... organize.
Let's get organized!
Ah, friends, can a battlecry be more inspiring?
We shall get together, work together, defeat our enemies together, figure it out together, clear our clutter together!
Ah, fine, border battles of yore have now been replaced by battles over closet space but you see where I'm going, right - we must get organized!
So, get organized I did. My organizational spasm had me living through clothes on my dining table, garbage bags in my den and an overall sense of overwhelmed and exasperated for about three weeks (I really dislike stop/start projects, but there was no choice!). I will confess that I'm not an unorganized person at all, everything is always neat and clean and in its' proper place - before / after photos of my closets & drawers, had I taken them, would have been completely undistinguishable - the issue for me was the actual possibility that my closets & drawers were going to combust or revolt in protest over their 'over-stuffed-ness'. That I was going to combust or revolt in protest of my 'over-squished-ness'. I simply have a ton of stuff. I keep things. I keep buying things. I don't have space for these things. Things like, every things, from clothes to towels to undergarments in every colour and sheets and trinkets and maps of foreign cities which I hope to go to again and of course need the same map I used before and random stationary and magazines with one great article that I will never reread to cables and instruction manuals and original boxes and years worth of Christmas Cards and the list goes on and on and on and on.
Ah, fuck, do you see the problem?! I'm a high end hoarder with compulsive buying disease!
I had to clear my place of the no longer useful and take an inventory of what was actually in these closets and drawers, so I could put my brain on notice: stop buying stuff! You don't need more stuff! I conducted a very trying self - interrogation with, um, myself during this process: How many sets of sheets does one person need - you only have one bed!!?! Are you REALLY going to refer to this instruction manual when your TV doesn't work?! How many pairs of pants that no longer fit do you need in your closet?! So, this box that your sunglasses came in, you're keeping it why?! I was not very sympathetic with me. Things were tossed, others donated, some recyled. In the end, I STILL HAVE A TON OF STUFF, but I'd like to think that now the ton of stuff I have is useful and necessary (yes, even my 14 white Tshirts because they are all different in their own special way). I hope not to have a minor melt down in six months time when I'm looking for a purse and discover a purse that I forgot I actually owned (true story. very embarrassing. but sort of like shopping without spending money?.). I hope to become the city's greatest philanthropist with all the money I now have because I'm not spending all my money ON STUFF. I hope to be more sensible (but not with shoes. this isn't a draconian regime of suffering and utter non-spending people.). Most of all, though, I hope to continue this trend of keeping what's important and discarding what's not, both on the insides and outsides of my overstuffed life.
Ah, for now I see, could this be what being organized is all about?
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 9, 2013
N is for ...
... novel.
Whatcha reading lovebugs? Anything good? Anything juicy? Anything recommendable?
Me? I'm reading something very, very good. Not necessarily juicy. I am pretty sure it's not recommendable in an enjoyable read kind of way.
You see, The Fault in Our Stars, written by John Green, is the story of a sixteen-year-old cancer patient named Hazel, who is forced by her parents to attend a support group, where she subsequently meets and falls in love with the seventeen-year-old Augustus Waters, an ex-basketball player and amputee.
With respect, this is no Harlequin romance.
The book came to me highly recommended with requisite disclaimers - it's not easy, but it's worth it; you will cry but you'll be fine - from someone whose on my same book train. That said, I didn't love The Night Circus (I'm sorry, E! I just wanted it to end!) but we can't hold this one flub against her. In truth, if E could stand the emotional weight of The Fault in Our Stars, I could too dammit! so here we are 150 pages in and I'm scared to go on.
I don't want to know how this story is going to play out because I'm thinking it's not good. Right now, I'm at a sweet spot. These kids are getting to know each other and they're so adorable in their insecurities and mutual crushing. They're doing all the cute things you do, regardless of how old you are, when you meet someone you like but are sort of scared to admit you like them. I want to freeze them right there forever. Hazel is far more pragmatic than I am - she knows this can't last. She's in tune to her own reality and is pushing Augustus away. NO! What are you doing you dumbdumb!? He really likes you!!
Adding to my reluctance in dealing with fictional realities, is the fact that I know this book is going to be a Stage 5 Weeper. I've already gotten a little misty. I have no issue with that at all (quite honestly, at this moment, I'd much rather cry over some fake people's love lives than my own pathetic one thank you very much), but as I do most of my reading on the subway these days I'm not looking forward to wailing on the TTC. While I try to balance. And not miss my stop. (Confession: I am the nerdy girl who reads library books on the subway - look, I pay taxes and want to get something tangible out of them! - and missed her stop a few times while reading and also reads while walking on occasion. Please don't point and laugh if you ever see me.) It's sort of embarrassing. But. You need to ride your shit out (Literally and Figuratively!) so I suppose I will cross that bridge when I come to it. You have been warned.
So that takes us back to the actual matter at hand. What will happen to Hazel & Augustus? I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW! TELL ME! I mean, did we know what was going to happen to Dexter & Emma?! (Oh my God, I can't even.) Or Henry & Clare? Or Anyone & Anyone? I mean, really? Do you know what's going to happen to you?! How can we know unless we come to know? We need to go through it to live it and learn it. We need to see how it all plays out. That, lovebugs, is straight from my own personal handbook of Life Skills 202.
I came about my Life Skills Handbook completely accidentally, after someone told me something that was just so doomsday: "I fear the end before the beginning." I'm not going to go into the details of how this came about, suffice to say it wasn't pleasant and in the end, after some really good and some really bad he was completely right to fear the end because the end sucked large. Unfortunately, we didn't really have much of a middle, which made the end - in my mind anyway - even worse. It was all for nothing. I thought, then, and reaffirm now, that fearing the end before the beginning is actually an anti-life skill because where's the actual living? It's a massive holding pattern where you wait for someone to cajole or talk you into something while you resist and think. You are stuck. It is very hard being that other person. Resisting the urge to scream "Just fucking go for it!" Let's see how it plays out! We are not working off a script!" all the time. And that's when you're not walking on the eggshells of saying and doing something that may be construed as the wrong thing. Spoiler alert: I am not an eggshell type of person. Enter Life Skills 202, where We See How Things Play Out. In case you are wondering, there are only two levels in my Life Skills Handbook. Life Skills 101 is where you learn things like putting your pants on before your shoes. It's a work in progress.
So, here I am. At an impasse with The Fault in Our Stars because I don't want to see how things are going to play out. I am failing at my own handbook with fake people. Dear Lord. Get a grip, Olga, you little wimp. You're tougher than this. You're better than this. ALL THIS. AND THAT. Even amidst periods of monumental self - doubt and insecurity you know you were better than that (I only know this thanks to my boo). I'm trudging forward. And honest to God, Hazel better trudge too. We need to see how it all plays out - for Hazel & Augustus & Olga. It's not really a novel idea, lovebugs, it's just a life skill. ;)
N is for Novel.
Whatcha reading lovebugs? Anything good? Anything juicy? Anything recommendable?
Me? I'm reading something very, very good. Not necessarily juicy. I am pretty sure it's not recommendable in an enjoyable read kind of way.
You see, The Fault in Our Stars, written by John Green, is the story of a sixteen-year-old cancer patient named Hazel, who is forced by her parents to attend a support group, where she subsequently meets and falls in love with the seventeen-year-old Augustus Waters, an ex-basketball player and amputee.
With respect, this is no Harlequin romance.
The book came to me highly recommended with requisite disclaimers - it's not easy, but it's worth it; you will cry but you'll be fine - from someone whose on my same book train. That said, I didn't love The Night Circus (I'm sorry, E! I just wanted it to end!) but we can't hold this one flub against her. In truth, if E could stand the emotional weight of The Fault in Our Stars, I could too dammit! so here we are 150 pages in and I'm scared to go on.
I don't want to know how this story is going to play out because I'm thinking it's not good. Right now, I'm at a sweet spot. These kids are getting to know each other and they're so adorable in their insecurities and mutual crushing. They're doing all the cute things you do, regardless of how old you are, when you meet someone you like but are sort of scared to admit you like them. I want to freeze them right there forever. Hazel is far more pragmatic than I am - she knows this can't last. She's in tune to her own reality and is pushing Augustus away. NO! What are you doing you dumbdumb!? He really likes you!!
Adding to my reluctance in dealing with fictional realities, is the fact that I know this book is going to be a Stage 5 Weeper. I've already gotten a little misty. I have no issue with that at all (quite honestly, at this moment, I'd much rather cry over some fake people's love lives than my own pathetic one thank you very much), but as I do most of my reading on the subway these days I'm not looking forward to wailing on the TTC. While I try to balance. And not miss my stop. (Confession: I am the nerdy girl who reads library books on the subway - look, I pay taxes and want to get something tangible out of them! - and missed her stop a few times while reading and also reads while walking on occasion. Please don't point and laugh if you ever see me.) It's sort of embarrassing. But. You need to ride your shit out (Literally and Figuratively!) so I suppose I will cross that bridge when I come to it. You have been warned.
So that takes us back to the actual matter at hand. What will happen to Hazel & Augustus? I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW! TELL ME! I mean, did we know what was going to happen to Dexter & Emma?! (Oh my God, I can't even.) Or Henry & Clare? Or Anyone & Anyone? I mean, really? Do you know what's going to happen to you?! How can we know unless we come to know? We need to go through it to live it and learn it. We need to see how it all plays out. That, lovebugs, is straight from my own personal handbook of Life Skills 202.
I came about my Life Skills Handbook completely accidentally, after someone told me something that was just so doomsday: "I fear the end before the beginning." I'm not going to go into the details of how this came about, suffice to say it wasn't pleasant and in the end, after some really good and some really bad he was completely right to fear the end because the end sucked large. Unfortunately, we didn't really have much of a middle, which made the end - in my mind anyway - even worse. It was all for nothing. I thought, then, and reaffirm now, that fearing the end before the beginning is actually an anti-life skill because where's the actual living? It's a massive holding pattern where you wait for someone to cajole or talk you into something while you resist and think. You are stuck. It is very hard being that other person. Resisting the urge to scream "Just fucking go for it!" Let's see how it plays out! We are not working off a script!" all the time. And that's when you're not walking on the eggshells of saying and doing something that may be construed as the wrong thing. Spoiler alert: I am not an eggshell type of person. Enter Life Skills 202, where We See How Things Play Out. In case you are wondering, there are only two levels in my Life Skills Handbook. Life Skills 101 is where you learn things like putting your pants on before your shoes. It's a work in progress.
So, here I am. At an impasse with The Fault in Our Stars because I don't want to see how things are going to play out. I am failing at my own handbook with fake people. Dear Lord. Get a grip, Olga, you little wimp. You're tougher than this. You're better than this. ALL THIS. AND THAT. Even amidst periods of monumental self - doubt and insecurity you know you were better than that (I only know this thanks to my boo). I'm trudging forward. And honest to God, Hazel better trudge too. We need to see how it all plays out - for Hazel & Augustus & Olga. It's not really a novel idea, lovebugs, it's just a life skill. ;)
N is for Novel.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
M is for ...
... Memory.
Not quite a year ago I was hit with some pretty crushing disappointment. While I somewhat remember what it felt like, I don't exactly because how can you? You can't live with that everyday, you have to let it go and move - sideways, that ways, anyways - ideally, you want to move forward but it really doesn't matter what ways - you just need to move.
Because I write about things now, I reopened my gift of instant recall to take me back to how I felt at that time. I wanted to relive my memory of how it felt to really FAIL. (http://curiousyetdelicious.blogspot.ca/2012/08/fail.html)
That was absolutely me. I was sad and disappointed and handled this sadness & disappointment in typical fashion: I cloaked it in defensive humour and tried to forget about it. In truth, my audition wasn't that great. I had so much to learn. So, I put my head down and went to work. I lost some confidence along the way, I also lost some of the fun. I didn't give up. I wondered what I was doing. I questioned my motives, my supposed talent and desire. I sulked. I almost quit. Many times. But I didn't give up. I liked this too much. And slowly, along the way, I sort of got my groove back.
Armed with words of wisdom and encouragement, the best of which was "Who gives a fuck, just do it." Last Thursday, I put myself in that room again. Facing that panel which this time was stacked with four previous teachers. I mean, really? The Ghosts of Christmas Past meets American Idol? All I really wanted was for the general consensus to be an overall "huh. she's getting better." Really. That was it. I'm serious! Acknowledgement of improvement is the Holy Grail of compliments for me! Worst case scenario, I didn't want them all to think "wow. she's really wasting her time." But you can't think of any of that when it's your turn. You need to check all your bullshit at the door, clear your head, trust your instincts and be THERE for your scene partner. Even if your scene partner decides to be a guy with Tourette's. (I'm sorry. This was mean and I was really pissed and quite frankly, dude, you are not auditioning for Juilliard. Tourette's is not an offer. You. Fucking. Jerk. Ah, that felt better.). You also have to come up with some ideas and show you can make that pan sizzle. In the end, I was happy. It wasn't perfect, but in the grand scheme of things I felt pretty good. Walking out of that room, I thought - no joke - okay, if I don't get it this time it's okay. I gave 'er.
Well, of course my little Improv Fairytale reaches its epic finale with me getting in. I got the call yesterday and when I hung up the phone I sat in my office and cried. I was laughing and crying and my awesome Con Grad co-worker who is now a kick ass broker on Bay Street almost jumped over my desk to congratulate me and and now I know exactly what it will feel like to have Jon Hamm propose to me - I was so fucking happy you have no idea. I'm still so fucking happy you have no idea. Why? Because it's a big deal? Well, yeah, I guess. But more so because I didn't let my big fail get me down. I didn't recoil into my cave of rejection, quit Improv and take up Zumba. I stuck with it and it paid off. It's the beginning of a long hard road of hard work, but it paid off. I have a start and the knowledge that sometimes things work out. Sometimes you get what you want. Even me. Sometimes even I get what I want. I don't want to forget how I felt last year, though. I want to savour the memory of failure so I can remind myself that it's not the end. It only means as much as we let it. Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off and GO. Fucking GO.
M is for Memory.
Not quite a year ago I was hit with some pretty crushing disappointment. While I somewhat remember what it felt like, I don't exactly because how can you? You can't live with that everyday, you have to let it go and move - sideways, that ways, anyways - ideally, you want to move forward but it really doesn't matter what ways - you just need to move.
Because I write about things now, I reopened my gift of instant recall to take me back to how I felt at that time. I wanted to relive my memory of how it felt to really FAIL. (http://curiousyetdelicious.blogspot.ca/2012/08/fail.html)
That was absolutely me. I was sad and disappointed and handled this sadness & disappointment in typical fashion: I cloaked it in defensive humour and tried to forget about it. In truth, my audition wasn't that great. I had so much to learn. So, I put my head down and went to work. I lost some confidence along the way, I also lost some of the fun. I didn't give up. I wondered what I was doing. I questioned my motives, my supposed talent and desire. I sulked. I almost quit. Many times. But I didn't give up. I liked this too much. And slowly, along the way, I sort of got my groove back.
Armed with words of wisdom and encouragement, the best of which was "Who gives a fuck, just do it." Last Thursday, I put myself in that room again. Facing that panel which this time was stacked with four previous teachers. I mean, really? The Ghosts of Christmas Past meets American Idol? All I really wanted was for the general consensus to be an overall "huh. she's getting better." Really. That was it. I'm serious! Acknowledgement of improvement is the Holy Grail of compliments for me! Worst case scenario, I didn't want them all to think "wow. she's really wasting her time." But you can't think of any of that when it's your turn. You need to check all your bullshit at the door, clear your head, trust your instincts and be THERE for your scene partner. Even if your scene partner decides to be a guy with Tourette's. (I'm sorry. This was mean and I was really pissed and quite frankly, dude, you are not auditioning for Juilliard. Tourette's is not an offer. You. Fucking. Jerk. Ah, that felt better.). You also have to come up with some ideas and show you can make that pan sizzle. In the end, I was happy. It wasn't perfect, but in the grand scheme of things I felt pretty good. Walking out of that room, I thought - no joke - okay, if I don't get it this time it's okay. I gave 'er.
Well, of course my little Improv Fairytale reaches its epic finale with me getting in. I got the call yesterday and when I hung up the phone I sat in my office and cried. I was laughing and crying and my awesome Con Grad co-worker who is now a kick ass broker on Bay Street almost jumped over my desk to congratulate me and and now I know exactly what it will feel like to have Jon Hamm propose to me - I was so fucking happy you have no idea. I'm still so fucking happy you have no idea. Why? Because it's a big deal? Well, yeah, I guess. But more so because I didn't let my big fail get me down. I didn't recoil into my cave of rejection, quit Improv and take up Zumba. I stuck with it and it paid off. It's the beginning of a long hard road of hard work, but it paid off. I have a start and the knowledge that sometimes things work out. Sometimes you get what you want. Even me. Sometimes even I get what I want. I don't want to forget how I felt last year, though. I want to savour the memory of failure so I can remind myself that it's not the end. It only means as much as we let it. Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off and GO. Fucking GO.
M is for Memory.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
L is for ...
... Landslide.
A couple nights ago I went to see Fleetwood Mac at the ACC. We all know that I love concerts and I'm not so much a snob that I only see bands in small intimate venues. Big, huge concerts in spacious arenas may not be ideal, but for big musicians with big music and big personas it's almost preferred. While I'd love to see Springsteen or U2 now play Massey Hall (CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE?!) there's something about their anthemic music and the way they work a crowd that calls for a big huge venue. It's an event and the challenge is in the connection: can one be made between performer and audience in a way that doesn't feel phoned in? If you're a pro and you care and you've got the tunes the answer is a resounding hell yes.
We all have 'a song'. That song that no matter where you are or what you're doing, when you hear it you just stop and listen. Your mind goes elsewhere - to that place the song reminds you of - and you're emotional and, well, of course, you cry. It's that song. This song can mean a million things to a million people - this meaning may not even be what the song is actually about - but for you, it speaks its particular story and you are lost within in. I think that's the power of a great song; its ability to transcend meaning and morph into what you take it to mean for you. I'm not an expert - and I certainly have no musical talent or even very good ears - but I can feel things and I can get emotional and Jesus Christ everytime I hear Landslide I just break down and cry. Sometimes it's sobcrying. Sometimes it's simple flow crying. But always, always, there are tears. It's my song.
I'm sometimes concerned with how people will react to my public displays of crybaby, but generally my people are pretty good. Last year at Adele, C basically said that as long as I wasn't rolling on the floor in the fetal position she'd be fine. When I told my darling M before the Fleetwood concert that there would likely be tears, she took both my hands and said "and this is why I love you". I mean, how I keep winning the friend lottery is beyond me. In any case, two nights ago in a crowd of thousands, there was that connection of which I spoke - the tears flowed amidst the smiles, which is exactly what poignant memories should do. Memories evoked by song, whose meanings are whatever it is they are to you.
Here's Landslide. Go ahead, give it a little cry. I will always, always have tissues. Always.
L is for Landslide.
A couple nights ago I went to see Fleetwood Mac at the ACC. We all know that I love concerts and I'm not so much a snob that I only see bands in small intimate venues. Big, huge concerts in spacious arenas may not be ideal, but for big musicians with big music and big personas it's almost preferred. While I'd love to see Springsteen or U2 now play Massey Hall (CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE?!) there's something about their anthemic music and the way they work a crowd that calls for a big huge venue. It's an event and the challenge is in the connection: can one be made between performer and audience in a way that doesn't feel phoned in? If you're a pro and you care and you've got the tunes the answer is a resounding hell yes.
We all have 'a song'. That song that no matter where you are or what you're doing, when you hear it you just stop and listen. Your mind goes elsewhere - to that place the song reminds you of - and you're emotional and, well, of course, you cry. It's that song. This song can mean a million things to a million people - this meaning may not even be what the song is actually about - but for you, it speaks its particular story and you are lost within in. I think that's the power of a great song; its ability to transcend meaning and morph into what you take it to mean for you. I'm not an expert - and I certainly have no musical talent or even very good ears - but I can feel things and I can get emotional and Jesus Christ everytime I hear Landslide I just break down and cry. Sometimes it's sobcrying. Sometimes it's simple flow crying. But always, always, there are tears. It's my song.
I'm sometimes concerned with how people will react to my public displays of crybaby, but generally my people are pretty good. Last year at Adele, C basically said that as long as I wasn't rolling on the floor in the fetal position she'd be fine. When I told my darling M before the Fleetwood concert that there would likely be tears, she took both my hands and said "and this is why I love you". I mean, how I keep winning the friend lottery is beyond me. In any case, two nights ago in a crowd of thousands, there was that connection of which I spoke - the tears flowed amidst the smiles, which is exactly what poignant memories should do. Memories evoked by song, whose meanings are whatever it is they are to you.
Here's Landslide. Go ahead, give it a little cry. I will always, always have tissues. Always.
L is for Landslide.
Friday, April 12, 2013
K is for ...
... Kingslayer.
Game of Thrones! (Spoiler alerts ahead.)
Do you love it or do you love it? I don't know many people that don't, but mind you I tend to hang with people that like all the same things I do so perhaps I am skewing my own data. In any event, Game of Thrones is gearing up for a stellar third season and I can't get enough. I'm coming at it new, never having read the books, by George R. R Martin, that the series is based on, and I started on it a bit late, tearing through Season One in about a week just before the Season Two premiere.
If I'm being honest, I did need a second take. I watched the Series Premiere and it confused the hell out of me. Everyone sort of looked the same. There were so many of them. It was always rather dark. Whose against who? I paid very close attention. I listened very carefully. I almost took notes. I thought I had it all figured out - who was who and all that, when in the last scene of this episode Jaime kisses Cersei and I'm like "WHAT?! How did I get them mixed up?! They are brother and sister! ???". I was mad I had lost the character set up - after all my concentration work - but in fact, Jaime and Cersei ARE brother and sister. That's Game of Thrones. Not since Flowers in the Attic has sibling incest been so mainstream! I thought I was punishing the show by not watching Season One 'live', but I was really punishing myself because like the show really cares.
Diving in fresh, nothing much changed - it's still super dark, everyone still looks the same (those beards! those cloaks!), those that don't look the same have similar sounding names (Tyrion, Tywin, what?!). As soon as I have someone down pat, they go off and get killed (I miss you, Gay King Renly!). I still don't know most of anyone's name and resort to "you know the guy in the cave married to that woman who had the smoke baby" descriptions. I'm only about 72% confident that I am following the story properly. But you know what? Who cares! As was proven in Episode One, Season One it's almost a waste of time to really, really know what's going on because BAM, just like that, it could all explode in an instant.
Any series that kills off its supposed main character in the first season has major balls. The sequence of Ned's beheading was one of the most brilliantly filmed scenes I've ever seen. It shocked you in more ways than one and put you on notice that anything could happen. And anything usually does. The storylines are accompanied by objects of fantasy - those glorious direwolves, scary smoke monsters, firebreathing dragons - but in the end it's the relationships between the characters and their attempts to find their place in the world that holds your attention. Tyrion's desire for fatherly acceptance, Jon Snow's desire for any type of acceptance, Robb's attempts to become his own man, Jaime's petulant sarcasm as he tries to break free of his notorious past - and that's just (some of) the boys! I want Arya to take over everything. I want Cersei to kill Joffrey (we know she's capable, having almost poisoned her other kid last season!) while Boobs (sorry, what is her name? Gay King Renly's widow?) watches! While I'm admittedly a bit tired of Mama Stark, I'm totally obsessed the Khalessi. So much so I often yell things like "WHERE ARE MY APPLES?" when I'm feeling a little lost but, alas, no one brings me any.
I have no idea what this season has in store for us - but, I hear from those that have read the books that I won't be happy. Well, okay, I can deal with that. I can deal with being shaken out of my television complacency by a show that takes chances and doesn't write plot points based on a popularity contest. I love the notion of throwing characters on screen that are far from perfect and do bad things without remorse - who want power simply for the sake of it and will bring anyone down who attempts to stop them. Of course it's cruel, cutting and ruthless but it's also brilliant storytelling, especially when we surprisingly find their pathos along the way. I personally can't wait to see how it all turns out. In a complete about turn of my own personality, I'm being patient with this one. I am NOT going to start ripping through the books! Not because I'm not curious, and not because I like waiting but because those books don't have that incredibly majestic theme song. Which, I'm quite comfortable falling in love with as it is likely the only sacred entity on this magnificent show.
K is for ... Kingslayer.
Game of Thrones! (Spoiler alerts ahead.)
Do you love it or do you love it? I don't know many people that don't, but mind you I tend to hang with people that like all the same things I do so perhaps I am skewing my own data. In any event, Game of Thrones is gearing up for a stellar third season and I can't get enough. I'm coming at it new, never having read the books, by George R. R Martin, that the series is based on, and I started on it a bit late, tearing through Season One in about a week just before the Season Two premiere.
If I'm being honest, I did need a second take. I watched the Series Premiere and it confused the hell out of me. Everyone sort of looked the same. There were so many of them. It was always rather dark. Whose against who? I paid very close attention. I listened very carefully. I almost took notes. I thought I had it all figured out - who was who and all that, when in the last scene of this episode Jaime kisses Cersei and I'm like "WHAT?! How did I get them mixed up?! They are brother and sister! ???". I was mad I had lost the character set up - after all my concentration work - but in fact, Jaime and Cersei ARE brother and sister. That's Game of Thrones. Not since Flowers in the Attic has sibling incest been so mainstream! I thought I was punishing the show by not watching Season One 'live', but I was really punishing myself because like the show really cares.
Diving in fresh, nothing much changed - it's still super dark, everyone still looks the same (those beards! those cloaks!), those that don't look the same have similar sounding names (Tyrion, Tywin, what?!). As soon as I have someone down pat, they go off and get killed (I miss you, Gay King Renly!). I still don't know most of anyone's name and resort to "you know the guy in the cave married to that woman who had the smoke baby" descriptions. I'm only about 72% confident that I am following the story properly. But you know what? Who cares! As was proven in Episode One, Season One it's almost a waste of time to really, really know what's going on because BAM, just like that, it could all explode in an instant.
Any series that kills off its supposed main character in the first season has major balls. The sequence of Ned's beheading was one of the most brilliantly filmed scenes I've ever seen. It shocked you in more ways than one and put you on notice that anything could happen. And anything usually does. The storylines are accompanied by objects of fantasy - those glorious direwolves, scary smoke monsters, firebreathing dragons - but in the end it's the relationships between the characters and their attempts to find their place in the world that holds your attention. Tyrion's desire for fatherly acceptance, Jon Snow's desire for any type of acceptance, Robb's attempts to become his own man, Jaime's petulant sarcasm as he tries to break free of his notorious past - and that's just (some of) the boys! I want Arya to take over everything. I want Cersei to kill Joffrey (we know she's capable, having almost poisoned her other kid last season!) while Boobs (sorry, what is her name? Gay King Renly's widow?) watches! While I'm admittedly a bit tired of Mama Stark, I'm totally obsessed the Khalessi. So much so I often yell things like "WHERE ARE MY APPLES?" when I'm feeling a little lost but, alas, no one brings me any.
I have no idea what this season has in store for us - but, I hear from those that have read the books that I won't be happy. Well, okay, I can deal with that. I can deal with being shaken out of my television complacency by a show that takes chances and doesn't write plot points based on a popularity contest. I love the notion of throwing characters on screen that are far from perfect and do bad things without remorse - who want power simply for the sake of it and will bring anyone down who attempts to stop them. Of course it's cruel, cutting and ruthless but it's also brilliant storytelling, especially when we surprisingly find their pathos along the way. I personally can't wait to see how it all turns out. In a complete about turn of my own personality, I'm being patient with this one. I am NOT going to start ripping through the books! Not because I'm not curious, and not because I like waiting but because those books don't have that incredibly majestic theme song. Which, I'm quite comfortable falling in love with as it is likely the only sacred entity on this magnificent show.
K is for ... Kingslayer.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
J is for ...
... Jerkface.
Remember back in the days when we were younger and dumber and couldn't say things like "dickhead" and "douchebag"? In those days we'd have to come up with equally awful epithets to bestow on the objects of our derision. Usually boys. Always boys.
Endowments like dummy, stupid moron, knucklehead and, my most favourite, jerkface.
Thinking on it now, the visual image of the word 'jerkface' is so strong it's hard to imagine anything but a complete recoil when uttered - it's the perfect Elaine Benes Dance Move + Gnarly Feet On Their Way to Naturalizer combination. It's ugly and assaulting from the inside out. It lets it be known - loud and proud - that dude, you are directly on your way to douchebag with a pit stop at dickhead. All you will be collecting along the way is scorn.
Nowadays, calling someone a jerkface doesn't seem so bad. It's a wholesome little "aw, shucks, golly, what a jerkface you are!", while cutely smushing ice cream in each other's faces fun time kind of thing. But no. Not for me, lovebugs. For me, jerkface is the first step on the road to dude-blivion.
Got that, Jerkface?*
J is for Jerkface.
*Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Or not.
Remember back in the days when we were younger and dumber and couldn't say things like "dickhead" and "douchebag"? In those days we'd have to come up with equally awful epithets to bestow on the objects of our derision. Usually boys. Always boys.
Endowments like dummy, stupid moron, knucklehead and, my most favourite, jerkface.
Thinking on it now, the visual image of the word 'jerkface' is so strong it's hard to imagine anything but a complete recoil when uttered - it's the perfect Elaine Benes Dance Move + Gnarly Feet On Their Way to Naturalizer combination. It's ugly and assaulting from the inside out. It lets it be known - loud and proud - that dude, you are directly on your way to douchebag with a pit stop at dickhead. All you will be collecting along the way is scorn.
Nowadays, calling someone a jerkface doesn't seem so bad. It's a wholesome little "aw, shucks, golly, what a jerkface you are!", while cutely smushing ice cream in each other's faces fun time kind of thing. But no. Not for me, lovebugs. For me, jerkface is the first step on the road to dude-blivion.
Got that, Jerkface?*
J is for Jerkface.
*Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Or not.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
I is for ...
... I'm back!
Well, I've never left but I did leave the Alphabet. I just sort of dumped it and now I want it back. I missed it. And you know what? The Alphabet is forgiving. The Alphabet took me back. It understood my need to chart other waters and realize what I was missing out on - The Alphabet is confident in itself. It didn't grovel or cry. It stood firm. It knew I was making a mistake of folly and waited, patiently, for me to do my thing and figure things out on my own. It knew I would come around. And I did. The Alphabet is one strong sucker. Can't say I would do the same thing. Not many would. But this Alphabet of mine? It's a keeper. I am excited to begin anew - just me & my Alphabet ... together until the end.
I is for I'm back.
Well, I've never left but I did leave the Alphabet. I just sort of dumped it and now I want it back. I missed it. And you know what? The Alphabet is forgiving. The Alphabet took me back. It understood my need to chart other waters and realize what I was missing out on - The Alphabet is confident in itself. It didn't grovel or cry. It stood firm. It knew I was making a mistake of folly and waited, patiently, for me to do my thing and figure things out on my own. It knew I would come around. And I did. The Alphabet is one strong sucker. Can't say I would do the same thing. Not many would. But this Alphabet of mine? It's a keeper. I am excited to begin anew - just me & my Alphabet ... together until the end.
I is for I'm back.
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