast: there is no jedi betting on vader’s freedom, now. but in some sense this is another parallel. for as winning the race led vader to coruscant and the jedi temple, the comic now cuts to the former temple, now the imperial palace, on coruscant.

[image caption: it is night on coruscant; the former jedi temple, now the emperor’s palace, is shown in dark profile against a sky lit pink-purple from the city lights.]

the emperor is speaking, speaking to himself, ignoring his red-robed guards, who gaze at each other questioningly. vader, the emperor mutters, couldn’t save his mother, nor padmé. but now he thinks he can -- 

well, the emperor doesn’t finish the sentence. you might say the emperor is betting on failure; he is delighted by what he anticipates, for he closes the issue with his cackles. you can fill in the blanks.

[taiblogcomics]

Time to Start the Countdown!

Hey there, crafting in a fugue state. Well, while it's not quite blogaversary time, I think it's closer today than it will be next week. So it's the blogaversary! We're on… lucky thirteen, isn't it? Oh boy, that's a sign if ever I saw one. And moreover, we've had it good for a while, no? And we've had it too good too long. Three miniseries (well, two miniseries and a cancelled series) in a row that I actually liked. And when did we last do something truly awful? Avengers Arena last summer? Well, if that's the case, I propose we cover a truly heinous series. And one that won't leave us wondering what to do for a while~

Here's the cover:

Oh yes, my dear readers. We're going to review fucking Countdown.

"But Tai!" you might say, "this series is from 2007! Hasn't it been done to death?" Well, first of all, age has not improved this story. It is still terrible 17 years later. Second, perhaps some other reviewers may have covered it. Maybe some more popular than me (but not more popular than the BeeGees). But I wanna do it in a different way! And by which I mean, I want to review it like I review everything I do: one issue at a time. This comic was released weekly, after all. So I wanna replicate the experience of what it must've been like to read it week by week! Now that's how you get in all the suckiness!

As for the cover itself… Well, it's a fucking image of a bunch of popular heroes (and Jason Todd) running at the camera on a white background. Whoop-de-doo. I will give the series credit for one thing right off the bat, though: the numbering. We're starting on issue 51 and counting down to 0. Because it's called Countdown. That's at least some thematic gimmickery that I can appreciate. It won't help the overall score in the end, but it's at least something~

So, where do we start with this pile? Well, you're familiar with Infinite Crisis, 52, Identity Crisis, and Batman: Under the Red Hood, right? That's basically where you need to be in DC history to have a basic understanding for this series. That's the mark of a great series, eh? In short: Ray Palmer has disappeared following the insanity of his wife, Jason Todd is back from the dead, the Multiverse and the Monitors who watch over them have returned, and Superboy-Prime will be our villain. You got all that?

We open on the hellish and goofily-spelled planet Apokalips, where sadist torturer Desaad is waxing poetic about the lack of value of a single life. Ah, setting the mood and tone for the readers right away. Even Darkseid tells Desaad he's a depressing nihilist. Darkseid is busy organising his pretty sweet collection of DC Comics character statues. He must've been a big fan of Kenner's Super Powers line back in the day. He does concede one point to Desaad: he's right in that all lives, no matter how meager, touch another. That's downright positive for Darkseid!

As he moves a figure of Duela Dent, we transition over to that character on Earth. Thankfully, this is not the Duela we know from the New 52, but her much better and more interesting and likeable counterpart in the Post-Crisis universe, where she was an on-again-off-again member of the Teen Titans. At this point, it's "off again". She's dancing at a club, and then decides to kidnap and ransom the pop star hosting the event. As she tries to escape on a parachute, she's shot down by Jason Todd, who catches the pop star in midair.

Duela and Jason exchange some banter, mostly where it's reiterated that Duela isn't literally the Joker's daughter, and she retorts that he's not Batman's son either. Jason prioritises getting the girl to safety, which is probably the most heroic thing he'll do this entire maxi-series. Duela makes an escape, but is shot down again--by someone we can't see right now. She's pursued, and as she runs over the rooftops, she crosses a hospital, which transitions us over to our next character. I'll be fair, this transition is pretty good. If they continue to be non-jarring, I will award another point at the end of this review~

So Mary Batson (AKA Mary Marvel, so we can just call her Mary either way) has just recovered from her coma. During Day of Vengeance, the wizard Shazam was killed, severing Mary's connection to her powers. She also went into a coma, as you may have heard. She's fine now, and even has no hospital bills to look forward to, as they've all been paid off by Freddy Freeman (AKA Captain Marvel Jr). But Freddy's not here, and all he's left her is a note that says "Don't look for me". So she opts to walk home in the rain.

Also out in the rain is James Jesse, AKA the Trickster, one of Flash's Rogues. The Rogues are having a party, and Trickster's gotten here early, to Heat Wave's annoyance. Heat Wave's annoyed in general, since Trickster went straight for a few years, willing to help the Flash out on occasion. He hates the idea of how blurred the line has become for the Rogues, and is planning something big to get them back on track. Trickster assures him he's got his head on straight now. Also listening in is the Pied Piper, another Rogue who sat on the blurry line like Trickster, wondering if he's horning in on his turf. No rat metaphor he can use her?

As the rain comes down, Duela Dent continues her rooftop run, unloading whatever tricks she's got up her sleeve at her pursuer. You know, silly string taser, that sort of thing. (Where does she get those wonderful toys?) But her pursuer just shrugs it off, and she screams as he begins to shoot at her. Jason hears the scream, heading back to see what's going on. He tells the hulking figure that he doesn't tolerate gun-wielding crazies in his town. Well, of course not, that's your gimmick, isn't it, Jason~?

Jason attacks the guy, and we get a good look at him at last. Jason has no idea who it is, but the reader does (or should, at least is the hope). It's… the Monitor! The big good of Crisis on Infinite Earths, back again! And he's hunting Duelas! He claims to be the multiverse's only hope and that anomalies must be purged. To that end, he shoots Duela dead with his laser gun. Jason is enraged and punches the Monitor, who aims his weapon at him next. The only thing that keeps him from shooting Jason Todd as well is the sudden arrival of… a second Monitor??

So yeah! This was a reveal at the end of a one-shot called DC: Brave New World, which showed some upcoming premises for a few heroes' solo series, and then finished with a shot of the Monitors promising to, well, monitor these events. The end of much-better weekly comic 52 (this comic's direct predecessor) saw the restoration of the DC Multiverse into the cosmology it would use from here on out (even into the New 52 and beyond). Not an infinite multiverse, just 52 parallel Earths (including the main one), and a Monitor stationed to watch each one.

That's where we are. This second Monitor (who is subtly different to the Duela-shooter) stops the first from shooting Jason as well, saying he's acting outside his jurisdiction. The first claims his job is to eradicate anomalies and dimension-jumpers. The second says he'll report him to the rest of their brethren, and the first is sure the others will support him. Both teleport out, but not before the second one does offer an apology to Jason for Duela's death. However, since he doesn't offer the same to the reader, I am not inclined to forgive him.

And so our comic closes out with another Monitor flying out into space. I can't tell for sure, but I'm assuming it's the second one, since he has the same blue bodysuit. (The first one wore red.) He's out at the Source Wall, which is a literal wall at the edge of DC's universe. It's a Jack Kirby thing, don't question it. He asks the Source Wall why there is tension among his fellow Monitors. Great flaming letters reply "GREAT DISASTER". He asks what can possibly stop this Great Disaster? And the flaming letters reply: "RAY PALMER". Which I'm sure means a lot to this multi-dimensional space being.

Well, there we are. Off to a smashing start, huh? Usually you have to wait 'til the middle or end of the sucky event for the unnecessary deaths, but this one shows you what you're in for right away by fridging Duela Dent in its opening issue. And while this series will eventually reveal her backstory (a long-confusing thing for her character), she'll still be dead by the end of it, so it's not like the reveal will benefit her. And once again, we're murdering a former Teen Titans member to do it! Hey, DC: stop treating the Titans as your C-list fodder! Didn't you already get enough of this during Infinite Crisis two years ago (at the time of this issue's publication)??

The rest of the issue is... not much better. The reveal of multiple Monitors is pretty shocking, but not to a character who has no idea what that implies. The brief scenes with Mary Marvel and Trickster are at least setting up something, but their scenes are so short that it can barely do more than hint. Get used to that being a recurring theme throughout this series! And worst of all? This isn't even half our focus characters. By the end of this, there will be no less than eight storylines jockeying for control of the narrative, and they won't overlap until late in the game.

I can't wait to show you how bad this is going to get~

[1schadenfreude1]

Let's Talk About Krazy Kat

Someone should really adapt the Krazy Kat comic strip for modern audiences. It's inventive, funny, poetic, and incredibly weird. Not to mention it's got to be public domain by now. Also it's super gay, but I'll get to that in a minute.

Krazy Kat is a newspaper comic strip that ran from 1913 to 1944. It was created by George Herriman (1880--1944), a mixed-race American of Creole descent. An extremely modest person, Herriman never liked talking about himself and usually passed as white.

{ID: Herriman's self-portrait, uncolored, surrounded by his characters. An ink bottle on his desk reads "yink" and I personally think that's adorable. end ID}

While the strip never quite achieved widespread popularity, Krazy Kat is considered one of the most influential American comics ever, and was cited as an inspiration by comic artists and illustrators such as Bill Watterson, Dr. Seuss, and Will Eisner. Newspaper mogul William Randolph Hearst liked it so much, he kept it running even though it wasn't popular. When Herriman died, Hearst canceled the strip, believing that no one could replace the original creator.

Herriman's art style is particularly notable for his beautiful desert backgrounds, which were inspired by the American southwest landscape.

{ID: A colored comic panel of Krazy looking out at a desert mesa. End ID}

There are three recurring main characters in the strip:

Krazy (he/him, usually) is a cat of generous and eccentric nature. Not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, but lovable and good-hearted all the same. Hopeless romantic.

Ignatz (he/him) is a mouse of the rude and egotistical type. He is arrogant and elitist, with an undying hatred for cats of all kinds. Basically the antithesis of Mickey Mouse.

Officer Pupp (he/him) is a police dog with a sure and steady attitude. He is mainly concerned with doing his job and arresting evildoers.

{ID: A colored comic panel of Ignatz, Officer Pupp, and Krazy, all of them looking at you rather judgmentally. End ID}

Essentially, the strip's premise comes down to a gay love triangle, and the various hijinks that ensue.

Krazy is hopelessly in love with Ignatz, often referring to him as "lil ainjil' and other pet names. He sees Ignatz's hostilities towards him as signs of love (masochism??), and won't be persuaded otherwise.

Ignatz despises Krazy and desires nothing more than to "bean that kat's brain with a brick". He is either unaware or uninterested in Krazy's obvious affections and persists in assaulting the kat.

Officer Pupp is often portrayed as being in love with Krazy, and strives to protect him from Ignatz's brick-throwing. Many strips end with Officer Pupp jailing Ignatz. Krazy is unaware of the dog's affections, and even if he wasn't, Ignatz is his only love.

As you can see, the comic's humor relies partly on it's reversal of typical conventions: instead of cat chases mouse, cat is in love with mouse, and mouse chases cat; instead of dog chases cat, dog is in love with cat, and chases mouse.

Probably the most iconic aspect of Krazy Kat is Ignatz's brick-throwing, which happens in nearly every strip. If you google images of Krazy Kat, you'll likely end up with something like this:

{ID: A colored comic panel of Ignatz tossing a brick at Krazy's head. A heart appears above Krazy, signifying his love, while Ignatz says in a speech bubble "Good Hunting." End ID}

Did I mention Ignatz has a wife and kids? He does. They only show up a couple of times, and Krazy is perfectly aware of them, even helping them out in their time of need. It doesn't stop him from declaring his love, nor does Krazy's kindness stop Ignatz from throwing bricks. That's just how the world goes around.

Say, what is up with this weird comic anyway? Why does Krazy insist on his love even when Ignatz is clearly a horrible person? And why does Ignatz hate Krazy so much? Is this just a silly kat-and-mouse-komic, or is there something deeper here? Is this strip perhaps a commentary on racial relations (black kat & white mouse) or maybe a social satire of romantic relationships, heterosexual or otherwise? And why the heck is this newspaper strip contemplating human mortality all of a sudden!?

{ID: Uncolored comic panel, excerpted from Krazy Kat: The Art of George Herriman. Transcript: You have written truth, you friends of the shadows, yet be not harsh with Krazy--he is but a shadow himself, caught in the web of this mortal skein. We call him 'Cat', we call him 'Crazy', yet he is neither. At some time will he ride away to you, people of the twilight, his password will be the echoes of a vesper bell, his coach, a zephyr from the west. Forgive him, for you will understand him no better than we who linger on this side of the pale. end ID}

Yeah, I don't know either. I suspect that the 20th century comic-reading public did not necessarily get all the nuance and dynamics present in this strip. Which would explain why it was never popular in the mainstream but highly appealed to intellectuals and history nerds obsessing over niche comics.

So...is Krazy Kat queer? It's not exactly fair to apply 21st century terms to a 20th century comic strip. And yet Krazy and Ignatz's relationship, one-sided and abusive as it is, is the primary conflict of the strip. When asked directly about Krazy's gender, Herriman gave a nuanced and interesting answer:

{Text excerpted from Krazy Kat: The Comic Art of George Herriman. Transcript: Krazy's gender was uncertain right from the beginning, for Herriman might refer to the Kat as either "he" or "she". The artist once replied this when questioned about the Kat's sex: "I don't know. I fooled around with it once; began to think the Kat is a girl--even drew up some strips with her being pregnant. It wasn't the Kat any longer; too much concerned with her own problems--like a soap opera. Know what I mean? Then I realized Krazy was something like a sprite, an elf. They have no sex. So that Kat can't be a he or a she. The Kat's a spirit--a pixie--free to butt into anything. Don't you think so? End ID}

Herriman's refusal to identify Krazy with one gender or the other has undoubtedly perplexed readers since the strip's run. Animated adaptations have been forced to give Krazy a gender, usually with the intention of making his love heterosexual. A short-lived cartoon in 1962 made Krazy female, with a female voice actor, while a comic book adaptation portrayed the kat as male, but with less emphasis on the romantic dynamic. In the original strip, however, Krazy cannot be constrained to any particular identity; he is only krazy.

{ID: Uncolored comic panel with Krazy and Ignatz. Krazy is saying "Y'see, I don't know whether to take unto myself a wife or a husband." Ignatz looks surprised. End ID}

I hope you enjoyed this brief overview of a strange, underappreciated comic, and I will now leave you with a sweet little strip, which implies that Ignatz may have some fondness for Krazy in his black heart after all:

{ID: An uncolored comic strip. Panel 1: Krazy and Ignatz sleeping beside each other on a log. Panel 2: Krazy awakens, noticing Ignatz next to him. Panel 3: Krazy looks around. Panel 4: Krazy kisses Ignatz with a "smack" sound effect. Panel 5: Krazy goes back to sleep. Ignatz dreams of angels and cupids raining down arrows of love and hearts all around. End ID.}

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

We’re All Mad Here | Jurdan College AU

Summary: It’s all for show, I tell myself. To see if I can make him flinch. It’s just a game of Russian Roulette, after all. Harmless, as long as I am the one with the gun.

Rating: T/M

CW: Very mild cursing. Zero explicit content but there is a fun little tease. It’s all very soft focus, though. Also, at the end, a brief flashback of Jude’s backstory in this fic which might be triggering for some. I’ve marked the start of her trigger with a ~~~ in case you want to avoid.

Part I    |    Part III    |    WAMH Masterlist    |    AO3    |    Fic Masterlist

Part II- Simmer

Unfortunately Attractive Dude leads me around the counter like he owns the place. If a stranger leading me into a back room is not alarming enough, the mirthful bound in his step makes me all the more suspicious.

I glare very hard at the back of his head and hope he feels it.

“Liliver,” the man says to the white-haired barista as we pass behind her, “Another hot chocolate and one large caramel cappuccino, extra shot, to-go. And make it snappy, we’ve got places to be.”

Liliver throws a sneer over her shoulder. “I’d make it much snappier if you said the magic words.”

“Oh, Liliver. Magic isn’t real,” he croons, “And we both know I’m above begging.”

Liliver looks like she’s considering punching him in the face. If it came down to it, I know I’m not above begging for that. Or cheering. Or joining in.

“Whip?” the man says.

I blink. It takes me a second to realise he’s speaking to me. “Huh?”

A wicked smirk settles on his mouth. “Do you want whip?”

I scrunch my nose.

“No whip,” he says to Liliver, backing toward a set of silver doors in the corner.

“Who puts whipped cream on their cappuccino?” I mutter.

“Weirdos, that’s who,” Liliver tells me. “Off his rocker, this one. Be careful around him.” I give her a conspiratorial smile. I decide I like Liliver.

I decide I hate Unfortunately Attractive Dude when, for reasons entirely uncertain to me, he gives me a shit-eating grin and ducks through the swinging silver doors. Against my better judgement, I follow.

Suddenly, I’m in a small kitchen where everything from the countertops to the large fridge in the corner is made of stainless steel. The air is cold and damp, like a clammy hand. An unsettling combination of wet rags and baking bread permeates the air.

The man busies himself, pulling various items down from shelves and out of cabinets.

“Are we… allowed to be back here?” I ask. He knows the barista, that much is apparent. But surely that doesn’t excuse customers from wandering back on a whim to use the kitchens as their own personal laundromat.

“One never needs permission to be anywhere if one never asks and is never perceived,” he muses. I shoot him an incredulous look and he laughs. “I work here.”

“In that?” I jut my chin at the man’s outfit. His jacket alone is garish. Paired with all the prim and tailored rest, it seems more like something strutting down a high-end runway than any work attire I’ve ever seen.

“No, of course not in this,” he scoffs. “Come sit.” He pats the metal countertop next to the sink before continuing his search, a flurry of black and red.

“Why?” I don’t try to hide my scepticism. Better he knows I am wary of him still than try to be accommodating and find myself axe-murdered.

“Because after I’m done with your shirt,” he says, pausing to look at me, “I need to make sure you’re not hurt.”

How poetic, I think, then narrow my eyes. I mislike the idea of this strange man inspecting an injury conveniently located on my cleavage.

“I told you,” I say, sliding my backpack off my shoulders and setting it on the floor, “I’m fine.” But when I peel out of my coat, a sharp pang shoots across my chest. I cannot help the wince that escapes.

Clearly not fine.

An arch of one dark brow tells me the man agrees with my unspoken thought. His oil-slick eyes rake over me once more, assessing. My traitorous heart does a little leap.

He pulls one shoulder into a half-shrug. “Company policy. Sorry.” His rings clang against the metal as he pats the counter again.

My teeth grit against the sound. “A likely story,” I grumble, though I am not sure he hears me. Already continuing his disassembly of the kitchen cabinets, the man does not respond.

I clamber up onto the counter with no amount of haste and sit begrudgingly amongst his collection of searched-for items: Dish soap, white wine vinegar, rubbing alcohol, a sponge, a large metal mixing bowl. He adds a first-aid kit to the growing horde.

I watch as he removes his many rings from moon pale fingers. They’re long and nimble, and I find myself wondering if he sews, as well. Or perhaps he’s a skilled pianist.

Warmth spreads across my cheeks. Then again, it’s probably a bad idea to think too much on his hands.

He flicks a handle of the faucet and tests the steady stream rushing out. Satisfied, he holds the mixing bowl under the tap.

“It’s my day off,” he tells me while the bowl fills.

“Fascinating.”

“It’s why I’m not in uniform.”

“You’re telling me you chose to wear this?” I wave a hand at his ensemble.

The man turns the faucet off, frowning. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He places the bowl of warm water on the counter next to me.

“Your coat looks like a bathrobe.”

“I beg your pardon?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock offence. “This jacket happens to be a masterful work of art by a very coveted designer.”

I roll my eyes. He sounds like the most pretentious kind of asshole. If I hadn’t already decided whether to like him or hate him, this would’ve given substantial weight to the latter.

“Yeah, well, it looks like something an old rich dude would wear,” I say. “Probably while having a post-bath cigar and reading the obituary section of the newspaper.”

“Personally, I much prefer the comic section, post-bath,” he mutters, squeezing a dollop of dish soap into the bowl.

Somehow, I can imagine that. This odd man in a bath full of bubbles and oils that smell like the forest, getting out only when his hands go pruny to read the Sunday comics. Then I very much want to un-imagine that.

I shake my head. I need coffee. Now.

“Lucky for you,” the man says, ripping me from my internal spiral into damnation, “You get the privilege of wearing the old dude bathrobe. Give me your shirt.”

He shrugs out of the jacket and holds it out for me, his free hand waiting expectantly for a swap. Those coal-black eyes sparkle with a dare. It’s then that I realise: They are waiting expectantly, too.

As if he anticipates I will blush and ask him to turn around so I can change in some modicum of privacy. Like a good girl. As if he expects I’m the type of woman who is accustomed to gentlemanly behaviour from men.

Little does he know, I don’t much care for chivalry—and I am most certainly not good. If he does not want to give me the courtesy of privacy, then I will not ask it of him.

It is an effort to swallow my pride. With slow hands, I pull my blouse from the waistband of my skirt. I hold his gaze steady, out of spite.

Surprise steals across his face. It is there and then gone, brief as a breeze, and the only thing he yields.

As my fingers graze the top button, a little thrill runs through me. I must be mad for doing this. Between the interview jitters, my state of panic, and a desperate lack of caffeine, I must have completely lost my mind.

Or more likely, there was already something very wrong with me, to begin with.

Sensing my hesitation, the man’s mouth furls at the corners like unrolled parchment that reads: You won’t do it, in the looping, self-important scrawl I imagine someone like him must possess. That small smirk, the second dare.

I glare at his mouth. The first button is the hardest, but I clench my jaw and undo it; then the next.  

He tracks my every move from beneath the eaves of his thick lashes. The sight of him so suspended by the strings of my fingers makes my heart rush, and I am struck by a mix of irritation and dizzying lust.

Cool air pebbles the skin on my chest as I work. I take my sweet time about it. This prick wanted a show, so it’s a show I will give him.

My fingers move carefully down the line. Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I knit my brows in feigned concentration and pretend that this is nothing.

Even though my heartbeat is a war drum in my chest.

Even though his gaze is heady and my head is spinning with it.

Even though I am very glad this task does not require me to speak.

This is nothing. This is nothing but three more buttons. His breath hitches as my shirt falls open further. I am a matchstick under his flint-like gaze.

My cheeks blaze. I think about how every bit of this is his fault. I think about how I hate him and his annoying charm for tricking me into coming back here. About his paramour eyes, his satyr’s smile—I think I hate those things most.

Such ire grounds me.

I pop the final button, slip my shirt off one shoulder, then the other. The pale blue fabric pools at my waist, draping over the crooks of my elbows. A subtle shift and I’m pushing my arms flush against my ribcage, giving him the best view.

It’s all for show, I tell myself, over and over. To see if I can make him flinch. It’s just a game of Russian Roulette, after all. Harmless, as long as I am the one with the gun.

When I meet his eyes again, at last, every second of this humiliation is worth it. The man’s arms have fallen slack at his sides. His precious designer jacket all but forgotten, nearly grazing the floor.

Gone is the taunting smirk. Every sharp edge of him smoothed over by wonderment. Or maybe it is consternation.

Either way, I am plagued by the thought that I should very much like to see him dishevelled.

I should like to see him come undone.

I give a coy smile and bat my lashes mockingly. “Did you get a good enough inspection, doctor?”

To my delight, he swallows audibly. Opens his mouth as if to speak, then snaps it shut.

Maybe he needs a doctor, I think and give a little snort. With a roll of my eyes, I try to beat back the tide of my own desire.

I shove my wadded up shirt into his chest, unceremonious. “You’re drooling,” I tell him, my voice miraculously even. That seems to snap him out of it.

He blinks twice, clearing his throat. “Shouldn’t need more than ice and a bit of aloe,” he says, then takes my shirt in his free hand.

I snatch the jacket from his other and shrug it on. My arms slide easily into the satin-lined sleeves. It’s still warm and smells like him. A forest and something burning. I hate that I notice at all—that whatever odious perfume he’s wearing is something I’ve committed to memory. Most of all, I hate the shiver that roils up my spine because of it.

I fold my arms across my chest and risk a glance at the man.

He’s frowning at the bottle of white wine vinegar in his hands. The way he glares at it, you’d think it had committed some heinous crime. There is a slight tinge of pink on his moon-pale cheeks.

A trifle smile tugs at my lips. It’s good to know I get under his skin as much as he gets under mine.

“So,” I say, flipping my hair out from under the jacket, “How do I look?”

He glances in my direction, face unreadable. An unbothered sweep of his gaze. “Not at all like an old man in a bathrobe,” he says, opening the bottle.

With a flourish, he adds a splash of vinegar to the bowl.

“I should hope not,” I say, raising my arms slightly to examine the jacket. “I think I look like the finest baroque rug Insmire has to offer.”

The laugh that barrels from Unfortunately Attractive Dude is genuine. “I’ll pass your compliments along to the artist.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Nonetheless,” he says, “I suspect it’s as close to one as anything you usually give.” He reaches for my shirt and dunks it in the water. Immediately, a bit of the stain lifts away, turning the water a cloudy colour.

He’s not wrong, and it irks me. I shift my gaze back to the jacket.

All things considered, I’m shocked at how well it fits. It’s a little long, and the sleeves swallow my hands in a river of red and black fabric. But what I lack in height, I make up for in other things. The man is lean enough to where the rest of his jacket is filled easily by the swell of my breasts, the sweep of my hips.

“I’ll admit,” he says, swishing the contents of the bowl around with his hands, “It suits you. Might even look better on you than it does on me.”

“Really?” I gasp, a teasing thing.

“I said might,” he mumbles, stirring and pointedly not meeting my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, I most certainly will.”

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, but he says nothing and adds dish soap to the bowl.

“You never told me your name,” I blurt. Mostly to fill the silence, but also because my not knowing is starting to get a bit weird.

He furrows his brows as if he’s never been asked the question before. Or he is surprised I even have to ask. Like I said. Self-important.

“I didn’t,” he says, smirking down at the bowl.

I wait. When he does not oblige me, I give him a stern look. “Is that information classified or something?” I ask. “Too personal? Because let me tell you, pal, you’ve seen me in my bra.”

“Yes. And?”

I almost cringe at the reminder. He has probably seen many people in various states of undress. I am no one special.

“And,” I say, pasting a sickly sweet smile on my lips, “I usually like to know the names of people who’ve seen me in my bra.”

“You say that as if it happens often.”

I narrow my eyes, ignoring the blush rising in my cheeks. “And you say that as if you mean to distract me.” He continues to work my shirt around with his hands, dutifully ignoring my glare. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

“Because,” he says, voice contemplative, “I thought you already knew it.”

“Should I know it?”

He shrugs. “We’re in the same politics lecture. With Dulcamara. You sit in the back row every week.”

“So you’re stalking me.” I’m only half-joking. The other half is starting to get worried that maybe I will end up in tiny little pieces out back if I’m not careful. My eyes flit to the bouquet of knives at the end of the counter.

“No,” he says, adding a squeeze of rubbing alcohol to the mix. “I’m just good with people. And faces.”

While he stirs, I cock my head to the side, trying to dredge up his likeness from the faces in my memory. I’m quite certain if I had ever seen a face like his, I would’ve remembered it.

Though truth be told, Dulcamara’s lectures are the most interesting my department has to offer. I often do not notice the people around me.

“You really don’t know who I am?” He looks at me, brows arched in amusement.

I grit my teeth. “That lecture is one of the busiest ones. And why should I pay attention to the people when the lecture is far more—”

“Gripping?” His grin is a slash of white. “You’d certainly be the first to think so.”

“At least I think for myself,” I snap.

“A good quality to be sure,” he says. “But as driven a person as you are, Jude, I’d have thought you’d be more observant.”

My heart skitters to a halt. It’s one thing to know my face but…

“How do you know my name,” I demand, boring a glare into his skull. “You are stalking me.”

“It’s hardly stalking, darling, if neither of us has any choice in the matter of attending,” he points out. “Besides, it’s really hard to not know your name. Since you answer all of Dulcamara’s questions with such… thoroughness.” Some emotion I can’t quite read, settled so perplexingly between admiration and disdain, feeds his expression as he says this.

I am not entirely sure what to make of it.

But I do know what he’s said is true. I am usually the only voluntary participant in Dulcamara’s lectures. And I suppose if he knows enough about my track record for participation, he probably does go to Royal Greenbriar.

I’m weighing my options when Liliver careens through the door.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” she says, making for our counter in the back of the kitchen. She has two steaming cups in her hands, and had I not been sitting so high up, I might’ve dropped to my knees to kiss the ground she walks on.

“Busy out there?” the man-who-has-annoyingly-not-been-named mutters.

“You were at the tail end of the rush,” Liliver says, then frowns. “Though it doesn’t seem like you’re in much of a hurry here.”

She eyes the array of supplies, my shirt in the bowl of now-dirty water, her co-worker’s jacket on my shoulders. She says nothing. Only hands me one of the cups.

“One large caramel cappuccino, extra shot, to-go,” she says, giving me a wink.

I thank her and take a much-needed sip.

Liliver turns to the man. “And one hot chocolate for you, Your Highness.” She makes a mockery of a bow as she hands him his drink.

He scowls but grunts his appreciation, placing the to-go cup on the counter next to him. When he turns back to the bowl, the barista grins wickedly at me. I return it in kind. Yes, I very much like Liliver.

“Any luck with the stain?” she asks the man.

He fishes my blouse out of the bowl. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business, Lil,” he says, then shuffles over a few steps before wringing the fabric over the sink.

“As star employee, anything that happens in my kitchen is my business.” She offers a lewd waggle of her brows.

I take a sip of coffee to hide the blooming heat on my face. I was sure the door had been closed… Then, a small, dreadful thought bubbles to the surface.

Perhaps her coworker has a reputation for luring potential conquests back here. Perhaps he’s done this one-hundred times before, and Liliver has learned the basic machinations of it.

Though it’s doubtful anyone gave a show quite so revealing as mine. Also doubtful he’s had quite that many conquests, even with his considerable beauty. One-hundred is a very high number. Isn’t it?

Still, if I am correct in guessing his design, I vow to make the man pay in more than just coffee and laundering expertise.

“Need I remind you,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude drawls, “It is technically my kitchen always. So I am under no obligation to tell you.”

His kitchen? He’d been modest before, I realise, when he told me he works here.

“Not like you to pull rank,” Liliver huffs, affronted. “What’s got your panties in a knot, Greenbriar? Is it girl troubles? Because if it is—”

But I don’t hear the rest of what she says.

~~~A single word and everything becomes slow, slanting. I stare down at the tile floor. The world warps around me, as if held on the end of a bungee cord stretched taut, and I am about to be flung helpless back into the air.

Something in my stomach curdles. It has nothing to do with the coffee.

“Anyway,” Liliver is saying, her voice very far away, “You asked me to remind you if you’re still here that you have a meeting in ten minutes.”

I am still staring at the grout between tiles. At the grit there. The grime. My skin is awash with the slick feeling of it.

“Yes,” the man says in my periphery. “Thank you, Liliver.”

“For the record, I don’t get paid enough for this,” she says, and I have the vague sense she is heading for the door. “The personal assisting. The moods. The general… weirdness.”

His laugh is muffled, awful. Like the thud of marbles on carpet. “I’ll give you a raise, then.”

“It’s the least you could do,” she sings over her shoulder, and she’s out the door again.

Then, we are alone. But I am not here. I am sometime else.

I feel all that black water clapping at my ears as I swam that day. My lungs burning raw with panic and bile and sea salt. The boat, a little orange firefly flickering in the distance, appearing and disappearing with the rise and fall of waves.

The sea is a lady. When she swallows you whole, she does so without a sound. Drowning is always quiet. So is rage, which is an awful lot like drowning. Everything happens beneath, simmering to the surface like so many bubbles. They were certainly one and the same that day.

I think they are one and the same now.

Flame licks my face, static pricks my tongue. My heart thrashes slow in my chest, a kind of silent drowning. My head is swimming just as poorly. ~~~

When I resurface, I am met with only silence and that one word ringing in my ears.

Greenbriar. Greenbriar. Greenbriar.

☽☽☽☽☽

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AN: Sorry for the major cliffhanger but the evil author in me had to *cue villainous laughter* 😈 so it’s been an age and a half since I last updated this fic, but here it is! Thank you so much for reading!! Hope you enjoyed :) If you did, please let me know in the comments, reblogs, my ask box/inbox. Even if it’s just a keyboard smash, it genuinely brightens my day to read.

I’ve been busy developing the plot for this one and let me tell you, there is SO MUCH to be revealed, I can hardly contain myself. No promises, but I’m about halfway through writing the next chapter so hopefully it will only take me one single age to post that.

If you’d like to be added to the tag list for all future updates of We’re All Mad Here (or any other Jurdan content I post), let me know via comment/ask/message!! Thanks again for reading! Back to the forest now. 

-em 🖤💫

Title Inspo: Simmer by Hayley Williams

Tag List: @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte​ @velarhysismine​ @knifewifejude​ @danieldesario​ @annihliation​ @wickedqueenoffantasy​ @not-tess​ @clockworkgraystairs​

[chiseler]

Ophelia By the Yard

Cobwebbed passages and wax-encrusted candelabra, dungeons festooned with wrist manacles, an iron maiden in every niche, carpets of dry ice fog, dead twig forests, painted hilltop castles, secret doorways through fireplaces or behind beds (both portals of hot passion), crypts, gloomy servants, cracking thunder and flashes of lightning, inexplicably tinted light sources, candles impossibly casting their own shadows, rubber bats on wires, grand staircases, long dining tables, huge doors with prodigiously pendulous knockers to rival anything in Hollywood.

Here was the precise moment — and it was nothing if not inevitable — when the darkness of horror film, both visible and inherent, leapt from the gothic toy box now joined by a no less disconcerting array of color. The best, brightest, sweetest, and most dazzling red-blooded palette that journeyman Italian cinematographers could coax from those tired cameras. Color, both its commercial necessity as well as all it promised the eye, would hereafter re-imagine the genre’s possibilities, in Italy and, gradually, everywhere else. 

When color hit the Italian Gothic cycle, a truly new vision was born. In Hammer films and other UK horror productions, the cheapness of Eastmancolor made it possible for blood to be red. Indeed, very red. And, while we shouldn't underestimate the startling impact this had, it was a fairly literal use of the medium. In the Italian movies, and to a large extent in Roger Corman's Poe cycle, color was an unlikely vehicle to further dismantle realism rather than to assert it. Overrun with tinted lights and filters, none of which added to the film’s realistic qualities, the movies became delirious. In Corman's Masque of the Red Death, we learn of an experiment that uses color to drive a man insane; it seems that filmmakers like Corman and Mario Bava were attempting the very same trick on their audiences.

The application of candy-wrapper hues to a haunted castle flick like The Whip and the Body adds a pop art vibe at odds with the genre, and when you get to something like Kill, Baby...Kill! the Gothic trappings are barely able to mask a distinctly modern sensibility, so much so that Fellini could plunder its phantasmal elements for Toby Dammit, fitting them perfectly into his sixties Roman nightmare.

Blood and Black Lace brings the saturated lighting and Gothic fillips into the twentieth century -- a sign creaking in a gale is the first image, translated from Frankensteinland to the exterior of a contemporary fashion house. A literal faceless killer disposes of six women in diabolical ways. The sour-faced detective remains several deaths back on the killer’s trail because the movie knows its audience, knows that it has zero interest in detection, character, motivation — though it’s all inertly there as a pretext for sadism, set-pieces of partially-clad women being hacked up, dot the film like musical numbers or action sequences might appear in a different genre. 

Since the 19th-century audience for literary Gothic Horror was comprised of far fewer men than women, would it be fair to ask whether Giallo’s advent might be an instrument of brutal violence, even revenge against “feminine” preoccupations? Consider 1964’s Danza Macabra, the film’s amorous vibes finding their ultimate source in that deathless screen goddess named Barbara Steele, whose marble white flesh photographs like some monument to classicism startled into unwanted Keatsian fever. Her presence practically demands that we ask ourselves: “Who is this wraith howling at a paper moon?” In other words, is it a coincidence that Steele’s “Elizabeth Blackwood” — a revenant temptress and undead sex symbol — hits screens the very same year as Giallo, which would transform Italian cinema into a decades-long death mill for women? 

The name “giallo”, meaning yellow, derives from the crime paperbacks issued by Italian publisher Mondadori. The eye-catching covers, featuring a circular illustration of some act of infamy embedded in a yellow panel, became utterly associated with the genre of literature. These books were likely to be by Edgar Wallace, the most popular author in the western world, or Agatha Christie: cardboard characters sliding through the most mechanical of plots; or classier local equivalents, like Francesco Mastriani or Carolina Invernizio. The founding principles laid down concerned the elaborate deceptions concealed by their authors, traps for the unwary reader, and the use of a distinctive design motif. The tendency of the characterisation to lapse into sub-comic-book cliché, the figures incapable of expressing or inspiring real sympathy, was, perhaps, an unintended side-effect of the focus on narrative sleight-of-hand.

When Italian filmmakers sought to translate sensational literature to the screen, they looked to other filmic influences: American film noir, influenced by German expressionism and often made by German emigrés (Lang, Siodmak, Dieterle, Ulmer); and the popular krimi cycle being produced in West Germany, mostly based on Edgar Wallace's leaden "shockers." These deployed stock characters, bizarre methods of murder, deceptive plotting, and exuberant use of chiaroscuro, the stylistic palette of noir intensified by more fog, more shafts of light, more inky shadows. A certain amount of fun, but different from the coming bloodbath because Wallace, despite somewhat fascistic tendencies, is anodyne and anaemic by comparison. No open misogyny, a sadism sublimated in story, a touching faith in Scotland Yard and the class system. In the Giallo, Wallace's more sensational aspects are adopted but made to serve a sensibility quite alien to the stodgy Englander: people are generally rotten, the system stinks, and crime becomes a lurid spectator sport served up to a viewer both thrilled and appalled. 

The Giallo fetishizes murder. But then, it fetishizes everything in sight. Every object, every half-filled wine glass and pastel-colored telephone, is photographed with obsessive, product-shot enthusiasm. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring — each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. And yet, for the directors who rode most dexterously the Giallo wave, homicide was something one did to women. Indulging in equal-opportunity lechery was merely an excuse to find other, more violent outlets for their misogyny. Please enter into evidence the demented enthusiasm for woman-killing evinced by Dario Argento, Mario Bava, Lucio Fulci, et al. — whatever trifling token massacres of men one might exhume from their respective oeuvres are inconsequential. Argento’s defense, “I love women, so I would rather see a beautiful woman killed than an ugly man,” should not satisfy us, and hardly seems designed to (also bear in mind Poe’s assertion that the death of a beautiful young woman was the most poetic of all subjects).

Filmmakers like Argento have no interest in sex per se. Suffering seems inessential, but terror and death are key, photographed with the same clinical absorption and aesthetic gloss as Giallo-maestros habitually apply to their interior design. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring – each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. That’s one important subtlety often lost amid Giallo’s vast antisocial hemorrhage.

Like a river of blood, homophobia, in the literal meaning of fear rather than hatred, runs through the genre. Lesbians are sinister and gay men barely exist. As we try to work out what in hell the Giallo is really up to, little dabs of dime-store Freudianism seem sufficient.

The filmmakers’ misogyny could be suspect, a sign of compromised masculinity, so they need fictional avatars to cloak their own feverish woman-hating. The subterfuge is clumsy at best, the desultory deceit embarrassingly macho. Giallo’s visual force, powerful enough to divorce eye from mind, is another matter, leaving us demoralized and ethically destitute; our hearts beating with all the righteous indignation of three dead shrubs (and maybe a half-eaten sandwich).

The Giallo is founded on an unstated assumption: the modern world brings forth monsters. Jack the Ripper was an aberration in his day, but now there's a Jack around every corner, behind every piece of modular furniture, every diving helmet lamp. Previously, disturbing events arose from what Ambrose Bierce called The Suitable Surroundings, or what the mad architect in Fritz Lang's The Secret Beyond the Door termed, with sly and sinister euphemism, "propitious rooms." There's the glorious line in Withnail and I: "That's the sort of window faces appear at." But now, in the modern world, evil occurs in the nicest of places, and tonal consistency died in a welter of cheerful stage blood. One needn’t enter an especially Bad Place to meet one’s worst nightmare, or perhaps better to say: the whole bright world qualified as a properly bad place. Imagine the pages of an interior design magazine invaded by anonymous psychopaths intent on painting the gleaming walls red.

Though the victims are overwhelmingly female and their killers male (Argento typically photographed his own leather-gloved hands to stand in for his assassin’s), when the violence becomes over-the-top in its sexualized woman-hating (like the crotch-stabbing in What Have You Done to Solange?), it’s usually a clue that the movie’s murderer will turn out to be female: a simple case of projection. Only Lucio Fulci, the most twisted of the bunch, trained as a doctor and experienced as an art critic, not only assigns misogyny to a straight male killer (The New York Ripper) but plays the killer himself in A Cat in the Brain. Though, in another self-protecting twist of narrative, all psychological explanations in Gialli are bullshit, always. Criminology and clinical psychology are largely ignored, and Argento has a clear preference for outdated theories like the extra chromosome signaling psychopathy (Cat O’Nine Tails). Did anybody use phrenology, or Lombroso’s crackpot physiognomic theories, as plot device?

A tradition of the Giallo is that the characters all tend to be dislikable, something Argento at least resisted in Cat O’ Nine Tails and Deep Red. With disposable characters, each of whom might be the killer and each of whose violent demise is served up as a set-piece, this distancing and contempt might just be a byproduct of the form rather than a principle or ethos, but it’s of some interest, perhaps mitigating the misogyny with a wash of misanthropy. A Unified Field Theory of Gialli would find a more deep-seated reason for the obnoxious characters as well as the stylized snuff and the glamorous presentation. What urge is being satisfied, and why here, now, like this?

Class war? Though prostitute-ripping is encouraged in the Giallo, most victims are wealthy, slashed to ribbons amid opulent interiors. Urbane characters who might previously have graced the sleek “white telephone” films of forties Italian cinema were briefly edged out by neo-realism’s concentration on the working class. Now these exquisite mannequins are trundled back onscreen to be ritually slaughtered for our viewing pleasure.

Victims must always be enviable: either beautiful and sexy or rich and swellegant, or all of the above, so the average moviegoer can rejoice in their dismemberment with a clear conscience. Mario Bava bloodily birthed the genre in Blood and Black Lace (1964), brutally offing fashion models in a variety of Sade-approved ways, the killer a literally faceless assassin into whom the (presumed male) audience could pour their own animosities without ever admitting it, with the female killer finally unmasked to provide exculpatory relief.

If narrative formulas absolve the straight male viewer, compositions have a way of ensnaring him. Beyond that omnivorous indulgence of sensation for its own lurid sake one finds in Giallo, there is a more gilded emphasis placed on Beauty (in the Catholic sense), and it is only the women who are mounted upon its pedestal. That these avatars of beauty are to be savored, ravaged, and brutalized — in that order — is what concerns us. But the sex and the suffering that captivates most sadists is never what registers; no, it is the instance of death, the terror that afflicts the dying woman’s face that resonates. Once again, physical interiors become a negative form of emotional interiority, rooms amplified for the sole purpose of grisly annihilations; a kind of heretical, strictly anti-Catholic transcendence through amoral delight in what otherwise falls under trivial headings, either “the visuals” or “color palette” – neither of which touch the essential nerve endings of Giallo.

Swaddled inside an otherwise hyper-masculine castle lies a windowless chamber with feminine, if not psychotic, decor. Before he tortures and stabs her to death, “Lord Alan Cunningham” (fresh from his sojourn in the asylum) brings his first victim to this pageant of off-gassing plastic furniture, the single most obnoxious vision ever imposed on gothic environs. Risibly overblown ’70s chic rules The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave with nods to Edgar Allan Poe, as the modish Lord juggles sports cars and medieval persecution. Laughs escape the viewer’s throat in dry heaves when each new MacGuffin devours itself without warning. Take “Aunt Agatha” (easily two decades younger than her middle-aged nephews) suddenly rising from her motorized wheelchair, clobbered from behind seconds later, her body dragged into a cage where foxes promptly munch her entrails. Nothing comes of this. The phony paralysis, the aunt’s role in a half-dozen mysteries, which include a battalion of sexy maids in miniskirts and blonde Harpo Marx wigs – all gulped, swallowed.

About the only thing we know for certain is that “Aunt Agatha” is gorgeous. Though, in the end, she’s another casualty of the same nihilism that crashes Giallo aesthetics headlong into Poe country. That is into “Lord Alan” and his gaudy room crowded with designer goods to be catalogued in a horror vacui of visual intrusiveness – a trashy shrine to his late wife, the titular Evelyn. If lapses of good taste define The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave, they also reflect Giallo’s abiding obsession with real estate. After all, this Mod hypnagogia has to fill the eye somewhere. Why not bang in the middle of a castle? Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher features a wealthy aristocrat burying his twin sister alive, thereby entombing his own femininity.

Evelyn represents both Usher’s primary theme of the divided self and the obdurate refusal to learn from it. “Alan,” who emerges a moral hero in the end (after his shrink aids and abets his murder spree), remains just as ornery, alienated, and vainglorious as Giallo itself. We’re never told precisely what the film’s fetish objects are supposed to mean. And since the camera seizes upon each one with existential grimness, we’re left with a visual style that begs its own questions.

Function follows form into the abyss. One Ophelia after another dies to satisfy our cruel delectation, even as will-o’-the-wisp light, taken from the bogs and neglected cemeteries of Gothic Horror, finds itself transformed into a crimson-dripping stiletto.  Evelyn stands in for all Gialli, a genre which redefines film itself on the narrow front of visual impact: stainless steel cutlery and candy-colored light enact a sentient agenda as color becomes an instrument of hyperbolic misogyny that fills the eye and then some.  

As with certain other Italian genres, notably the peplum, smart characterization, solid performances and decent dialogue seem not only unnecessary to the Giallo but unwelcome (the spaghetti western, conversely, in which many of the same directors dabbled, seemed to demand a steady stream of good, cold-blooded wise-cracks). Argento, in pursuit of that “non-Cartesian” quality he admired in Poe, took this to extremes, stringing non-sequiturs together to form absurdist cut-ups, torching his stars’ credibility merely by forcing them to utter such nonsense. And this wasn’t enough: from Suspiria (1977) on, the psychological thriller (which the Giallo is a sub-genre of, only the psychology has to be deliberately nonsensical) was increasingly replaced by the supernatural. So that the laws of nature could be suspended along with the laws of coherent motivation.

In Suspiria and its 1980 quasi-sequel Inferno, the traditional knifings are interspersed with more uncanny events, as when a stone eagle comes to life and somehow makes a seeing-eye dog kill his owner, and there are also grotesque incidents with no relation to story whatever: a shower of maggots, or an attack by voracious rats in Central Park. The Giallo’s quest for a solution, inspired as it was by the old-school whodunits, is all but abandoned, replaced by the search for the next sensational set-piece.

Argento’s villains are now witches, but, abandoning centuries of tradition, these witches show more interest in stabbing their fellow women with kitchen knives than with worshipping Satan or riding broomsticks. Regardless of who they’re meant to be, Argento’s characters must express his desires, enact the atrocities he dreams of. And inhabit places built for his aesthetic pleasure rather than their own. Following Bava’s cue, he saturates his rooms in light blasted through colored gels, making every scene a stained-glass icon, no naturalistic explanation offered for the lurid tinted hues. Just as no explanation is offered for the presence of a room full of coiled razor-wire in a ballet school, or for the behavior of the young woman who throws herself into its midst without looking.

Dario Argento’s true significance, at least with respect to Giallo, was perceiving in the nick of time the almost incandescent obviousness of its limitations; that Italian commercial cinema’s garish, polychromatic spin on the garden-variety psychological thriller – departing from its forebears mainly in the rampant senselessness of its “psychology” – had Dead End written all over it. It could never last. On the other hand, Giallo does take a fresh turn with Argento’s Inferno, thanks in no small measure to a woman screenwriter who sadly remains uncredited. Daria Nicolodi explains that “having fought so hard to see my humble but excellent work in Suspiria recognized (up until a few days before the première I didn’t know if I would see my name in the film credits), I didn’t want to live through that again, so I said, ‘Do as you please, in any case, the story will talk for me because I wrote it.’”

Daria Nicolodi

Nicolodi’s conception humanizes (it would be tempting to say “feminizes”) Argento’s usual sanguinary exercises du style, while at the same time summoning legitimate psychology. This has nothing to do with strong characterization – indeed, the characters barely speak – and everything to do with the elemental power of water, fire, wind.… Inferno rescues Giallo by plunging it into seemingly endless visual interludes, a cinema that draws its strength from absence.

by The Chiselers

Daniel Riccuito, David Cairns, Tom Sutpen, and Richard Chetwynd

[elisende]

Predators (1/2)

Characters: Halsin/FOC Rating: M Words: 2655 Long before becoming the first druid of the Emerald Grove, Halsin is a hotheaded, aimless youth struggling to control his anger and alienation. When a mysterious druid saves him from a great bear, he sees a path to another life. Even the High Forest was a lonely place for a wood elf with no kinfolk to speak of--none still living. Most of his kind had left for Evermeet or for the teeming cities of the east. Neither appealed to Halsin.

He roamed the great forest that was his birthright, scavenging what scraps could be found on the edges of the human settlements that encroached, year by year, like some choking vine.

And he grew from adolescent to adult over the twenty winters of his wandering, broadening across the shoulders, shooting up to a height that others seemed to find incredible. The humans around the villages he haunted took to calling him the Tailhleach, “the tall walker,” in their strange tongue. They feared him as some sort of half-man, half-beast, a spirit protector of the forest. The myth was a useful one: it meant he went mostly undisturbed, except when the occasional foolhardy youth took it upon himself to hunt down the beast. But Halsin had his own ways of staying the sword arms and bows of overeager hunters.

These conquests, too, became part of his legend.

Now fully grown, he had become, in a word, complacent. There was nothing in the forest, man or beast, that could challenge him. So he thought, with all the arrogance of the young.

Halsin’s appetites often led him from one part of the forest to the other in search of delicacies: truffles, chestnut honey, blackberries. Today he was foraging for mushrooms: the orange rilled ones so good they could be eaten raw, as soon as they were dusted off. The mushrooms preferred this part of the wood, the wet brambly hillside that was often choked in fog.

Nothing seemed amiss as he scanned the forest floor for their distinctive convex caps.

He was deaf to the crackling of dead leaves, the faint but audible snap of a twig, the rustle of disturbed undergrowth and even the snort of the curious bear as it approached his crouching back.

It was only when the beast’s breath disturbed the hair on Halsin’s head that he whirled around, startling the great bear. For one moment that felt like a century, they stared, nose to nose and eye to eye: elf and bear, locked in the fatal glance of prey and hunter.

Then the bear roared, its fear exploding to rage like dry tinder under lightning’s forked tongue. Halsin was so close that he could see the ridges on the bear’s bright canine teeth, taste its meaty breath. A young bear, he thought stupidly. He began backing away, all the while watching the beast.

The great bear stood on its hind feet and flattened its ears. It made as though to charge but it was only a feint, a test of Halsin’s resolve. He stopped. Anger building alongside his terror, he bellowed at it, swung the slim oaken branch he always carried with him.

But the bear wouldn’t be intimidated. It had no inkling of his fearsome reputation. His rage was only fuel for its own.

It swiped, claws scraping Halsin’s flesh from his hairline down to his left eyebrow. His vision went red and by instinct he swung his club. He only hit the bear by luck, the same luck that had saved his left eye.

It backed away and lowered its head, ears flattened. This would be a true charge and he stood little chance of surviving it, given the bear’s size.

He stood, waiting, in a defensive crouch, holding out his makeshift club, blood pouring down his face. But just as the bear started to charge, a warning growl sounded from the chestnut grove beyond.

Almost comically, the bear quirked its head. The growls continued and the bear moaned in reply, as though in conversation with it.

The rage melted from the beast’s eyes and it pawed the air as an elven woman appeared in the gloom. She lowed at the bear once more and the bear, incredibly, seemed almost to chuckle.

“What are you--”

“He says you’re after his mushrooms again. Whenever you come here, you leave nothing for the others who reside in this wood. He thinks it's rather rude,” the elf said. As she came closer, he saw the crest of Silvanus on her broach. A druid, then.

He laughed incredulously, wiping the blood from his face. “I’m rude? That bear--”

“His name is Sage.”

Halsin paused, collecting his thoughts. The druid was very lovely, as a moonrise over a pine forest is lovely, or a bird of prey on the wing, or the river’s rush after first thaw. Hers was a stark, unadorned beauty. “That bear-- alright, Sage--was about to kill me,” he finally said, failing to keep his voice level. He was still trembling with his fear and anger. The two never could be parted, for him; they were like smoke and flame.

“His kind have been killed for far less,” she said. Her tone was neutral but he could see a warning glint in her amber eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked, his curiosity overtaking his consternation. “There is no Circle for twenty leagues.”

“No indeed,” the druid said. He could tell she did not enjoy speaking of herself; her words took a rote quality. “I’m posted here for a task that has taken me some years, and will take more still to complete.” She tilted her head, looking inquiringly at him. “Like Sage, I’ve also noticed that you claim more than your share from this wood.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“You are hard to avoid. You trample through the wood like it's your bedchamber.”

He colored ever so slightly when she said the word bedchamber. The bear, Sage, groaned as if in agreement. The druid walked over and patted him on the head, whispering something in his rounded ears. Halsin felt absurdly jealous at the intimacy, even as his wounds began to throb.

As was often the case, he found himself speaking before he knew precisely what he was going to say. He knew only that he was drawn to the druid. “I can help you with your task, whatever it is, if you teach me in exchange. I would like to learn the ways of the druids.”

She didn’t laugh outright, at least. The druid seemed even to consider it. But then, finally, she said: “No, I haven’t the inclination for such an arrangement. I live alone by choice as much as by necessity.”

And without so much as a fare thee well, she vanished back into the wood. Sparing a quick backwards glance at the now mellow bear sniffing the orange mushrooms, Halsin followed.

*

He trekked for more than half the day until evening fell. The druid doubled back three times and almost lost him half a dozen more but every time he’d managed to find her trail and catch up with her.

Perhaps, he reflected later, she wanted to be found.

He was not so foolhardy as to barge into the tiny hut where the druid lived; he had little doubt the elf could magick him into a fine paste and butter her toast with him, if she so desired. He rested on a fallen log on the patch of green and looked around the darkening glade as he waited for her to emerge.

It was virtually untouched, despite her habitation. In contrast to the human villagers who seemed intent on clearing every tree within the radius of their settlements, the druid’s hut seemed to have emerged spontaneously from the ground, disturbing none of the surrounding environs.

A brook murmured nearby and made sweet music with the evening song of the crepuscular birds. His mind wandered back to the druid and he resumed the game he’d been playing all afternoon as he trailed her, trying to guess her name. She looked to be a high elf of some maturity--perhaps five or even six centuries, old enough for the first lines to appear at the corners of her lovely, fierce eyes. What was she doing here, after all?

It had been long since he’d met such an interesting person--since he’d met anyone he cared to know. The irony that she didn’t wish to know him was bitter, stinging. He dabbed gingerly at the gashes on his brow. They throbbed still but had stopped bleeding, at least.

Smoke rose from her hut and Halsin’s belly cramped with hunger. He had not eaten all day and was out of the deer jerky he usually kept in his hip pouch. And, too, there was hunger of another sort, equally desperate for satisfaction.

Her door finally opened to him, a rectangle of golden light in the gathering dark.

He felt every inch of his six and a half feet when he entered the hut; he was eye level with the rafters and had to crouch to move around the single room. Without comment, the druid pulled a chair from the table--there was only one chair--and extended her arm in invitation.

Halsin sat, inhaling the exquisite scent of the rabbit stew bubbling on the hearth. She did not offer to bind his wounds but bent over him to take a cursory look to ensure there was nothing amiss.

He held his breath as she touched his face with her cool fingers, probing the furrows the Sage’s claws had left in his flesh. He gasped, and not just from the pain. How long had it been since he’d felt a woman’s touch, even an indifferent one? “Those will scar,” she said simply, then moved back to the hearth.

“Tell me,” he said, watching intently as she ladled the stew into an earthenware bowl. “What is your name?”

The druid glanced up from the hearth. Her amber gaze was intense; he felt his blood heating just from that look. He wanted her so badly that even the distant possibility his desire might be fulfilled quickened his pulse.

“Dalia,” she said. He could never have guessed it.

“‘The edge of dawn,’” he translated from the high elven. A poetic name but one that seemed to suit her. “Pretty. I’m called Halsin.”

She smiled at that. It was not a common name, he imagined, among her folk.

“‘Hazelnut,’” she said, meeting his eyes again as she passed him the bowl. Their fingers brushed and his intake of breath was audible.

“Just ‘hazel,’ in our tongue,” he said, still watching her. She was as captivating as a hawk at prey, even serving soup from a cookpot. He noticed a fading tattoo running along her hairline. Too ornate for druid work. He longed to trace it with his finger. “Where are your people?”

“My Circle resides at the Dancing Falls, on the edge of the Dessarin.” She settled on the hearth to eat her soup. She had a slim figure, neat and athletic and not tall, imposing though she was in presence.

His curiosity warred with his hunger and since he had already been marked as rude, he split the difference and spoke over a mouthful of the glorious stew: rich and silky, it was, tasting of herbs and wild onions and savory meat. It burned his mouth but he did not care. “I meant, your people. Your kith and kin.”

“The druids are my kin now. The creatures and trees of this wood my kith.” She blew carefully on her stew before taking a bite.

Halsin considered this and found the idea not unappealing. The last two decades had been lonely ones and he found himself now relishing even the most adversarial contacts with people. “What do you druids do? Besides live in nature?”

Dalia snorted. “‘Besides live in nature,’ as though it’s some rare sport.”

“Well, isn’t it? Not many choose such a life.”

“You did.”

He stopped eating and looked down at his bowl of half-finished stew, uncertain of how much to reveal. He wanted to tell all, unburden all the secrets of his heart for the sake of sharing them. But even his corroded social skills warned him against that approach. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel sorry for him. “This life chose me,” he said vehemently, anger rising unbidden. “Not the other way around. My people are dead and gone.”

Dalia’s curved eyebrow registered her skepticism and he felt another flash of annoyance. How dare she imagine she knew his heart better than he?

“You might have traveled to a city, or made a life in one of the villages here. No doubt they would be happy to have your shield and many maidens happy to take you to their beds.”

Halsin choked on his stew and from the corner of his eye caught her faint smile, the glimmer in her keen eyes. She was teasing him for the callow youth that he knew he was, damn her.

When he regained some dignity after his fit of coughing subsided, he said, “You presume, druid. I’m not interested in maidens.” She did not squirm under his stare but merely returned his challenging gaze with her own. He wanted desperately to know what was going on behind those golden eyes. Almost as much as he wanted to throw her onto the straw pallet in the corner and divest her of her robes, to explore her lean body with eyes, hands, and tongue.

“Teach me,” he demanded. He leaned forward in the creaky chair, using his imposing size to loom over her. Like the bear, she wasn’t the least bit intimidated.

“You are impetuous and full of anger. And truly, no better than the humans you scorn; for though you live in nature you do not cherish its harmony, only what you can plunder from it."

He opened his mouth to respond in fury--what he would say, he did not know, but certainly something regrettable--but the druid held up her hand, cutting him off with the force of that gesture.

"If you want to become a druid, you will first need to master your own feelings. But nature, much as we druids endeavor to heal it, also has the power to heal us in turn.” She heaved a sigh, as though already regretting her next words. “I can teach you. Perhaps it was meant to be so.”

Halsin’s anger melted into relief so deep the corners of his eyes pricked with tears. His voice was rough when he replied with a terse “Thank you.” Even he had not realized how much he wanted this--needed it. Halsin’s eyes finally rose again to meet Dalia’s. “I swear that your trust in me will not be misplaced.”

She nodded briskly as though they’d concluded a trade. “Well and good. About the other thing….”

“The other thing?” he said densely.

“Of maidens and bedchambers.” She rolled her eyes and he felt a blush creep up his neck.

“Oh. Yes. What about them?” he asked warily.

“I’m not so foolish as to offer my heart to a wood elf but we both have… needs.” Her face was still composed but behind her stiff words he could sense her vulnerability. She, too, was lonely. The idea of her dwelling here alone in the hut for years on end filled him with tenderness in equal measure to his desire for her.

His chair scraped away from the table and he narrowly avoided a collision with the rafter as he sat down beside her to take her face in his hands.

She had an angular jaw to match her aquiline features. Her eyes had little softness in them, even now. She told him what to do next. As their bodies joined by the fire he experienced pleasures he didn’t know existed. Compared to his crude, perfunctory couplings in the wood, they were divine, revelations written in flesh and sighs.

After, they lay together in silence as the fire dwindled and his heart threatened to over-brim with happiness. Rare happiness from the promise of things to come.

[aion-rsa]

Doctor Who Series 13: Jodie Whittaker Leaving Rumours, the Next Doctor, and the Future

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Jodie Whittaker is fast approaching that three-season milestone at which most Doctors pull the inter-dimensional rip-cord and eject themselves from the TARDIS. Speculation has swirled around her, as it does for most Doctors, from the very start of her tenure, and now, more than ever, there’s the strong scent of Regeneration in the wind. So, will Whittaker leave at the close of series 13? And if so, will any of her companions remain to bridge the gap between eras? Might showrunner Chris Chibnall also hang up his sonic-shaped pen? The BBC is playing its cards characteristically close to its chest, so divining the answers to these questions is not unlike trying to unlock the mystery of the Doctor’s real name.

There was an ample reminder of the BBC’s zeal for secrecy when Who-newcomer and beloved Liverpudlian John Bishop – cast last year as companion Dan – was rebuked for revealing during an online Q&A that his character, too, would be Liverpudlian. If the BBC don’t want you to know that a Liverpudlian might be playing a Liverpudlian, then this is going to be a bumpy ride. But let’s strap in, brace for impact, and see what’s (or Who’s) out there…

Jodie Whittaker on leaving

Everyone has their favourite Doctors, and not-so favourite Doctors. Jodie Whittaker is not alone in having had love and scorn heaped upon her in equal measure, a phenomenon that has touched most actors to have taken on the role, with the possible exception of Tom Baker and David Tennant, who stand as almost deified in their respective eras.

It’s clear, though, that Jodie Whittaker has loved every moment of being the Doctor, and of being embraced by the show’s fandom, telling the Telegraph in November 2020: “If you bump into a Whovian, it genuinely makes both of your days. There’s something emotional, poetic and very humbling about being in the show, because you’re a little tiny jigsaw piece of something that is so precious to so many people.” It’s perhaps understandable, then, that her response to the speculation around her departure was to say: “To even question an end point would be too upsetting.”

Or, to parrot one of her predecessors: “I don’t want to go.”

Where’s the evidence?

Over the last eighteen months, rumours that Jodie Whittaker will be leaving after season 13 have been endlessly shared and repeated. These rumours were reported as fact by some media outlets earlier in the year, though the BBC has steadfastly refused either to confirm or deny them. It does, however, seem more likely than not that 13 will be 13’s last; a supposition based upon the ‘Who Rule of Three’ and the unignorable sound of drums gathering pitch and pace across the internet.

In the hunt for ‘evidence’, dead-ends and red-herrings abound. IMDb currently reveals no projects rumoured or in pre-production for Jodie Whittaker beyond her TARDIS tenure, but, then, actors keeping contractual secrets would be fools to release their schedules onto one of the most comprehensive entertainment databases ever to have existed. So no help there.

The Mirror newspaper recently reported that the front-cover of the 2022 Doctor Who annual would be Doctor-less for the first time in its 57-year-history. Could this be a clue? Not likely. The people at Penguin Random House – the annual’s publishers – made it clear that the thirteenth Doctor will feature heavily throughout the publication.  So whether the new cover is simply a radical redesign, a yielding to the purchasing power of this era of the show’s vocal detractors; or a shrewd marketing move designed to have the product promoted for free in the press, it doesn’t actually tell us very much about the likelihood of the 13th Doctor’s exit.

Peter Capaldi’s Trouser Clue

We might, however, be looking for clues in all the wrong places. Peter Capaldi deduced that he’d be handing over the TARDIS keys to a woman a few days before the BBC officially broke the news to him: thanks to his tailor.       

At a New York Comic Con panel in 2017, Capaldi told the audience: “I went into Paul Smiths, which is a very wonderful clothes shop in London where I buy my suits, and everybody knows me in there. And they said, ‘We just got a call,’ they said, ‘from the Doctor Who office saying, ‘Can we have a pair of [Peter’s] trousers, but with a waist size thirty?’ … And I thought, ‘Well, that can’t really be a man with a thirty-inch waist. That must be a lady then’.”

Staking out Jodie’s tailor probably won’t prove fruitful, though. Knowing the BBC, they’ve probably plugged that potential leak by sub-contracting Jodie’s wardrobe out to a mute grandma living alone in a fortress atop the Himalayas.    

Read more

TV

Doctor Who: the behind-the-scenes causes of regeneration

By Mark Harrison

TV

Doctor Who: Which New Doctors Are Now Canon?

By Chris Farnell

Will the Doctor Regenerate in 2022?

Series 13 will consist of eight episodes, set to begin airing later this year. The Mirror reports that there will be two specials in 2022, although it isn’t clear whether these will be in addition to this year’s 8,  or whether we’ll see a split of 6 episodes in 2021 with the 2 specials being held over for 2022. A special – Christmas Day, New Year’s Day or otherwise – has become the traditional arena for regeneration, so if Whittaker is leaving, it’s likely that her final scene will come at the end of that rumoured second special.

Many think that the greatest evidence for Whittaker remaining as the Doctor until at least 2023 is our proximity to Doctor Who‘s upcoming 60th anniversary. After all, it would seem a shame to bow out before a big milestone, and it could be daunting to saddle a new Doctor with spearheading such a significant celebration. Still, the timey-wimeyness of it all means that even should Whittaker leave in 2022 there’s no reason she couldn’t make an appearance in an anniversary episode, perhaps alongside a few other previous incarnations. And 2022 marks the 100th anniversary of the BBC itself, so it’s hard to imagine that the show won’t be doing something extra special to mark that, given that it owes its very existence and longevity to the broadcaster (Michael Grade notwithstanding). Whenever she leaves, 13 could easily have her cake and eat it.

Will Chris Chibnall leave after Series 13?

When Bradley Walsh and Tosin Cole left at the end of ‘Revolution of the Daleks‘, Mandip Gill’s Yaz stayed behind. Yaz has been one of the new era’s most underdeveloped characters, so it made sense that she would get her chance to shine and grow in a less crowded environment, sharing companion duties only with John Bishop’s newly teased Dan. But as her character and her story seems so intrinsically linked to the Doctor herself, with the promise of more in-depth exploration to come in series 13, when/if the Doctor leaves, will Yaz’s story also draw to a close? Will only Dan remain with a foot in two TARDISes? All speculation at this point, and it very much hinges on which direction the writers take Yaz in this next clutch of episodes.

Showrunner Chris Chibnall – a lifelong fan of the show and, prior to his appointment as big chief, a long-standing writer for both Doctor Who and Torchwood – has been at least as divisive a figure in Who fandom as 80s helmsman Jonathan Nathan-Turner. Rumours regarding his possible departure have circulated with just as much frequency as those surrounding Whittaker. When asked about series 13, Chris Chibnall told the Radio Times: “I do know I’m coming back for a third season. Yeah, absolutely.” Within those words, if you look hard enough, exists the implied absence of certainty around future seasons, but perhaps that’s getting rather too Da Vinci Code about the whole thing.

While the stewardships of previous showrunners Russell T. Davies and Steven Moffat spanned two Doctors each, this doesn’t mean that Chris Chibnall is guaranteed a crack at the 14th Doctor. Should Chibnall leave after season 13, among the writing team perhaps only Pete McTighe – who wrote ‘Kerblam!‘ And co-wrote ‘Praxeus‘ – has the experience to take over as showrunner, given his stint over-seeing the award-winning Australian prison-drama Wentworth. 

How might 13’s Regeneration Happen?

Each of the modern Doctors has met their end in the service of some great sacrifice, either to protect a companion or to save if not the universe then at least a world within it. It’s unlikely that 13’s exit will be any different. It’s simply a question of against whom or what she’ll be fighting when her time comes.

Though it may be too soon for the Master to be directly responsible for the undoing of yet another Doctor so soon after 12’s John-Simm-shaped downfall, it’s likely that the Master will at the very least influence the direction of 13’s regeneration. Sacha Dhawan has expressed enthusiasm at the idea of returning, though nothing, as you would expect, has yet been confirmed. Or denied.

The revelations in ‘The Timeless Children‘, controversial though they proved for some fans, are perhaps too epoch-shaking and era-defining not to play a part in 13’s swansong, and it may well be that the shadowy Division – the Time Lord’s very own version of Starfleet’s Section 31 – will be complicit in the Doctor’s fall.

Another question presents itself: now that the Doctor knows she has infinite regenerations, might it make her more reckless? Might she start to see her body more like an easily changeable suit than a thing of flesh and blood? Might she regenerate multiple times before becoming the 14th Doctor, a la The Curse of Fatal Death, and what on earth would we call the 14th Doctor – who wouldn’t really be the 14th Doctor at all – if that happened?          

Who’s in the running for the next Doctor?

Many of the same actors tipped as possible replacements near the end of Capaldi’s run have reappeared in the Regeneration rumour mill, including firm favourites Michaela Coel, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Michael Sheen, David Harewood, Richard Ayoade and the indefatigable Kris Marshall. Joining them this time are Line of Duty alumni Kelly MacDonald and Vicky McClure, and It’s a Sin front-man Olly Alexander. It could be that one of them, or none of them get the call. The next Doctor could just as easily be Jo Martin’s fugitive Doctor, who’s been hiding in plain sight all along.

Really though, as with all things connected with the show at this stage of its cycle: Who knows?

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Doctor Who Series 13 will air on BBC One later this year.

The post Doctor Who Series 13: Jodie Whittaker Leaving Rumours, the Next Doctor, and the Future appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[millenniumfae]

Reyes Vidal Theories And Headcanons

To start off, we’ll begin with all the canon facts we know about our favorite Kadara King, almost all thanks to his writer’s twitter;

He’s in his late twenties

He’s from Chile (born and raised?)

His first language is Spanish, but speaks English (fluently?)

After arriving to Andromeda but before the Nexus Uprising, he was a shuttle pilot assigned to Initiative callsign ‘Anubis’

He’s a dog person

Fan of alcohol??

And that’s it. Everything else about him is all speculation and random headcanons. ME:A has no further single-player DLC upcoming. No new comics, either. It’s really sad to say, but it seems likely that the canon story of Reyes Vidal ended with Mass Effect: Andromeda.

But not if I have anything to say about it! Below are my various Reyes Vidal headcanons and theories. And more to come, along with other Mass Effect characters!

1) Reyes as a ‘Shuttle Pilot’

People in the game sometimes describe flying vehicles as a ‘shuttle’, but technically, a ‘shuttle’ isn’t a type of vehicle, it’s the name for a delivery service - short routes, higher frequency, simple fare. You can shuttle passengers or objects place to place. If Reyes was a ‘shuttle pilot’, that meant he was flying things to-and-fro the Nexus on the Initiative’s orders, delivering people and goods by standardized rates.

We’ve already known a shuttle pilot in the franchise before; Steve Cortez of Mass Effect 3 was the Normandy’s shuttle pilot, because he had to deliver the ground team to-and-fro the ship regularly. Those fugly box-like skycars you see in the ME franchise seem to be Alliance/Initiative standard vehicles, described as ‘UT-47′s by Steven in 3, or a ‘Kodiak’ for similar models. Steve also takes Shepard on a skycar ride in the Citadel DLC, and talks about his piloting passion as if they were indeed on a plane and not a car (”There’s a lot about this bird you don’t know/Pilots would wear G-suits”).

Plus, Steve also trained by flying fighter jets, not ‘cars’. So when we say a character is a shuttle pilot, we really do mean pilot and not ‘flying car driver’. Reyes is a pilot in all sense of the word. Even though those boxy cars can indeed use FTL drive to fly between systems and planets, Reyes worked under the call-sign ‘Anubis’ so we can assume he flew a plane specifically. Aviation call-signs are for aircrafts and not cars. The dock manager would ask for the pilot’s verification, and the pilot would respond with the aircraft’s verification name and number - N-503 call-sign ‘Anubis’.

We never see him flying in-game. On the mission we meet Reyes’ ex Zia, we do see his plane outside the house where the supposed cargo was to be. It’s a poopy-brown, double-turbine-winged helicopter thing, and it’s also the plane he escapes onto if you save Sloane. He’s never flying it, though, it’s always him hopping in/off.

I’ve seen some fics where that’s actually where he sleeps, which I don’t think would be realistic - that plane sees a modest amount of action, not just during fights but also during ambient Kadara Port skydrops - you see it flying by sometimes. Inside isn’t big, you see like three seats and nothing else, good for five people maximum. Reyes would have to have this plane flight-ready at a moment’s notice. He’s still smuggling, after all.

It’s a very different plane from all the others you see. It’s not a boring basic Initiative box car, it’s not a bubbly green Angaran car, it’s not a green mess like the Kett’s. The only time you see a plane like that is during the Meridian final battle, where there’s two-three of those same planes, no matter if it’s Sloane or Reyes. I think it’s a plane that was created after the Nexus Uprising, crafted specifically by exiles. You find guns unique to exiles, after all, why not planes? Kadara exiles have wind turbine engineers, doctors, and not to mention the Angara who must be involved. They gotta have some people who can design and produce good planes. It’d be poetic if Reyes’ plane was a hybrid of Angaran and Milky Way engineering.

2) Reyes being Chilean, Brown, and Bi

I’ve said this before, but I was never happy with how Reyes was handled as a Latino man. I’m not Latinx myself, I’m Asian, so I speak from a different perspective of color. Reyes is a token Latinx person in the game, and he (along with his ex Zia) have thick accents and a sexualized history/personality. His accent in particular is super grating, since it’s faked by a white British actor and you can definitely hear it. As an Asian person, I am NOT a fan of seeing faked accents pasted onto a stereotyped love interest.

So when we see a character like Reyes, we make the best of it. We make him ours, and not Bioware’s very spotty writing. Canonically, Reyes is a flirty spicy Latino bi man, but he’s more than that. Romanced or not, you get to see the man behind that mask. He’s silly, insecure, and very intelligent. He’s good with guns, explosives, and planes. He can play politics to the point where he can become the driving force behind an entire planet.

But all that canon stuff still doesn’t erase the spots on Bioware’s record when it comes to making Reyes. They wanted to create a shady morally grey love interest, and Reyes is the direction they took.

Us fans, on the other hand, can actually give Reyes as a bi Chilean man some weight. We can write his Spanish as actually being specific to Chile, we can explore his sexuality the way bi people do. The Mass Effect universe takes place about 160+ years from now. It’s been more than a century. We all know that progress isn’t linear, but for the sake of our liberation, we’ll say that humanity’s ideals of sexual/racial politics have improved.

So unlike us, maybe Reyes didn’t grow up in a world that attacks brown/queer people. Today, being brown means you’re ashamed of your skin color before kindergarten, and being bi means your sexual journey is hindered by marginalization. Reyes, on the other hand, might have not faced these things at all. Humans of the Mass Effect world might see queerphobia/racism as something incredibly archaic, like oppressing redheads.

Not like Bioware’s good at portraying this type of progress. Sure, we never see anti-lgbt rhetoric in-game, nor marginalization of brown humans, but we don’t see any true evidence that the Mass Effect world has gotten rid of these things. I don’t for a second believe that there would be so many straight humans 160+ years from now. Or so many aliens that fall squarely into the human gender binary.

Headcanon; Reyes, being raised on Earth, sees himself as brown and knows the bloody history behind it. His skin color matters to him much the same way my browness matters to me - its a connection to your family, your people, and the way you look at yourself in the mirror. And he doesn’t identify as bisexual as loudly as many of us do, but not because he doesn’t like lgbt culture. He’ll checkmark the ‘bi’ box if you asked him to write out a census survey, I just think he’s one of those people who’s kinda casual about it. Especially if he doesn���t face the marginalization we do.

But being a queer man means he’s got that flamboyant side a lot of us do. He’s romantically cheesy, he likes red wine over candlelit dinners, he finds flower arrangements beautiful, he’ll go to great lengths to make sure he looks and smells nice (even on Kadara’s nasty sulfer atmosphere), he think he looks amazing in a fitted suitdress. And if he could, he’d repaint his plane to be a nicer color other than that fugly brown, like a sweet duochrome blue-purple, but unfortunately its a color that blends in well with Kadara’s landscape.

3) Reyes as the Charlatan

What’s canon about the Collective? They work from the shadows, cultivate poison, steal supplies, have torture rooms where they keep captured Outlaws, and information between them can get muddled or compromised. They’re not a pretty bunch, and the Charlatan isn’t a pretty business.

Compared to the Outcasts, they’re definitely the more gentle organization. And perhaps with the Outcasts out of the picture, they drop a lot of the shadier stuff they do, what with no one left to torture and assassinate. But their business still runs on crime, opposing the Initiative and the Angara directly at times - such as stealing supplies, illegal mining and producing of resources, and drugs. And Reyes oversees all of that.

You can also compare Reyes’ crimes to Vetra, who’s also a smuggler, but a lot less shady. Vetra does a lot of things without bloodshed or violence, and doesn’t even seem to steal things. Instead, she makes business deals that slip underneath the red tape and break regulations. Reyes, however, had to work under Sloane’s violence for many a month, and adopted immoral methods to work around her.

I truly believe Reyes isn’t supposed to be a violent man who likes bloodshed and murder. He sees it as necessary, and his goals are worth getting his hands dirty. Reyes wasn’t just scared about Ryder finding out he lied, he’s worried about the whole, you know, Collectives being a violent mob gang thing. As Kadara improves, he lets up.

When he’s not hanging out in Tatarus, out smuggling, or doing various other shady things, I headcanon Reyes as actually having multiple places to sleep and hie away. Not the Collective Base, though. No one there has ever met the Charlatan, and even the leader, Crux, only gets orders as messages. Before the big reveal, Reyes doesn’t confess any connection to the Collective. He wouldn’t show up at the base. His living spaces are probably within Kadara Port’s various shitty apartments, and also hideouts in the badlands.

Always he’ll be on call for Charlatan business. Even at the Meridian party, he’s clicking away at his omni-tool while talking to Ryder. He keeps odd hours, probably only managing minimal sleep schedules. And when he’s not available, his most trustworthy representatives take up his mantle. And if Sloane’s killed, he only gets more busy.

With an outpost settled, there’s legitimate money to make and Reyes gets right on that. I assume that, at first, establishing the outpost costs a lot more money than it makes, but having an initiative settlement eventually draws in a lot of resources and commerce. Reyes isn’t just the leader of Kadara Port, he’s the King of Kadara the planet and the outpost is part of his jurisdiction. Ditaeon may have been Ryder’s doing, but it’s Reyes’ town now.

4) Reyes and Ryder - Love And Trust

“He already lied to you once. Guys like that don’t stop lying,” - Vetra.

A romanced Ryder is obviously a big deal to Reyes. He even confesses to his right-hand woman Keema that he worried about what Ryder might think about him, and that’s something pretty personal to exclaim. He’s in deep and his self-esteem is heavily affected by what Ryder says to him. If you don’t decide to kiss him on the rooftop, you can instead say that he’s more genuine than you thought, which actually seems to hurt him.

There’s an animation difference between Scott and Sara - Reyes will slide right up against Scott’s personal space during their first meeting at Kralla’s Song, while he’ll stay a modest distance away from Sara. To our eyes, seeing an unknown, shifty man being so close to a woman at a bar is pretty creepy and scary. You, as a man, do not touch a woman you don’t know. To us, being in a place like Kadara Port and alone at a pirate bar means violence against women is a fear at the forefront of our minds.

He’s so uncomfortably close to Scott, though, probably in an effort to intimidate him slightly. But he’s not gonna pull that shit on Sara, because that would mean something completely different.

Reyes makes a big deal about being the perfect gentleman, which is something of a rhetoric joke. Because he’s not a gentleman when it comes to honesty and honor; he steals, cheats, and lies, he brought a sniper to the duel. But he is a gentleman when it comes to compassion and sympathy. He set up a soup kitchen for the slums. He donates money to the clinic. He prioritizes the Angara native to Kadara. He lifts the ‘protection fee’ nonsense and doesn’t exile people to the badlands.

He said he came to Andromeda to ‘be someone’. I think that’s supposed to be a double-meaning. He wants to be important to people, but why rule from the shadows if that’s the case? Because he wants to make a difference. He actually does want to help people and set up an Initiative outpost and dispense justice. That’s the ‘someone’ Reyes wanted to be all his life, and it grew into a passion when he finally upped and abandoned the Nexus.

Being a ‘gentleman’ is kinda old-fashioned, but Reyes seems to have a special interest in old-fashioned stuff, playing Soft Jazz while dancing quietly with Ryder. I think it’s just something he enjoys, like having actual full-blown romantic dates. Too bad he rarely has the opportunity to explore them.

About Zia; his alleged ‘ex’ is a mystery. Umi, a bartender, pinpoints her as an ex-girlfriend, but Reyes will say they merely had a few drinks and things apparently never went far. And when Zia shows up, there’s no love lost between the two of them, even though Zia apparently knows Reyes well enough. Relationships with a tail-end like that were probably never serious, but still had enough time invested to become actual, significant history.

I don’t know why Bioware wanted to write, direct, code, and implant this mission, as if it adds something to Reyes’ characterization. Zia in particular is a unique character model, which is weird because very few characters have a special face and texture. What does Zia mean to Reyes? To us?

I think Zia was an old smuggling/piloting partner of Reyes, and the two of them might have struck a connection during the first hopeless months of the Andromeda Initiative. Zia grew to know Reyes as a selfish man with no friends, split off from him and ran a competitive smuggling shtick, and even says a romanced Ryder will soon know how wrong they were to place faith in him. Its a side of Reyes we don’t hear from anyone else, and I think it’s meant to shake our confidence in Reyes as the future leader of Kadara - or as Ryder’s love interest.

After all, why would Reyes ask the Pathfinder for help in finding some random lost cargo? Because it was probably something super important. Worth not just money, but morality too. Reyes wouldn’t tell someone as unsubtle as Ryder that they were about to look for some misplaced escaped ark survivors (or whatever’s also super important, I dunno), or everyone and their mother would know they were up to something big.

Zia lured Reyes with the promise of something very big, and tried to take him down because she wanted to make more money. Reyes, on the other hand, isn’t completely money-driven. Zia represents the Charlatan we were told to fear, while Reyes is the true face behind the shadows. And after all that business rivalry, Reyes still buries her.

But Zia still says Reyes is a selfish man, and she knows him much better than Ryder does. Why would a fellow amoral smuggler care if someone was selfish or not? Was Reyes selfish to her specifically? Like, in a bad lover way? That’d suck, but he probably didn’t feel that much affection towards Zia in the first place. Or did Zia have ulterior motives that Reyes didn’t agree with, and cut off contact because Zia wanted to cross lines Reyes didn’t feel comfortable with? That’d be a nicer way of looking at it. Reyes was ‘selfish’ because Zia wanted to, I dunno, hit civilians for extra cash and Reyes said no.

My headcanon; with Ryder, Reyes definitely doesn’t take things super casual like he probably did with Zia. He eventually dedicates himself to them, and invests a lot of his emotions into their relationship. It might even be something he never did before, but a hero’s love is worth so much to him. He can’t leave Kadara, and Ryder can’t stay with him (at least at first). And secrets will continue to bloom between them. But Reyes will continue to improve himself, ‘becoming someone’ to not just Kadara, but to Ryder.

5) Random and MISC

Being an exile-in-an-outlaw-town-during-a-cluster-wide-war-against-the-Kett-and-the-Scourge means shitty food. Which Reyes hates and he does his best to avoid the Jim Bakker bucket-esque MREs that the Initiative hands out. And Angaran nutrient paste doesn’t sit right with Milky Way species, so he doesn’t eat that either. Life on the frontier means adopting to local flora and fauna, which means old fashioned Angaran dishes like Adhi roast, Kaerkyn shell soup, Taurg flank steak, and Drall bits. But no, he doesn’t cook if he can help it - he’s not terrible, just not good, and he’ll instead buy food from vendors on Kadara Port, or order it from the bar. And he’ll get dessert when he can, too.

And he loves Kadara Port. It’s his own little cyberpunk neon noir city, even if it does smell vaguely of sulfur. He loves looking out the window and seeing the bright glowing signs overlapping each other, hearing the shady bustle of exiles 24/7, the patter of acidic rain. When he begins to get involved with Ryder, he begins to take extra time to gaze at the city’s horizon and be sentimental. That’s what falling in love does to a person.

He’s canonically a dog person, and by dog we do include Mass Effect’s alien dogs such as adhi. The Collective is trying to domesticate wild Adhi, which is a project Reyes started to make them into guards and weapons, but a side of him just loves the idea of having an adhi as a pet. If he could, he’d have five rescue pups of varying breeds (and species), posting those Sexy Dog Instagram Photos of all of them at the beach, or something.

Time as the Charlatan means less time to work out. So his muscles aren’t big, and he’s got enough fat to cover them, too. If he undressed, you’d see that he’s smaller than his clothing would imply, no Ripped Taint or Tight Glutes. Lotsa hair, though, all down his chest and pelvis and legs. He actually doesn’t really like it, but he only has resources to shave his jaw.

All his outfits are the typical humanwear that all colonists to Andromeda have access too, but with extra touches because he Cares about his appearance. Fancy gloves, a nifty belt with a shiny buckle. He uses the slighest amount of product to slick his hair up, gotta stretch it out until he can find an Andromeda replacement. Uses a nice deodorant, and will get expensive cologne when he has the chance.

He hates the cold, and Kadara has modest winters that won’t freeze the water but will spread a frost everywhere. That’s already too much for him, and throughout the whole season he’s more tired, grumpy, and seasonally depressed. When spring breaks through again, he gets a burst of energy and happiness from the relief.

If Ryder ever lives with him for an extended period, they’ll quickly learn the difference between a 22-year-old’s living space, and an almost-30′s living space. Perhaps with Sloane out of the picture, Reyes gets a legit place to live and invests in real furniture and interior decor, while Ryder’s still stuck in that college student trash stage. Reyes forbids scratches on the table, or bath towels crumbled up, or windows left open during the rain, etc. Ryder think its cute that Reyes is so domestic, Reyes is just trying to save his expensive couch from shoes on the cushions.

[ganzeer-reviews]

THE BEST OF MILLIGAN & MCCARTHY By Peter Milligan and Brendan McCarthy o-o-o-c

Madness. Sheer and utter madness.

I must admit that before MAD MAX: FURY ROAD, I hadn't even heard of Brendan McCarthy, which is a damn inexcusable shame. But to be fair, the work of Milligan & McCarthy hasn’t really been part of the dialogue in comix culture. Not even when it comes to talking about the impactful indie work that fell outside of the mainstream; you never hear their work cited alongside that of Frank Miller's SIN CITY (which, before the 2005 film release was only really known in pretty small circles throughout the 1990's) or Eddie Campbell's ALEC or Dave Sim's CEREBUS. But that silence is in no way reflective of the duo's influence.

About a year ago, I listened to an interview with Neil Gaiman for the British Library podcast focused primarily on the RAMAYANA and Gaiman's involvement in adapting it for DreamWorks. When asked if he had a particular style in mind when working on the various [never-produced] treatments, Gaiman was quick to point out Brendan McCarthy's work on ROGAN GOSH, which Gaiman describes as being birthed from Brendan's "Road to Damascus moment, where he ran into a pile of comics in India, and just went 'I love this, there's art stuff here that I've never seen in the West,' and started doing stuff and playing with it." He also goes on to describe ROGAN GOSH as "one of the most interesting moments of fusion between Indian and British and American comix culture."

Naturally, I immediately looked into getting my hands on some ROGAN GOSH and discovered that it was reprinted in the pages of an over-sized hardcover titled THE BEST OF MILLIGAN & MCCARTHY published by Dark Horse Books in 2013 and retailing for only $24.99 (down to $7.19 as I type this). Although a horrendously produced edition (pages are actually falling out in less than a year since purchasing it), I'm still happy to have gotten my hands on it because it has been blowing my mind ever since. Not least because of the work itself, but because it simultaneously exposes a very vital almost secret history of comix lost to... I dunno,an obsession with the founding of Image Comics and the less than negligible work its founders produced? If there was ever a demented, revolutionary punk rock duo in comix, Milligan & McCarthy definitely fit the bill.

ROGAN GOSH first appeared in REVOLVER, a short-lived anthology magazine for mature readers published in the UK between 1990-1991. GOSH was finally collected by DC Comics/Vertigo into a 48-page one shot in 1994. It is perhaps because of the book's modest page-count that it is never mentioned in the same breath as say THE SANDMAN or PREACHER, or THE INVISIBLES or other long-running titles central to the Vertigo imprint's identity. But hey, Aristotle's POETICS is no more than a sodding 44 pages, which is sometimes all you need to jump-start a revolution.

In Milligan and McCarthy's own words, surrounded by "long and bloated 'concept album' comics", they were more interested in "the short, sharp, throwaway pop single. The type you danced to. The type you had sex to."

While the above statement can most be applied to their series PARADAX (also featured in the book), it pretty much hits the nail on the head with the majority of their collaborations, including ROGAN GOSH.

By the duo's own admission, it is not only difficult to describe what ROGAN GOSH is about, it is even pointless to ask. What may have been originally conceived as a “sci-fi Bollywood BLADE RUNNER” rapidly evolved into something far more demented. It starts off with Rudyard Kipling in Lahore en route to a place "where men of all castes come to sleep the sleep of dreams." Essentially, an opium den where "karmanauts can relieve a man of the curses of his sins.” If you think that opening scene will give you any idea of what follows, you are sorely mistaken. Kupling is entered into a "jasmine-scented dream of the future" where we are transported to psychadelic trip after psychadelic trip involving completely different characters:

- A man named Raju Dhawan waiting on another named Dean Cripps at a Tandoori joint called "Star of the East" - The blue-skinned Rogan Gosh on the run from the "bloody-tongued, dark destroyer" Kali together with a small idol of Kipling. - Raju Ghawan as Rogan Gosh together with Dean Cripps on the run from robotic hindu "Karma Kops". - Rogan Gosh as a bull-riding ancient Egyptian cowboy of the future, roaming through the mythic land of Wild Bill Osiris and Horus Thuh Kid.

If none of this makes the slightest bit of coherence, well that's because there is nothing coherent about it. Rather than there being any kind of train of thought, it's more like a train blown to bits upon the detonation of atomic dynamite. Shards of ideas floating around a nebula, jabbing into each other with every turn of the page. It's bizarre stuff, heavy on logic-defying captions almost as much as the explosive visuals. If you, the reader, let yourself go, you'll find that the synergy of text and image in ROGAN GOSH will drag you around a strong relentless current of spicy thought soup. Washing ashore an island of utter confusion is inevitable, but not without a sense of thrill retained from the memories of the surrealist storm that was.

Imagine a comicbook operating along the logic of say, PROMETHEA, 8 years prior to PROMETHEA's publication and without any of the rigorous explanation of the world's mechanics the way PROMETHEA delves into. Instead you're just thrown into it and left to make connections entirely on your own. That's what ROGAN GOSH feels like; a weird transcendental spell cast in comicbook form.

It isn't a coincidence that Milligan & McCarthy share something with Alan Moore other than British citizenship. All three after all did get their start making comix in the indie music paper SOUNDS. Moore with ROSCOE MOSCOW in 1979, and McCarthy et Milligan with THE ELECTRIC HOAX in 1978. This discovery, although new to me, was not at all surprising, as I find that I am typically drawn to creators who cut their teeth in avenues that fall outside of "the mainstream". Where the ones "in charge" understand little about what they’re doing, where anything goes and opportunities for mad experimentalism aren't stifled.

The greatest discovery in THE BEST OF MILLIGAN & MCCARTHY for me has been the duo's work on FREAKWAVE, a comic that, by Brendan's own admission, was directly inspired by MAD MAX 2: THE ROAD WARRIOR which Brendan became obsessed with during his surfing getaway in Australia in 1981. After which Brendan coerced Milligan to co-write a "Mad Max goes surfing" treatment Brendan could pitch to Hollywood. Hollywood didn't bite, but the duo did get to produce it as a backup strip in the pages of VANGUARD ILLUSTRATED published by Pacific Comics in 1983. Pretty straight adventure story initially (well, as straight as Milligan & McCarthy can muster anyway), with the most striking aspect of the strip being character designs and world building.

FREAKWAVE is a post-apocalyptic punk-rock drifter who windsurfs a flooded Earth in search of floating trash he can live off. He battles it out with disease-ridden humanoid "Water-rats" and psychopaths in gasmasks wrapped in old tin cans and the random cultural ephemera of old. FREAKWAVE would later resurface as a punk-absurdist Tibetan Book-of-the-Dead story in 1984's STRANGE DAYS, an anthology showcasing the work of Milligan, McCarthy, and Brett Ewans published by Eclipse Comics. It only ran for 3 issues, but Warren Ellis says it "landed like a hand grenade from another world", which is still exactly what it feels like going through its contents 34 years later today. It is especially in the pages of STRANGE DAYS' feature comic FREAKWAVE that you see Brendan McCarthy and Peter Milligan really rocking out like some kind of alternative comicbook band, the pages crackling with the energetic buzz of an electric guitar. Brendan especially reaches peak McCarthiasm, with 90% of his visionary work on FURY ROAD appearing here first on the page a good 31 years before blowing people's minds on  screen.

Which, by the way, how fucking cool is that? To be asked to work on the sequel to a film that inspired your scarcely read comicbook. And to be asked specifically because of your work on said comicbook?

Not to mention that FREAKWAVE, although given a pass by executives in Hollywood, very likely influenced the movie WATERWORLD in 1995, at the very least in terms of look and production design, which let's face it was the only really good thing about the film.

Nothing will give you that good kick in the balls to go off and make comix (or any ill-advised pursuit) more than looking at the work of Milligan and McCarthy. If a big part of the draw of comix for you is that it is medium void of filters between creator and reader, well then that cannot be more true of Milligan and McCarthy's collaborations. Because there are always editors keeping creators in check, or heck, even self-inflicted inhibition on the creator’s part. Not for Milligan and McCarthy.

Never for Milligan and McCarthy.

[Available on Amazon]

Ganzeer November 23, 2018

[geekmama]

Bumps in the Road

Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018, Day 2, Early Relationship

Scenes from an Engagement -- three short follow-ups to various elements in the stories that comprise the Aftermath series (Perfection, Hope Reborn, and yesterday's Beautiful, respectively) though I believe they can be read as stand-alones, too. 

And again, many thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for beta reading!

~ Day Four... 

“I could get used to this,” Sherlock said, as contented as he’d ever been in his life. 

“Yes,” said Molly, and she squeezed his hand. 

“But we are not naming him Calvin.” 

Molly sighed. 

They were still in their dressing gowns and pyjamas, seated side by side on the porch steps. The early morning air was cool and fresh, the sun shone thin but with the promise of a beautiful spring day, and they were watching their new Basset Hound puppy as he took his first post-breakfast run and sniff around the back garden. 

Sherlock was not one who ordinarily waxed poetic, but the quest they’d undertaken the day before, to fetch the puppy from Anthea’s cousin’s farm in Exmoor, still seemed little short of dreamlike. A chauffeur-driven car had arrived for them about an hour after Sherlock confirmed that he was indeed interested in acquiring the puppy, and Anthea had sent along an agent to serve as cat-sitter for Hobbes as well, Molly having stated that she wouldn’t leave the kitten for so many hours when he’d only just arrived. Sherlock and Molly had had nothing to do but climb in, buckle up, relax, and enjoy the view. 

The journey was a long one, but reason had dictated a temporary cessation of carnal delights in any case. Sherlock had lost track of the number of times they’d made love in the short time they’d been together in the aftermath of Sherrinford and that horrid, blessed phone call, and he had been amazed to find his desire only increased with each encounter. Molly had not been amazed by this, though she’d been extremely pleased and assured him that she felt the same. She also reluctantly admitted to feeling a bit “shagged out”, physically speaking, which admission had filled Sherlock with such a mixture of manly pride and tender sympathy that he should have rolled his eyes in disgust at having become such a cliché. But for once he decided he didn’t give a toss about analysing the particulars of a situation, and was only deeply and sincerely thankful.  

Watching the countryside slip by, they’d conversed in a desultory fashion, and occasionally gave into weariness, in spite of the beauty of the landscape. Molly had napped curled against him, her head pillowed against his shoulder, and it was all he could do not to bend and kiss the top of her head every few minutes. Eventually, he fell asleep, too, and only roused when they’d arrived at a rather idyllic farm not far from the borders of Exmoor National Park. 

They’d managed to rouse themselves and face Anthea’s cousin, a Mrs. Eugenia Trent, with adequate decorum, though if Mrs. Trent had scratched the surface their facade would have crumbled pretty readily. In fact, the woman’s eyes were lit with amusement from her first sight of them, though whether said amusement was the result of unseemly tells on their part or was just her natural expression remained unclear. She was kindness itself, however, and introduced them to the puppy straight away. It was love at first sight (well, second sight, the photo Anthea had sent that morning had pretty much sold Sherlock). After giving a tiny bay at the sight of the strangers he’d trotted over to them behind his parents, two really beautiful prize-winning Bassets named Terry and June. 

Mrs. Trent said, “He was the only boy in the litter, and little girls seemed the order of the day among the buyers that’ve come by. He’s ten weeks, now, and good as gold -- I’ve even started housetraining him a bit. He’s been waiting for you, Mr. Holmes, you see?” 

The latter statement was a comment on the fact that Sherlock had crouched down and the three dogs had come right over, the pup actually trying to jump up and put tiny, slightly muddy paws on Sherlock’s expensively trousered knee. Sherlock chuckled, and carefully picked the puppy up, and then could not help laughing outright as he received a series of enthusiastic puppy kisses as he stood up again, the little dog in his arms. “Yes, yes, you are a fine fellow!” he told the pup, and to Mrs. Trent it was, “I believe you’re right. We’ll take him!.” 

The transaction confirmed, Mrs. Trent had invited them in for just a bite before that long drive back to London. The “bite” turned out to be hot tea, sandwiches on homemade bread, and some of the best biscuits Sherlock had ever eaten, casting even Mrs. Hudson’s into the shade. 

The puppy had slept most of the way home. Sherlock and Molly had not. They’d argued, instead, about what to name him. 

“What’s wrong with Calvin?” Molly asked. “Calvin and Hobbes! They go together! And he looks like a Cal.” 

But Sherlock replied, “I hate the name Calvin, the comic strip’s character was named for John Calvin and he was a wretched man with his predestination and theocracy. And anyway, I looked it up and it means little bald one. I was thinking more along the lines of Hercule.” 

“From Agatha Christie?” Molly considered, but then shook her head. “We could call him Herc for short, but it lacks the crisp consonant at the beginning that will draw his attention when you shout for him. What about Excaliber, with Cal for short? Or Calico -- he is white, black, and tan. Or perhaps Caliban?” 

“Those are ridiculous, and Caliban was a monster! He would have raped Miranda, given half a chance, and peopled else this isle with Calibans.” 

“That’s awful!” 

“That’s Shakespeare!” 

They continued the debate, off and on, clear back to London and Molly’s doorstep. Then, what with the excitement of introducing the puppy to Hobbes (the kitten established dominance in short order, puffing up and hissing fiercely so that little Hercule/Calico/Excaliber ran to Sherlock, yelping), showing the pup his new home, making everyone supper, and getting ready for bed, Sherlock and Molly quite forgot the argument. The pup was Darling or Sweetheart all evening, and when he was finally asleep in the luxurious crate Anthea had provided, Sherlock took Molly to bed again and they were once more lost to the world. 

Now, however, in the clear light of a new day, Sherlock felt that the matter of the puppy’s name needed to be resolved. Darling or Sweetheart would never do long term for a hound destined to be the bane of the criminal class and boon companion to the World’s Only Consulting Detective. 

“I still think Cal is a good nickname,” Molly said. 

“Hercule is better,” Sherlock insisted. “More elegant. And French.” 

“Very well,” said Molly. “Trying calling him. Go on!” 

Sherlock frowned. “You mean summon him by name? Very well.” He cleared his throat a bit, then called out, “Hercule!” 

There was no response. The pup continued snuffling about, nose to the ground, apparently finding some fascinating scents in Molly’s neat little garden. 

Sherlock tried again, a little louder. “Here, Herc!” 

There was still no response. 

Then Molly sang out, “Cal! Here, Cal!” And when the pup jerked his head up and began to run toward them, she burst out laughing, and exclaimed, “Good boy!  What a good doggie!” 

“You must have been practicing with him!” Sherlock accused. 

“Have not!” she asserted, smug. “When would I have had time?” 

“Well, your voice is higher!” But further sulking was cut short as the pup came running to him, rather than Molly, and indicated a desire to be picked up and cuddled. Sherlock complied with a smile, and his discontent vanished entirely under a renewed onslaught of puppy kisses. 

Molly chuckled. “He knows who his new master is.” 

“Certainly he does,” Sherlock agreed, laughing, until he got the pup to settle a bit, though the little dog still gazed up at him adoringly, panting happily. Sherlock was equally smitten, and stroked him, amazed at how soft he was. The thought occurred that this was the first dog he’d ever owned -- but he shoved that dark cloud away. Plenty of time to deal with the past without spoiling the delightful present. Sherlock said to the puppy in a playfully scolding tone, “So, you think you’re a Cal, do you?” But hearing even that slight disapprobation in the voice of his master, the pup immediately laid his ears back, looking uncertain. Sherlock hastily backtracked. “No, no! Everything’s fine! But you are a smart one, aren’t you?”    

And then Molly said, “What about Calbraith?” 

“Calbraith?” Sherlock repeated (idiotically), frowning at her again. 

“Means British Warrior.” She cocked her head. “You’re not the only one who can google the meaning of names.” 

“Hmm.” Sherlock actually rather liked the sound of that, though it would be some time before the moniker would really fit. “It’s not bad,” he conceded. 

Molly smiled and, leaning close, she reached over and joined in petting the pup. She said to Sherlock, in a deceptively casual way, “It’s up to you, of course. If you really like Herc…” 

But Sherlock, in the first throes of romance and domestic bliss, thanks to the woman beside him, knew when it was time to give in gracefully. “Apparently this one does not, however,” he said, pouting only a very little, for form’s sake. “Do you, Calbraith?” he asked the pup, stroking the long ears. 

And Molly giggled as Cal took his cue and licked Sherlock’s hand.   

  o-o-o

  ~ Day Six...

 “Sherlock, what’s this?” 

Cal and Hobbes, now fast friends, had breakfasted and were curled up together in Cal’s crate, and Sherlock had gone back to bed, too, commandeering all the pillows to ensure his comfort as he went through email on his phone, his cup of tea and a plate of gingernuts on the nightstand beside him. However, he made an effort to look up at his beloved, since she was industriously preparing some of their clothing for delivery to the dry cleaners. 

Apparently including the suit he’d worn to Sherringford. 

And of course, being Molly, she had been checking the pockets. 

He stared at the small metal plaque she was now holding up. The one that said, I Love You. 

The sight of it took him right back to the moment when he’d bent to snatch it up from among the debris of the coffin he’d destroyed with his bare hands, John and Mycroft still standing like statues over by the open door as he’d concluded the process of giving himself over to pain and grief and rage. Exhausted, he nevertheless had been determined that that plaque with those words would not be left in that place, exposed to further mockery. 

“Sherlock?” 

He realized he’d been “buffering” as John called it, and, blinking, he raised his eyes to Molly’s face. She was looking worried and puzzled. A little wary. He cleared his throat a bit and then said, with a semblance of calm, “Give it to me, will you, please?” 

She came over immediately and handed it to him, but she also asked him, rather gently, “Is that from the coffin?” 

“Yes,” he replied. The plaque was so small and cool to the touch, which seemed very odd considering… 

But now Molly was sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. “It’s alright, you know.” 

He looked up at her. 

 “I mean…everything’s going to be fine.” She bent and tenderly kissed his lips. 

He set the plaque down on the nightstand beside his cup of tea, and then his hands went to her: warm and vital, slender and alive.  “Come back to bed.” He needed her again, needed her close. Closer than close. 

Delight, worry, sympathy… he could read her like a book. “Yes. Alright,” she said, softly. “But you have to share the pillows.” 

And he was able to smile at that. “I will always share the pillows,” he replied, and as he drew her against him he wondered again at the helpless, visceral joy and agony of love.

  o-o-o

  ~ A Month Later...

 “Holmes!” 

Sherlock, with Molly on his arm, had been following the restaurant’s hostess back to their table when the vaguely familiar voice sounded and a big, beefy man pushed back his chair and stood up, looking between Sherlock and Molly in surprise. 

“And Molly Hooper! Well, I’ll be damned!” 

Bloody hell! Sherlock thought, his eyes widening ever so slightly as a jolt of recognition shot through him, though he maintained his mask of insouciance in all other respects. 

It was Glen Harrison, former rugby-playing idiot from Molly’s mid-level organic chemistry class in her first year at uni, the class in which Sherlock, at the tail-end of his graduate studies,  had reluctantly served as a teacher’s assistant. 

“Glen!” Molly smiled a bit uncertainly, glancing between her current fiancé and her former classmate cum perpetrator of bodily assault with a view to attempted rape. Nonetheless, she held out her hand to the bastard, since she had received his apology the Monday after the incident, which apology, true to form, she had accepted. She was far too soft a touch, and always had been. Thankfully for Sherlock’s youthful peace of mind, he’d observed that Molly had enough sense to steer clear of the tosser outside the classroom and, thus reassured, he’d  been able to take leave of that bastion of higher learning and pretty much delete Glen from his Mind Palace without further ado. 

Though not entirely. 

One of his favorite memories of university was the rescue of Molly Hooper, featuring his young dragon-slaying self. He’d utilized some simple moves he’d picked up from associates of Mycroft, and Glen the Great Gawk had dropped like a stone. Molly, who’d been smitten with Sherlock before the incident, was quite awestruck, and the subsequent sojourn along the river as he escorted her back to her room had been very… pleasant. 

So no, he had not forgotten Glen. Not quite. 

Now Glen was grinning, and said, “Lord, fancy meeting you two here -- the wife and I -- this is my wife, Tiffany, by the way--” 

“How do you do?” Molly murmured, and Sherlock inclined his head very slightly at Tiffany (upper middle-class antecedents, left uni to pursue modeling, whirlwind romance, engagement, marriage, two children, charitable work, garden club, PTA). 

“--we came up to town on business and actually saw the announcement of your engagement in the Times!” 

“Yeees,” said Sherlock, angry at his parents all over again, though they’d at least had the sense not to mention the wedding venue. 

But Glen gleefully nattered on. “And then, of course, it all made sense. Always wondered if consulting detective Holmes was some relation to that Holmes at uni, and there it was, in black and white: William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Good job you kept to William at school -- easy enough to take the piss without something like Sherlock providing ammunition.” 

Sherlock merely glared at the collosal berk.  

And Glen, contrary to expectation, actually took the hint. “Yeah, well, you have to admit it’s an unusual name, and you know how kids are. But anyway, congratulations, you two! God, it’s amazing to see you both again after all these years.” 

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. 

“It is,” said Molly, with rather a sharp look in Sherlock’s direction. 

He tried to subdue the flutter of dread in his bosom. 

Molly turned back to Glen and his wife. “I do hope you have a wonderful time in London. Where do you live now?” 

“Just outside Brighton,” said Glen. “Look us up next time you’re down there, eh?” 

“That would be lovely,” Molly replied. 

When hell freezes over, was Sherlock’s reply, but aloud he only said, “Yes, well, must be off, our table’s waiting.” 

“Oh, of course,” said Glen. “Cheers!” 

Sherlock and Molly resumed the journey to their (thankfully secluded) table at the back of the restaurant, Sherlock trying not to panic. The hostess saw them seated and handed them each a menu, and took their order for drinks. 

“I’ll have the Macallan, and make it a double,” said Sherlock. 

“Just a glass of the Pinot Grigio.” Molly smiled until the hostess took herself off. Then she turned, unsmiling, to glare at Sherlock. 

Feeling there was nothing for it, he said, “Soooo… not an extra strong G and T?” 

An angry flush suffused her cheeks. “You liar!” 

Sherlock sighed, well aware he deserved every bit of her anger and more. 

Molly went on. “That first time we met at Barts: you did remember me from university!” 

“Yes,” he said, simply. 

“Then why… no! Don’t tell me. You wanted my professional expertise without involving yourself in anything involving sentiment.” 

“Yes.” 

“And all these years… why, I thought I must be the most forgettable girl alive! That what had been so important to me -- that night… the… the event… YOU… had meant so little to you that you’d completely dismissed the whole thing!” 

“Yes.”’ 

“You bastard!” 

He sighed again. “Yes.” 

The hostess returned at this point, and Molly composed herself as best she could as their drinks were set on the table. Sherlock picked up his glass of Macallan and tossed back about half of it. 

As soon as the hostess took herself off again, Molly hissed, “Is that all you have to say for yourself? Just Yes, Yes, Yes?” 

Sherlock winced. “Would I’m sorry help?” 

She drew herself up. “I don’t believe you’re sorry at all! I think you’d do it again in a minute!” 

“Yes, I probably would,” he admitted. “Under the same circumstances. I mean… before… everything. I never meant to hurt you... but I always do, don’t I? And after a while I… I really did forgot about it. More or less.” 

She looked slightly less angry. However, she said, fuming, “You should be…oh! I don’t know what you deserve!” 

“To be married?” he suggested, hopefully. “So you can hold it over me for the rest of my days?” 

And she gave a chuff of laughter. “Well, there is that.”  She sat back, shaking her head. “What am I going to do with you? You’re impossible.” 

He gave a derisive sniff. “Oh, Molly, you’ve known that for years, and yet here we are. You’d better just marry me. That’ll give you all the time in the world to decide what to do with me. Let your imagination run wild. I trust you.” 

As planned, she could not suppress a smile, but there was a glint in her eye as she retorted, “You may just regret those words, Sherlock Holmes.” 

But he dared to smile, now, too. “Never in life, Molly Hooper,” he said, and knew it for God’s own truth. “I leave my fate entirely in your hands.”

 ~.~

[antiquatedfuture]

Summer Solstice Newsletter

NEW ZINES

Canvas & Cassette, Issue Two- Part art journal, part music magazine, part old-school variety zine, Canvas & Cassette has a little something for everyone. ($10)

Covers: Stories About Musicians- Technically a restock, but this highly enjoyable series of comics adapted from music biographies was so popular, we could only keep it in stock for two weeks. Just reprinted and (once again) going fast. ($2)

Empathy Exercise- Places the classroom exercise of putting a blindfold on to imagine being blind against the daily reality of being blind. ($4)

A Few Good Boys: Admiration of Straight White Men and Its Accompanying Dread- In this short illustrated essay, M. Sabine Rear writes about growing up surrounded by art from straight white men and the hoops she had to go through to relate to it. ($4)

Fixer Eraser, Vol. 2- The long-awaited second issue of Fixer Eraser, the latest odds-and-ends zine from Jonas (Cheer the Eff Up, The Greatest Most Traveling Circus), one of the best writers in zines today. ($3)

Fixer Eraser, Vol. 3- A collection of stories and unique bits that sidestep categorization, full of life and surprises. Former superheroes, tortured legends, messages left on small sheets of paper on buses, and so much more. ($3)

Fixer Eraser, Vol. 4- Imagined parenting advice, imagined short stories, and some real stories, some real advice. Where the line between them lies is part of the fun. ($3)

It Only Gets Worse From Here: Fifteen Unspirational Messages to Ruin Your Day- It Only Gets Worse from Here takes the "handwritten inspirational quote art" genre and makes it bleak, lonely, and hilarious. This tiny zine holds 15 unspirational messages to guide you toward your darkest moments. ($2)

Keep Content Off Facebook- A thoughtful zine that asks artists to reexamine how they use Facebook and how Facebook uses them. Not a call to boycott the platform entirely, but to simply think deeply about it and seek solutions beyond it. ($2)

Keep Loving, Keep Fighting #9- In the first issue of Keep Loving, Keep Fighting in ten years Hope combines short, poetic lines about loss, grief, and spirituality with full-color spreads of transcendent mixed-media art. ($5)

Minimum Rock + Roll #9- An interview with Closer, the new project from Real Life Buildings folks. Lots of album reviews. Every Minimum Rock + Roll issue is a tiny good time. ($1)

Minimum Rock + Roll #10- Another little burst of underground music from Olympia's Joshua Hoey and Reflective Tapes. Within: an interview with Don't Love Like Me Records and plenty of reviews. ($1)

Minor Leagues #5- In this, the GIANT fifth issue of Minor Leagues, Simon Moreton's dreamy, time-traveling diary comics blend with long pieces of prose. Within: Finding meaning in place, being in nature, moving through loss, living with ghosts. ($7) My Complicated Relationship With Food, Vol. Four- The return of the most popular zine series we carry. Surprising and bizarre reviews of unremarkable foods. ($1)

Resilient Bastard: Ways to Combat a Brain That is Actively Trying to Kill You- A much-needed zine of writers being very open and honest about depression, suicidal thoughts, and tools for coping. From a great crew of Olympia folks. ($5) Tin Can Telephone #4- A short history of pirate TV intrusions, an interview with Sarah MacDonald of Thrifty Times zine, tape-music history, and much more. ($4) Women in Sound #5- A new issue of Women in Sound zine is always cause for celebration. But this one is perhaps the best yet. Interviews with three of our favorites: Mirah Zeitlyn (as in, indie-pop goddess Mirah), Laetitia Tamko (of Vagabon), and legendary Prince recording engineer Susan Rogers. Plus a whole lot more. ($5)

NEW MUSIC

ABSV- Champion of the Sun- A tribute to Sun Ra by Portland electronic artist and percussionist J Morales, also known as ABSV. Eight pulsing tracks of experimental Afro-house, interweaving live and electronic percussion, synths, bass, and piano into an instant basement dance party. (Cassette + Digital Download) ($8) Badlands- Slow Growth- Her best yet, Slow Growth is a style-hopping album of assured personal pop songs, political anthems, and a Donna Summer self-love mantra cover. (Cassette + Digital Download) ($5) Dump Him- Venus in Retrograde- Live garage-rocky pop-punk from Western Massachusetts' Dump Him. Released on Olympia's Reflective Tapes. (Cassette) ($5)

Family Video- Long Time Listener, First Time Caller- The latest from Newfoundland's Family Video is a masterpiece. Emotionally complex twee-pop that confront loneliness and reimagines the great volcanic winter of 1816. (Cassette + Digital Download) ($5) Hedia- Wool- Sparse and slight, but also sprawling and generous, Hedia's ambient chamber pieces are gifts, through and through. The side project of Bryce Hample of Reighnbeau. (Cassette) ($8)

Orange Daydream: A Tribute To Orange Cake Mix- A split between long-running lo-fi heavyweight Orange Cake Mix and some of the artists that love him. (CD) ($10) Phoxii- Life Eating Death Feeding- The latest album of forward-thinking electronics from Phoxii. Life Eating Death Feeding's broken and reconstructed tracks further asserts Phoxii as living in a musical universe that's entirely her own. (Cassette + Digital Download) ($8)

Reighnbeau- Blood- Blood is Reighbeau at its most lush, most epic. Skittering claps and snaps, pops and clicks, against a cut-up synth symphony. With guest vocals from Colleen Johnson (Flying Circles), Madeline Johnston (Sister Grotto, Midwife), and many others. (Cassette) ($7) Reighnbeau- Fingertips- The latest from Reighbeau, Fingertips is an underwater affair—futuristic nostalgia, cheap earplugs at the rave, worn-out cassettes playing recordings of church organs over a pulsing kick drum. (Cassette) ($7)

Reighnbeau- Hide- Hide is, like its title implies, obscured, secretive, maybe a little shy. Its melodies below the surface, beats pulsing alongside pitch-shifted layers, dozens of distant voices calling out. Guest vocals throughout by Madeline Johnston of Sister Grotto. ($7) Reighnbeau & BK Beats- Sleep- Sleep is the soundtrack to a dream party—feel-good but off-kilter, shiny and hazy, containing only slight resemblances to reality. (Cassette) ($6)

Richard Album- Another Album- Sitting nicely between his garage-pop and synth-pop sides, Another Album finds Richard moving ever forward and swimming in an ocean of tears. (Cassette + Digital Download) ($5)

Various Artists- This Reminds Me: Songs By Linda Smith Reimagined- A tribute album to lo-fi bedroom folk pioneer Linda Smith. A much-deserved 19-track compilation with covers and interpretations from Rose Melberg, and many others (Cassette + Digital Download) ($5)

NEW STICKERS

Drummer Cat Sticker- Leading the band down the street. ($1)

Mushroom Shelter Sticker- Taking shelter under a giant mushroom. As one does.($1)

Spirit Guide Sticker- Meet your spirit guide. ($1)

NEWS *One of our favorite zines around, Syndicate Product, has an open submission call for their long-awaited new issue. Have a book you loathe? This is your chance to tell the world about it.

*Long-time zinester Billy McCall is doing a survey about zine culture and wants everyone involved with zines to participate. 

*Our very own Sara Renberg is touring parts of the east coast and midwest this coming week in support of her Night Sands album. Check out her tour schedule and catch a show!

[theseadagiodays]

June 8, 2020

Art in Isolation

Artists listed clockwise from top right: Miriam Tingle, Shaheer Zazai, Ariel Shea, Veronica Pausova

I think, for me, there has been no group of people for whom I’ve had more empathy during this pandemic than those inside care homes.    I recognize that many of these facilities provide stellar support for their residents, as they struggle with ill health.  And I can think of nothing more honorable than a profession that allows people to face end of life as gracefully as possible.  However, I still think that there is a good reason why so many of us carry fear about such places.  Particularly given the restrictions imposed on these facilities during Covid, residents are now faced with what, perhaps, most chronically terrifies humans: the possibility of dying alone.  The Japanese even have a word for this - kodokushi or lonely death.

Thankfully, nursing homes and hospices have made extensive efforts to ameliorate these fears.  They are arranging regular digital communication for patients, with their loved ones.   And artists are also addressing this problem in very meaningful ways.  

Vancouver pianist, Matthew Li has been playing virtual performances for isolated patients all over Canada. https://www.cbc.ca/radio/thecurrent/the-current-for-may-4-2020-1.5554395/this-classical-pianist-is-offering-hospital-patients-virtual-private-music-recitals-1.5554784   And there are many other performers doing the same.

Also, this Toronto artist/curator team has organized an art donation program that has succeed in collecting over 200 original works, from the artists themselves (see photo above), to deliver (with fully compliant sanitary measures) to nursing homes in their area. https://cdnartinisolation.format.com/works-test

What’s important to acknowledge is the fact that end-of-life caregiving is a two-way street.  Sometimes, those in palliative care are less afraid to die alone than their loved ones are to be denied the opportunity to serve, comfort and seek closure.  So, it is beautiful that these gestures of music, and art, and video calls can soothe the souls of everyone involved.  

June 9, 2020

Making Lemonade

I don’t know about you, but lately, I feel like I’m drinking an awful lot of lemonade (and yes, sometimes spiked!).   Don’t get me wrong.  I usually love lemonade.  In fact, there are summer days when the craving hits me so hard, I can focus on nothing until it’s quenched.  I guess there’s something about the bittersweetness and resiliency of a drink that turns lemons into lemonade which usually attracts a “path-of-most-resistence” girl like me.  However, if I’m to be completely honest, I’m beginning to run out of Plan B’s.  Sure, there have been plenty of really tasty ones so far.  Like the socially distant private cocktail class for 6 that we gifted two of our friends (with us & their partners), when their big 40th & 50th birthday plans went caput with Covid.  One had hoped for a trip abroad with his family.  The other had booked a large venue and invited 100 friends and family for his now cancelled-‘til-‘21 bash.  So, mixing maitais and shaking whiskey sours as a back-up plan certainly wasn’t half-bad.  Then, there is the fact that my treasured local pool (a rare ,137-meter swimming facilty right on the ocean, available to the public for only $4 per visit) hasn’t opened this season, and probably won’t all year.  So, what did I do?  I rushed out to buy a 1 mm spring wetsuit, intent on “ocean hiking’ instead.  My inaugural swim, last Sunday night, down wind and down current, surrounded by mountains and the cityscape, which ended just below an eagle perched only 20-feet overhead, was an admittedly euphoric moment.  

So, believe me, I know I have no right to complain.  I’m just recognizing that, currently, I feel like I’ve pretty much tapped my creative juices to the max, which means that I’m looking for things to fuel my imagination for the months to come.  In my quest, I stumbled upon this particularly sophisticated back-up plan, which I imagine will be inspiration for many.

The Kanneh-Mason family is likely the most famous musical family you’ve never heard of.  All seven, that’s right, seven of these siblings are top-shelf classical musicians, conveniently covering nearly the full string family with 2 violinists, 3 pianists, and 2 cellists.  And, remarkably, their parents, who moved from Sierra Leone to England, where the children were raised, had only minimal exposure to musical instruments as kids.  Sheku, the third eldest, may be the most reknowned, having had his debut Carnegie Hall cello recital at just 20.  However, right by his side was his older sister Isata (23) on piano.  And it’s the lemonade that she recently squeezed out of a bum lemon which inspires me right now.  She’d been excitedly waiting for her upcoming Royal Albert Hall debut, a performance of Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, originally scheduled for April 18th.  So, once it was cancelled, as all family phenoms do, the five oldest kids, shoeless and in sweats, performed a string trio and double piano arrangement of the piece from their living room, in a livestream performance on the exact concert date.  Even more notable than the oodles of talent and sensitivity that pour out of this one family, is what seems to be their genuine humility and gratitude, amidst the disappointment of a postponed dream, just for the opportunity to share their passion, even in far from hoped-for circumstances. #glasshalffull

https://www.classicfm.com/artists/sheku-kanneh-mason/family-isata-beethoven-live-stream/

June 10, 2020

Poet as Witness

Interestingly, this has become a very poetic moment in our lives.  This time, rife with fear and heightened emotions, has been witnessed, as poets do so well, with acuity and depth of vision.  Somehow, the poet as witness is able to observe something too large for most of us to contain, and then distill it for us into digestable doses that cut right to the bone.   I’ve heard many people speak of inboxes replete with verses sent from friends meant to comfort or console.  And it has felt appropriate and almost necessary for me to leave people at the end of each of my weekly guided meditations with a relevant poem that they can sit with.  The publishing world has recognized this need for poetry, too.  Consequently, Random House has, with lightning speed, put out a compilation of poetic work created during this period.  Together in a Sudden Strangeness was released today.  And in one entry from this stunning collection, Joshua Bennett’s raw words speak to the helplessness that he felt when he was not allowed to accompany his pregnant wife to her ultrasound during Covid.

Dad Poem by Joshua Bennett

No visitors allowed is what the masked woman behind the desk says only seconds after me and your mother arrive for the ultrasound. But I’m the father, I explain, like it means something defensible. She looks at me as if I’ve just confessed to being a minotaur in human disguise. Repeats the line. Caught in the space between astonishment & rage, we hold hands a minute or so more, imagining you a final time before our rushed goodbye, your mother vanishing down the corridor to call forth a veiled vision of you through glowing white machines. One she will bring to me later on, printed and slightly wrinkled at its edges, this secondhand sight of you almost unbearable both for its beauty and necessary deferral. What can I be to you now, smallest one, across the expanse of category & world catastrophe, what love persists in a time without touch.

Other poets have found a more literal way to turn some of this current hopelessness on its head.  And their reflexive approach is not new.  The violin duet, Der Spiegel (score above), often wrongly attributed to Mozart but written by another 18th century unnamed composer, is meant to be performed with Player One reading from top to bottom, and Player Two from bottom to top.  Cleverly, the two parts have unique yet complementary melodies that make a cohesive whole when performed together.   Similarly, Britt MacKinnon’s poem, Covid 19 Outlooks manages to paint a realistic picture of the simultaneously bleak and hopeful perspectives that many of us vascilate between, right now.  You just have to make sure to read it in reverse after you’ve read it from top to bottom.

I have no hope or control. Nobody can convince me that I still have a future. I recognize that I am safe and loved But I am overwhelmed by fear This situation dictates my daily well-being. I refuse to believe that There is a bright future ahead. Our world is disrupted. No longer do I feel that We have support and help from our leaders. During self-isolation. I am reminiscing and dreaming. Now I cherish the good old days. My way of life Changing Because of COVID-19

June 11, 2020

Dance On!

The fluctuating moods expressed in MacKinnon’s poem can be found in an abundance of art created during this time.  Mark Morris is known for his music-driven choreography and unorthodox elegance.  One of my former in-laws, Rita Donahue also danced with his company for many years, which adds an even more personal interest to my fandom.    His wide range of styles and moods is well-illustrated in the three pieces that comprise his latest virtual offering, Dance On!  From the uncomfortability of his discordant Lonely Waltz (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0hfkn4FI2CI) to the raw, visceral desperation of Anger Dance (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0mdAmS81E0Q) to the comic simplicity and object puppetry used in Sunshine (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VKAt2vBlMRw), the emotional evolution that I had as an audience member was much like the shift I experienced reading the poem above, upside down.   Geoff and I have always loved handstand therapy as an effective mood booster.  So, I’m taking this as a reminder to bring more inverted poses into my life.

June 12, 2020 

Rap & Gown

I have a confession.  As a rapper-wanna-be, flutist, with long curly hair and a name that begins with L, I secretly believe that Lizzo is my alter ego.     With her chutzpah, self-love and straight-talk, I think she is a prime role model for people of all ages and races.  And strong voices like hers are exactly what we need at this time.  Obviously, others agree, because she was invited to inspire stay-at-home graduates with her silver sounds on this collaborative performance of Elgar’s Pomp & Circumstance with the New York Philharmonic.  Now, that’s a grad ceremony that should have been worth coming out of quarantine for!

https://www.classicfm.com/artists/new-york-philharmonic/lizzo-plays-flute-class-of-2020-youtube-ceremony/

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

Bat Paladin Chapter 3

Voltron / batfam /dc comics crossover

chapter 1

chapter 2 Shiro is Bruce Wayne’s adopted son and part of the batfam AU created by me (I was the anon) and @newtsckamander Chapter 3/ ~10 Word count 3.8k I’m sorry formatting is messy, I posted from mobile

******* In general, things get easier with repetition. Stage actors recite lines over and over until they’re engrained in memory. Athletes develop muscles through use. Accuracy is learned by doing the same shot a thousand times.

Bruce wished grief and loss operated by this principle.

He was no stranger to death. From that fateful night in his childhood when he lost his parents, to friends and young partners, he had buried many people. He had mourned and struggled to move on and coped with so much loss.

And yet, a vast majority of those people he had grieved for had come back. Jason had come back. Stephanie had actually survived. Clark and perhaps half the league had been considered dead at some point. Statistically, Bruce should be skeptical of the validity of any presumed death.

Experience now left him in a rather precarious position. A bit like schrodinger’s cat, Shiro was presumed dead but had a chance of being alive. The question now was which did Bruce focus on. Mourning him under the assumption he was dead like his parents and most of the population, while harbouring the slight and fated-to-be-slowly-crushed hope that presumptions were wrong and he was alive? Or to expect him to be alive and have reality wear down on him with each day of uncertain absence? Either one could destroy him in the long run.

And how long did he search? How far into space until Shiro was truly beyond any hope of finding? Did he continue like a one-track record while his friends agreed to search to his face and then plotted interventions behind his back? And what approach did he take with the rest of the family? Would it be healthier for them to mourn without doubt? Or to harbour hope that he would be found?

Instead of lessening his conundrum, investigation only exacerbated it.

A Justice League investigation of the icy moon had found no evidence of the spaceship crashing. In fact, the vehicle was completely intact. Shiro and the Holts had made it safely to Kerberos and had left their ship in their excursion suits with all the planned equipment.

The first experiment site however, told a darker tale.

Every part of the Kerberos mission was expertly planned. GPS and previous probes had plotted down to the meter where the work was to be conducted.

That exact location was decimated. Something powerful had wrought a swath of destruction that had shredded the ice and rock surface and left only mangled fragments of the metal drill tripod.

The part that left the most questions was the lack of evidence of the crew. No fragments of spacesuits. No helmet shards. No fabric fibers. No bodies. No charred carbon. They were simply gone.

The worst case scenario was that they were dead in some way that left no evidence, but no other matter was missing from the area. Re-arranged, yes, but unaccounted for? No.

Until the Green Lanterns returned from meeting with the Guardians, there was no way to identify any residual alien energy or microparticles they might have found.

Bruce’s desperate hope for his son was alien abduction.

****** A telescope was added to the memorial case.

It looked as out of place as it felt - a mundane object flanked by costume-clad mannequin torsos and propped weaponry. It had been the first gift Bruce had given Shiro. A settling-in present after he’d lived with him for a month and offhandedly mentioned over dinner how many more stars he could see from the Wayne property than the city. So Bruce had bought him a telescope.

It was moderately sized, nothing huge but big enough that Shiro could see some of the fainter and more delicate nebulae.

Shiro had been enamored with it. Astronomy became his nightly activity when he wasn’t helping man the batcomputer, allowing him to be on a schedule more compatible with the family.

Bruce remembered many times when he’d come up from the batcave after patrol to find Shiro clothed but asleep in a chair with a star chart open in his lap, and when woken, he’d drag Bruce to the telescope he’d left outside to show him some Messier object.

It became accepted fact that if there was any sort of high profile event at an observatory or space exhibit, Bruce Wayne would be accompanying his middle son there.

Recently, the observatory had invited Bruce for the first use of a new lens the Wayne family had donated money for a year ago. Bruce declined to attend. The observatory said they understood and expressed their empathy. The tabloids understood his absence too.

One of the truly worst things about a civilian identity was the public relations of when things like this happened. Even if he had a search underway for what really happened to Shiro’s, he still had to deal with the civilian side of things.

When Jason had died it had been easier to keep things low key and although the family had celebrity status then, not there was a whole decade more of notoriety. Shiro had been a public figure as an adult in his own right. And the mere fact he was an adult added levels of complexity.

Like lawyers, and wills.

Shiro’s last will and testament was a harsh, physical reminder that his son was a decade older than Jason had been. Shiro had an impeccable will, drawn up by a Wayne recommended firm.

He left a few sums to various funds, plans for a new charity, and items for his brothers and sisters and for his oft-spoken-of friend Keith.

***

Shiro’s death was public knowledge and scandal, on the news for weeks and then months as the Garrison investigation into the incident continued.

There were three memorials Bruce had felt obligated to attend.

The private one that the Justice League attended, with friends whose raw glances of sympathy were the only ones Bruce found tolerable. They had known Shiro for the decade since his adoption and were also feeling his loss keenly.

There was the public memorial held in Gotham where a crowd turned out and lay flowers and ribbons for one of the city’s famous sons. Gotham had been proud to have famously from her embark on a historic space mission. Shiro’s publicity tour before the mission had been well received. Bruce hadn’t minded saying a few words to the crowd there as much as he feared he would.

Then there was the Garrison memorial attended by both those graduated and attending there.

Shiro’s training team and close friends were sitting in their own section next to the one for families of the team. There was a variety of twenty-somethings and one younger teen that Bruce recognized as Keith.

Bruce had never actually meet Keith. He had heard much about Keith. Shiro had called and told him many stories about Keith, including on the day they had met. Bruce had seen many photos and short videos of Keith. But Bruce had never met Keith in person.

And a memorial was a hard place to start.

After the Garrison speech that waxed poetic on his son’s talents and love of his job and a touching note about how his contributions to science would not be forgotten, Bruce exchanged sympathy with the Holts and intended to introduce himself to the boy. But by then Keith had left. ****** Hal Jordan was standing in his usual civilian clothes and jacket in front of the memorial case staring at the telescope with wet tracks on his face.

Bruce put his coffee mug down on the nearest flat surface.

“I just got back from Oa… Diana told me…” he didn’t turn to look at Bruce. Bruce grunted noncommittally. “I didn’t know… I waved at Pluto as I passed…”

“He would have appreciated that.” Bruce eventually said.

“I’m heading back out. I’ll scan everything. I just- I needed to come here first.” Hal finally faced Bruce, eyes searching. “I keep picturing when he was a kid and he’d follow me around the watchtower asking questions. Every flight back to Earth I’d spend preparing what stories I’d tell him. I was so proud when he aced piloting and when he was selected for this mission, but now I can’t help but fear this was all somehow because of my influence. Piloting… space…”

“Hal… Shiro loved space since long before even I knew him. As much as you’re his favorite Uncle, he was determined on this path since childhood. You can’t blame yourself any more than I can for letting him go to that school.” They were standing next to each other, shoulder to shoulder facing the case again. Hal nodded silently but grateful.

“I’m going to search Kerberos for any clues. Then I’ll go back to Oa to research. If he’s out there, I won’t give up until I’ve found him or the truth.” Hal declared, voice heavy, and then flew out the cave entrance.

* * * * * In the past decade or so, Bruce’s social persona had become more bearable. “Brucie” had transitioned from “ditzy but well-meaning playboy” to “ditzy but well-meaning playboy and father”. His public persona had to appear responsible enough for no one to question his custody of half a dozen youths.

Bruce had found the easiest way to accomplish this was to cultivate a new hobby of showing off his kids at any opportunity. He had a wallet packed with school photos, albums of pics and videos on his phone, and a wealth of stories he could share in any conversation.

Instead of having to convince people that “Brucie” had suddenly become an extremely responsible adult, he could simply start bragging.

“My Cassie is doing triple pirouettes in ballet, I have a video of it right here that you simply must see”

“Look at Damian and his science project! I don’t think our carpets will ever be the same.”

“Shiro sent me this pic from the flight simulator at his astronaut school. He’s top of his class and set a school record for highest score”

It was far more satisfying than bumbling and flirting had been in his younger years. He still winked at the ladies and broke a few wine glasses every now and then, but mostly he blathered about his brood. This had the added benefit of boring and discouraging gold-diggers and those arrogant people who disapproved of the bloodlines of most of his family. Bruce was proud that there was so much to boast about.

Of course now his public reputation as a family-man and celebrity status meant that he had to address what happened on multiple television shows, and magazine interviews, and online forums.

It was a seemingly unending slur of similar statements.

“Shiro knew the risks, it’s like I said in the Kent interview for the Daily Planet, Shiro talked it over with the family, he felt that any danger was worth it and even in his will he reminded us that this was what he wanted to dedicate his life to, however much time that would be.”

“I think - and I’d hope I’d know as his adoptive father - that what Shiro would want for the future of space exploration would be for it to continue. Learn from his mission, make it so the next one is a success. Go beyond Kerberos someday. Meet some aliens.”

“It’s hard on all of us, but we’re trying to get through it as a family, to remember the better times.”

“No, I don’t blame the Garrison, like I’ve said, Shiro accepted the risks and chose that job. Now we have to accept what Shiro wanted. I’ve always said I encourage the kids’ interests and respect their decisions, I can’t stop doing that just because I don’t like the outcome.”

“What do I have to say to the parents of kids who want to be astronauts? Encourage them. Buy them a telescope, watch their eyes light up at night. In fact, that’s why I’m creating the Shiro Space Foundation, to help fund and organize the formation of astronomy clubs in schools. Because that’s what my son would want.”

Slowly the media ran out of similar questions and sympathy statements to use the Wayne name with, but Bruce knew that each release of new info about the mission would only restart the onslaught.

***** Dick and Cass went to collect a few of Shiro’s things and some gifts and cards from the Garrison.

They also were checking in on Keith, something requested in Shiro’s will.

Dick reported back that he was seeing the facilities counselor for required visits and that a few upperclassmen who had been friends with Shiro were keeping an eye on him.

Cass told Bruce that she read the boy as taking it hard and blaming authority.

Jason came back from a second visit laughing bitterly. Apparently Keith knew of him from stories as “Jay”, Shiro’s brother who hated the media and therefore hid from it. Jason then made a bittersweet observation.

“He’s an angry at the world black haired orphan. Apparently your taste in trainee is a family trait. That’s probably why he never brought him home here, Alfred would have given him a room thinking he was one of yours.”

Bruce tried to focus on how proud he was of Shiro for taking someone under his wing. That kind of compassion was an excellent trait to have.

*******

Batman hesitated before emerging from the shadows on the rooftop. Around the corner of the structure housing the roof-exit access Spoiler and Red Hood were supposed to be waiting for him. But he heard a third, female voice that was not Black Bat. It was Catwoman, but her tone was serious.

“-y’know him, he’s getting a little antsy,definitely plotting, but the rest of us can keep him distracted for a few more weeks at least.”

“Even the time you’ve given us so far has helped. I don’t know if he’s noticed but-” Red Hood was the one to reply.

“-Not that we couldn’t have handled it without him, but he’d take control of everything.” Spoiler interjected with a hint of defensiveness. Batman could picture her crossed arms and cocked jaw.

“I know. And if something does happen, I’m not the only one willing to help you this time.” Catwoman reassured. “The Rogues respect Batman enough to give him time to mourn, plus, you heroes hit harder when you’re upset.”

Batman felt a cold wash percolate down his spine at the vague reminder of what had happened. He aggressively ignored that to digest the new information. Retrospectively, the past few weeks had been quiet, with no capers by the usual miscreants, only mundane petty criminal violence.

The past month had left him so busy with his civilian life that he hadn’t had time to dwell on why things had been so quiet after hours. Suddenly a number of recent events made far more sense in the lense of the Rogues knowing something.

The flowers on his patrol route being unseasonably lush with their blooms open a little longer past dusk than natural.

Harleen Quinzel saluting him with a solemn expression while walking her hyenas in pajamas at five in the morning.

Bank robbers found trying to thaw out their getaway car’s frozen engine.

Batman was brought back to the conversation by Red Hood speaking again.

“What exactly did you tell them? Because it’s not like they ever saw-… It’s not like when it was me and they noticed the lack of Robin.”

“I kept it vague,” Catwoman paused, voice tired, “Just that Batman had an adult civilian son and he…”Her voice choked off. “That was enough for them to understand. Enough of them have civilian relatives themselves.”

“Thank you.” Spoiler reiterated.

“Of course. And how are you kids handling it. I know I’m no counselor but Batman is an emotional brick. If you need to talk…” Catwoman offered.

“It’s hard but we’re all working through it together.” Spoiler answered slowly.

“Yeah, helps that there’s no hard feelings and no blame… just grief. He was… he was close to each of us in a different way and that’s something we all have in common.”

“There are a lot of good times to remember and talk about.”

“I’m rather relieved you’re coping well. I didn’t know him as well as you, but from our limited encounters, I am grateful I knew him.”

Catwoman was gone when Batman showed up on the rooftop to confer with his silently waiting partners. *****

Bruce had loved the night for years. He spent most of his time out in the dark and, in between the moments of staccato sensation of fighting, there was the peace and calm. The lights of Gotham danced in the streets below him, a distant world of nightly reverie he watched and protected.

Thirty years ago, before the ordinances and bulb replacement projects he had heavily backed, the light pollution from the street lights and skyscrapers had drowned out all but the brightest of stars from the sky. Now it was greatly lessened and entire constellations were visible in the breaks in the clouds.

Bruce could remember driving out to the countryside with his parents as a small boy, lying out on a blanket on a grassy hill, and marvelling at the constellations while his parents spun the tales of the myths that those celestial patterns told.

Now, the stars were mocking points of light - too literal spots of hope on the inky darkness of reality. The night sky held Bruce’s hopes and fears.

If he felt embittered by the sky from Gotham, it was nothing to time on the Watchtower. He did not let himself shirk monitor duties there, no matter how many offers of coverage he was given by every other member of the League. Instead he would carry out his shift, sitting in a silence more stony than previous, resolutely focusing on the computers and monitors, not the expansive viewports.

He still freshly remembered the first time Shiro had come to the watchtower. He had left Gotham to Dick, Jason, and Barbara and taken Shiro to the nearly empty space station. Shiro hadn’t asked to see the Watchtower after he had found out that the league had a headquarters in orbit, he had still been too hesitant with his role in his new family and afraid of pushing a limit to request that. He had, however, asked a slew of questions about the station and the brightness in his eyes had allayed any reservations Bruce may have had about taking a “civilian” there.

Shiro had been fourteen and a set of long, coltish limbs restraining trembles of excitement. His arms had been clinging to a stack of books - homework and an astronomy book - and his eyes had been wide behind the rudimentary domino mask Bruce had deemed necessary.

Diana had smiled at his enthusiasm on her way out.

Bruce had picked a night where the only league members present were ones who already knew his identity, Shiro’s wasn’t one he was willing to risk haphazardly. The less people who knew about his connection to Batman, the safer both the family’s identities and Shiro himself were.

He had given Shiro a tour, showing and explaining much of the systems that ran the watchtower and lingering at viewports on each side. Then they had returned to the monitors and Shiro had spent the rest of the evening staring out the windows and telling Bruce his observations.

In his early teen years Shiro became a fixture of Bruce’s shifts there. He went with him every opportunity he was allowed. Bruce also liked that it let Shiro meet his “coworkers” without having Shiro anywhere near real combat or inviting more people to the batcave.

Even as he aged, Bruce had given him clearance to come to the watchtower to visit during weekends off from the school campus.

He associated the watchtower nearly as much with Shiro as associated it with the Justice League. It was a hard place to be.

**** It was the middle of the afternoon when Bruce’s phone pinged. His personal cellphone that was linked with the bat computer.

Damian was at work with him today, rocking in a swivel chair with a textbook balanced on his knees, and he lunged for the device before Bruce could.

“I know what phone this is. Is there some attack or something happening?” He read the notification with a furrowed brow, textbook readily abandoned and shoved to the floor.

Bruce reached over and snatched the device out of his hands. It was a series of symbols and code words sent to him by an automated monitoring system linked to the batcomputer. He opened his laptop, inserted a black bat-logo’d flash drive, and interfaced with the cave computer.

“Someone’s hacking a specific part of the Garrison computer.” Bruce said to fill Damian in. His son had moved to hover around his right side to watch the screen over his shoulder.

“Why would they do that? Is someone trying to launch a rocket?”

“No, they’re accessing probe and transmission records from a secure file. What I’m trying to figure out is who’s doing it.” Bruce explained, fingers moving quickly and gaze focused.

“Is it foreign? Wasn’t Luthor mad that space exploration privatized?” Damian speculated. Bruce grunted and frowned, pausing. He was secretly keeping tabs on anything related to the Garrison Kerberos mission. He had minor alerts for new or changed information in them, copies of all deleted files, and notifications when certain people accessed them. This was the first time a compromise alert had come in.

“The hacking coming from inside an office at the Garrison headquarters. But the computer is marking it as an intrusion.”

“Maybe the guy just forgot his password.” Damian was obviously disappointed at the anticlimactic answer.

“Ah. Whomever is doing this is using outdated security passwords for minor things. Passwords that weren’t flagged immediately as incorrect.” Bruce’s brow uncreased.

“Why? Shouldn’t a facility like that have at least some cyber security?”

“They do. Their computer didn’t automatically classify this as an attack because the codes used were those of Sam Holt.”

“Oh.” Damian became quiet, almost cautious, the way that was becoming typical with anything regarding Shiro. Bruce appreciated that Damian, who often frankly expressed his opinions of people, had been keeping quiet about Shiro and what happened around his siblings. Damian was very hit or miss for his interactions with people and only then in the long run. Bruce, despite mental efforts otherwise, found himself wondering at the lost potential of what Shiro and Damian’s relationship would have been.

The results of a cursory look at the Garrison indoor security cameras proved Bruce’s hypothesis of the identity of the hacker correct. He closed his laptop. It would be hypocritical to deny access to her when she had as much right to those files and the truth as he did and for the same reasons.

[limejuicer1862]

F WORD WARNING

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Amanda Earl

is a Canadian poet, publisher, prose-writer, visual poet and editor who lives in Ottawa, Ontario. Her first and only poetry book so far is Kiki (Chaudiere Books, 2014). Amanda is the managing editor of Bywords.ca and the fallen angel of AngelHousePress. Connect with Amanda on Twitter @KikiFolle or visit AmandaEarl.com for more information.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

I didn’t even realize I was writing poetry until my mid thirties. I scrawled on pads of paper from my parents’ workplaces, all kinds of confessional stuff and complaints and lists. I made notes on index cards about everyone I knew and filed them in a metal box. I just wrote. I didn’t label it. I heard nothing but poetry by men from early childhood and up, whether it was in school or recitations by my father: Shakespeare, Victorian morality poetry, Edward Leer. I liked the rhyming and the sound play, and the images, but I rarely related to it. I dismissed the thought of poetry from my head.

In my mid-thirties, I was going through a period of depression and searched the Internet for solace. I came across the poet Mary Oliver’s poem, Wild Geese, Lorna Crozier’s Carrots (https://jeveraspoetryanthology.weebly.com/carrots.html) poem and also Gwendolyn MacEwen’s fascinating and dark mythological poems. These excited me and made me realize that perhaps I was also writing what could be called poetry. I still wasn’t sure.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

My father, I suppose, but it didn’t feel like an introduction. He was always reciting poetry to me as a child.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

More like the domineering presence. Since school curricula for literature were dominated by dead white men, I knew nothing about women poets until I found them in my Internet search in the 90s.  I wish I’d known about Plath and Sexton in my teenage years; although what darkness I would have dredged up back then under their influences… When I first started to realize I was writing poetry, it took me some time to find out about poets like Anne Carson who is willing to step out of traditional form to make poetry out of the long lost fragments of Sappho, accordion books about grief, little chapbooks placed in a box so readers can rearrange at will. Or Caroline Bergvall and her mesmerizing engagements with Old Norse. There’s just so much possibility out there for poetry and yet quite often the same white men, dead or alive, have their work published again and again and win prizes and are taught as the poetry that matters.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

According to Mason Currey in his book, Daily Rituals: Women at Work, the photographer Diana Arbus ritual was sex. (https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-daily-routines-10-women-artists-joan-mitchell-diane-arbus?fbclid=IwAR2fXdj7OUukk2c_-RUU8mxIhor8FRPaSWU3yJ0_f_W0t_DzUR8LQ3y3ej0) I usually start my day off with a good wank and at least an hour of pervy chat with a few random strangers. I shivered this morning after a particularly good orgasm. After that I drink Irish Breakfast tea, burn some incense and write or go outside, if it’s not too hot or cold, and wander about until I have no choice but to write. I carry a red journal with me for snippets of overheard conversation, some weird sound play that comes to me, or a doodle. My red journals are smeared in paint and tea stains.

5. What motivates you to write?

1. Lorca’s concept of the duende (https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Spanish/LorcaDuende.php) Death is near. I don’t want to be immortal, I just want to continue the conversation. I’m influenced by ghosts, such as Oscar Wilde and Djuna Barnes, Leonora Carrington, Jean Cocteau and Beatrice Wood.

2. Alienation. In some ways I live the standard North American life, but in others I don’t. I write and publish others full-time. I don’t have a nine to five job. I don’t drive. I don’t own property. I live downtown. My husband and I are in a passionate and open marriage. I write to reach out to that one kindred misfit in hope that they feel less alone. The Tragically Hip song “It’s a good life if you don’t weaken,” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwNVxvczgCs&feature=youtu.be) comes to mind. “Let’s get friendship right.”

6. What is your work ethic?

I follow three principles: whimsy, exploration and connection. I want to play; I want to learn new stuff and I want to write things that connect with those alienated by convention and the lonely. I punched a timecard as a late teen and I saw my parents punching those same damn cards. I loathe systems and routines and any attempts by external authorities to dictate my time, so I rebel against any system. I write because I breathe. It’s just part of me. Writing isn’t as tough as plumbing or surgery.

I serve the work rather than dictating what the work will be. I once spent three months learning about the sonnet because the manuscript I was working on had to be made up of sonnets, not because I wanted to but because the content required it somehow.  I wrote three of the damn things and gave up. They were awful. That manuscript remains unpublished.

I try to remain grateful and humble to have the opportunity to write. Sometimes my work gets published, which is a huge honour. I try to be careful not to let my ego tell me how great I am, because I’m not. I’m just in the right place at the right time and have found the right publisher somehow. This happens rarely.

I try not to take up too much space and leave space for writers who do not have the benefits granted by white colonialist publishing policies and attitudes that continue to prevail. I try to promote and publish 2SLGBTQIA, BIPOC, and D/deaf and disabled writers and look for ways I can support them when I can. I don’t do this enough.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I read the Exorcist, Mad Magazine, Archie Comics and Harlequin romance novels as a youngster. These works gave me a sense of irreverence that is important for my writing. In high school and university I studied French, German and Italian and finally got excited by literature. Dante made me fascinated with Heaven and Hell; Kafka made me fear insects; Baudelaire made me want to drink red wine. Rimbaud showed me that synaesthesisa, which I have, was not just something I experienced. Later I read Milton’s Paradise Lost. Early influencers of the long poem, I suppose, and the epic. I am writing an anti-epic these days. Red wine isn’t something I can stomach easily anymore. Now and then I’ll have a little Lagavulin in the tub.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

Nathanaël for Je Nathanaël, for working in the spaces between genres and writing so beautifully of the body. Sandra Ridley for her ability to write long, mesmerizing poems and read them as if they are incantations. Christine McNair for syntactic daggers, sounds that are bitten off, and charm. Anne Carson for her sense of play and versatility. Canisa Lubrin for Voodoo Hypothesis, which is the only book she’s written so far, and it’s brilliant. I am awed by the skill in these poems, not just on a poetic level (diction, imagery, lineation, structure, balance) but also by the power of one writer’s willingness and ability to so effectively dismantle and bring to light the ongoing effects of racism while offering in-depth and tangible illustrations of the othered. Alice Notley for the Descent of Alette, a most extraordinary long poem. rob mclennan for his prolific writing and quiet poetry and bizarre wee stories. Amber Dawn for brave femme truths and incorporating subjects that are traditionally taboo in mainstream CanLit, such as sex work. Joshua Whitehead for the sheer invention and brilliance of Full Metal Indigiqueer which takes down the literary canon so skillfully. The writers in the anthology Stairs and Whispers: D/deaf and Disabled Poets Write Back Edited by Sandra Alland, Khairani Barokka & Daniel Sluman (http://ninearchespress.com/publications/poetry-collections/stairs%20and%20whispers.html) for the versatility and beauty of their writing. It’s good writing and more people should be aware of it. Ian Martin for self-deprecating comedy. Erín Moure for Elisa Sampedrin. Lisa Robertson for the gift of the sentence. Gary Barwin for his whimsy and willingness to play in numerous genres and media.

I wish Djuna Barnes was here. I’m always looking for a modern-day equivalent. Nightwood was an exquisite and poetic novel.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I don’t just write. I also play with paint, make visual poetry, which some might say is a form of writing, run two small presses, which do a bunch of things. I spend too much time on social media. I make countless lists. I watch a lot of films and tv. I listen to music. I wank. I fuck my husband. We cook glorious meals together. I go on long rambles and spend a lot of time in cafés. I cry and worry every day for the persecuted in this topsy turvy era where the Ogre in the House of White is making us all fear that the end of the world is close.

All these activities and emotions enter into my writing in some way.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

I don’t know. I focus less on being a writer and more on writing. Writer sounds like a title and titles have a bunch of preconceived expectations I can’t satisfy. Same with poet. I just write.

But I guess, I’d tell them to be gentle on themselves, surround themselves with books, art, film and whatever inspires them. Ignore prescriptive rules, such as write what you know. Heather O’Neill, a fiction writer I admire, once said that for her to write, she has to be angry about something. At least that’s what I remember her saying at an Ottawa International Writers Festival event.

For me, I have to feel emotion of some sort, whether it is anger, sadness, love… I guess I would say to the person who wants to write that they are going to have to make sure that they don’t numb themselves. It’s easy in this era to want to numb ourselves against all the pain and suffering and power games going on, but when we numb ourselves, we don’t feel and if we don’t feel, it’s hard to respond. Writing, whether it’s directly political or not, is a response to what’s around us. I think it takes a great deal of empathy to write. It takes close listening and close watching.

Find a mentor. I’ve been fortunate in that rob mclennan has been extremely supportive of my work. He’s been honest when the stuff is shite. I still remember taking my first of his poetry workshops in 2006 and him telling me I was writing zombie poems.

He’s published many of my chapbooks through above/ground press and my book, Kiki through Chaudiere Books. He always encourages me to write and he has introduced me to many of the poets I mention in my list of influences and more. He does this not only for me, but for numerous others. It’s amazing!

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

I was fortunate to have received a grant from the City of Ottawa for Beast Body Epic, a long poem that I began a few years after a major health crisis in 2009 and have been tinkering with ever since. So I’m going to finish tinkering and submit the manuscript for the fourth time toward the end of the year.

I have a smaller manuscript called The Milk Creature and Mother Poetry, inspired by Diana di Prima, one of the women active in the Beat poetry scene.

I’m working on The Vispo Bible, a life’s work to translate every chapter, every book, every verse of the Bible into visual poetry. I began in 2015 and have completed about 300 pages so far.

In 2018, I began work on a novel. Its working title is The Nightmare Dolls’ Imperfect Reunion. It’s about women, health, ageing, friendship, gender, and it has a helluva soundtrack. (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5B1GAgN046EdtrBLXiNoni?si=NIbexI5mQqKnr54qfmJ7ZQ)

Amanda Earl is a Canadian poet, publisher, prose-writer, visual poet and editor who lives in Ottawa, Ontario. Her first and only poetry book so far is Kiki (Chaudiere Books, 2014). Amanda is the managing editor of Bywords.ca and the fallen angel of AngelHousePress. Connect with Amanda on Twitter @KikiFolle or visit AmandaEarl.com for more information.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Amanda Earl F WORD WARNING Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

[esonetwork]

'Road to Perdition' Book Review By Ron Fortier

New Post has been published on https://esopodcast.com/road-to-perdition-book-review-by-ron-fortier/

'Road to Perdition' Book Review By Ron Fortier

ROAD TO PERDITION The New, Expanded Novel Max Allan Collins Brash Books 239 pages

Some times books and our interest in them take overly circuitous paths to reach us. Such was this case with this Max Allan Collins masterpiece. Bear with me, please.

Back in 1987, the late-lamented First Comics began publishing an English version of a highly popular Japanese manga series called “Lone Wolf and Cub.” Begun in 1970, it was written by Kazuo Koike and illustrated by Goseki Kojima. The series chronicles the story of Ogami Itto, the Shogun’s executioner who uses a dotankuki battle sword. Disgraced by false accustions from another clan, he becomes an assassin and along with his three year old son, Daigoro, they seek revenge on their enemies.

In Japan the story was adapted into six films, four plays and a TV series. With First Comics’ English version, it quickly became a cult favorite; especially among those comic fans familiar with the original manga series. Among these was these was Max Collins whereas this reviewer was new to the series and its history. But that didn’t stop us from becoming devoted fans. Sadly First Comics folded before they could redo the entire manga run.

In 1998, over a decade later, Paradox Press, an imprint of DC Comics, released “Road to Perdition” written by Collins with art by Richard Piers Rayner. Told against the backdrop of the Great Depression in 1931, it tells the story of Michael O’Sullivan, a mob enforcer and his son, Michael Jr., as they seek vengeance against the man who murdered the rest of their family. DC, wanting to promote the project, plastered images of the adult gunman and his young son in all of their titles. When seeing these for the first time, we instantly recalled “Lone Wolf and Cub” and rightly guessed Collins had been inspired by that Japanese comic. In subsequent interviews, he was only to happy label “Road to Perdition” an unabashed homage to “Lone Wolf and Cub.”

Then, for reasons long forgotten, we never picked up a copy of that graphic novel though we’d been devoted followers of Collins comic work from “Ms. Tree” to “Wild Dog.” Eventually, as most of you know, “Road to Perdition” was made into a spectacular crime film in 2002. Directed by Sam Mendes with a screenplay adaptation by David Self. The movie starred Tom Hanks, Paul Newman, Jude Law and pre-James Bond Daniel Craig. It was a big hit and won several Oscars to include a posthumous one for Best Cinematography. Naturally, it was no surprise that DC immediately re-issued Collins’ graphic novel and after having enjoyed the movie so damn much, we finally got our hands on that comic. Needless to say, it simply blew us away.

Now at the same time that all this was transpiring, Collins was approached to write a novel based on the Self’s screenplay. It was only good marketing that the studio wanted a novelization of the movie out on the bookshelves at the same time the film was showing in theaters. Having done many previous such adaptions, Collins took on the assignment and decided to merge elements from both his original graphic novel and the film’s screenplay thus expanding on the entire saga in a way that would provide readers with a richer, more detailed experience rather than simply rehashing what had already been done. Then, to Collins’ chagrin, the film company declined to do the longer version and published an edited edition that conformed closer to the film. Collins did protest but to no avail.

Now, thanks to Brash Books, and Steven Spielberg, his complete novel has at long last been published and every crime fiction buff should be jumping with joy. And there you have the tale of this reviewer’s route to what is perhaps Collins’ most poetic and memorable work. Upon opening the book, we were a bit leery that we’d not be able to get past the actors’ images when reading the story. Happily that pitfall never happens due entirely to Collins’ ability to add weight and substance to these characters; to deftly expolore their tortured souls and offer us a complex, heart rendering tale about the good and evil that resides in all of us. Michael O’Sullivan and John Looney are never more believable than revealed in these pages and at times the anguish they endure becomes unbearable. If you only saw the movie, you’ve only gotten half the story.

In the bible, God warns that “Vengeance is mine.” Woe to those who would wear it as a shield for in the end, they too will become its victims. “Road to Perdition” is at its core a story of good people trying to survive and the sins they commit to do so. Read this complete version and we promise you, it will stay with you for days to come. This is a master’s work and we thank Collins for finally bringing it to us.

[londontheatre]

It is with some clever irony that there were no detectable sound effects in this revival of Fishskin Trousers, first performed at Finborough Theatre in 2013 and featuring the same cast, director (Robert Price) and lighting designer (Matt Leventhall) at Park Theatre in 2017. On the back wall of the stage is a static image of sound waves, and at the heart of the story is a mysterious creature. The ‘merman’ is now called The Wild Man of Orford, should you wish to look it up, though I hasten to add a preamble, long and detailed as it was, means no prior knowledge of this old story is required before seeing the show. In essence, he is heard well before he is seen. That is if indeed, he is truly seen at all – for instance, Mog (Eva Traynor) quite rightly questions whether what she experiences is real or imagined.

This production puts its faith almost purely in the hands of the script (Elizabeth Kuti) and its three performers – alongside Mog there’s Mab (Jessica Carroll) and Ben (Brett Brown). It’s very much a stand-and-deliver performance. The audience listens to a series of monologues, and the play switches between characters with seamless transitions. It doesn’t come across as flitting about, and the chopping and changing doesn’t make proceedings unnecessarily complicated. This is because while the stories start off as disparate, they slowly but surely come together, despite a difference of eight hundred years or thereabouts that separate Mab and Ben, and a further generation that separates Ben from Mog.

There’s some dramatic licence, and why not? The twelfth-century Mab speaks in a manner clearly understood by a contemporary audience – the Middle English of the fourteenth-century Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, for instance, is very different from twenty-first century British English. I personally, find Middle English somewhat impenetrable, and while purists might well complain about historical verisimilitude or the lack thereof, what needs to be remembered here is that this is a tale about a legend, and so absolute accuracy, whether in terms of linguistics or plot, isn’t what a production of this nature is really going for in any event.

Only in the final moments does a significant change in stage lighting occur, and given what happens at that point in the narrative, it’s understandable. Otherwise, the lighting changes with minute subtlety, if at all, and all three characters remain on stage throughout. The characters not speaking at any given point hold their positions in freeze frame quite impressively, occasionally reacting if appropriate, but either way, it doesn’t detract attention away from the speaker. There is, after all, only three of them in total.

It may not be the most convincing of intertwining stories. What I found most interesting is that it didn’t necessarily follow that the more contemporary the narrative, the better understood it was. I suspect this may have been a deliberate choice in the writing, but it’s Mab’s recollection of what happened that proved considerably more absorbing than the others. Ben, keen to impress a local bar worker he has started seeing, proves comical both in his alpha-male bluntness and his attempts at doing what he believes she will appreciate. A skeleton in his closet, however, provokes some sympathy as well. Mog was, relatively speaking, more difficult to empathise with, perhaps because of the introspective nature of her story, though I note the poetic-like rhythms in many of her lines.

Steadily paced, Fishskin Trousers could have been a little more grounded. The said trousers are in all three narratives, each in their own way, but the meanings and implications of them are ambiguous. Then again, this demonstrates that few things, if anything, are crystal clear in life. An amusing and charming play that considers how certain human behaviours, instincts and characteristics don’t change much over the centuries.

Review by Chris Omaweng

Three people united by the fishing village of Orford and its mysterious island, Orford Ness. From the twelfth century, Mab gives an eye-witness account of the legendary Wild Man of Orford. Eight hundred years later, Ben hears strange noises on the Ness as he tries to fix the island’s radar system. In 2004, Mog is faced with a terrible decision… Long-buried secrets emerge, as these echoing voices intertwine, revealing how the stories of human lives connect in the most surprising and intimate ways, though decades and even centuries separate them.

Fishskin Trousers By Elizabeth Kuti Directed by Robert Price Cast includes Brett Brown, Jessica Carroll and Eva Traynor.

Running Time: 1 hours 15 minutes 19th October to 11th November 2017

http://ift.tt/2yDtxJ1 London Theatre 1