I never told you my favorite number is 4

I'm contemplating fate.

I personally believe in it. There are people I am fated to meet, fall in love with. People I am fated to care for regardless of the distance.

It doesn't matter if I took the path less traveled, I would still meet you.


And the coincidences that happen to follow you? Those numbers that keep popping up, that color that is always around? Are just path markers. The more you see them, the more you know you're on the right path.

People leading you to people leading you to love. Or a toss down a flight of stairs leading you to the one you marry.



But in the morning, when the sun rises; and the evening, when the sun sets, there is no fate. Everything and nothing is possible.

Endless.

All the choices
and none.

Constantly falling cadences keep suggesting the end of something. The plaintive melody builds up a sense of loss, of finality, of nothing more being left, which is profoundly sad. 

Yet, in the midst of the mournful passages, again and again there's a reprise, the original refrain reappearing as an assurance that there's been no break in continuity, a reaffirmation of the singers' former declaration of otherness...other values... introducing a hopeful note at the very point where a tragic climax might seem imminent and inevitable.

But then, immediately afterwards, sombre low notes restore the later version, so that two different conclusions are presented simultaneously and without any perceptible bias towards either....In the end one is left to choose between them; an choice implying the non-existence of a fixed or final form of reality, for which is substituted the idea of all eventualities being equally plausible or unlikely. 

-- Anna Kavan MeRcUrY

how i'm bipolar

It starts with a word, a turn of phrase.
"You're doing it wrong."
 "What's with your attitude?"
An offhand comment
 "You're intimidating."
 A dirty look.

The next step:
"I can't wear this."
"I gained weight."
"I need a change."
"Why don't I have anything I like?"

step 3:
constantly on guard.
the need to be perfect.
needing to be everything
needing to do everything.

4:
sleep from exhaustion.
tears when no one is looking.
a glass of wine turns into a bottle.
the fights.

5.
screaming
sitting in the corner.
"Don't you fucking touch me."


6.
sleep.


7.
a small smile.
a shower.
shave.
eyeliner.

8.
hugs and kisses
love again

9.
laughter
dancing.
confidence.

10.
parties
and friends
and love and all the stuff all the time.

11.
less sleep.
love and love and love
constant need for another's touch.

12.
Nothing can get me down.
"I'm awesome."
always saying "yes"

13.
begin from the top.

Spoilers!

I had a conversation with a customer in the store the other day. He was wearing a Doctor Who shirt and  had a tiny one with him. (child, not a tiny Doctor Who shirt). We got to talking about the current season, and he mentioned something that stayed with me.

He mentioned how as an executive producer, Moffat is better at overall story arcs. Things get tied up. Things move forward. Things don't get stale. Moffat has BIG IDEAS. And sometimes though, these BIG IDEAS kinda get in the way of everything. Things don't pan out and sometimes they fall short. He mentioned some of the episodes that Moffat wrote back with Davies, fell short.

I am going to have to agree with this Doctor Who loving customer. Moffat does have a knack for big mystery and ideas. I think he's fantastic at picking out writers and stories to play out these BIG IDEAS for him.

But I am still going to stand by my "Moffat, please don't write single episodes anymore" stance.

This episode. Oh this episode. Reminds me of Donna and Pompeii. Maybe it's all the red hoods and running around. (or perhaps they used the same set pieces?)[1] I really really really liked this episode. THE DOCTOR CARES AGAIN. HE SAVED EVERYONE!! Well, no. Clara did. CAUSE SHE IS AWESOME.[4]

The cinematics. The creepy void thingys. The vampire in a box. Even Mary. These are the things have have stories and stories and stories behind them. They are full, beautiful creatures with backstory and you grow to love/hate within an hour. You feel the backstory oozing with each step these side characters take. Now, THIS was an episode of Doctor Who. And truth, I did tear up a bit when he's talking to sun/parasite about all the stuff he has loved and lost. You feel the pain of the heartache there.

(this is might be my favorite scene of Doctor Who ever)

11 looks old. I know Matt Smith is younger than I am, but he's playing the Doctor as a old man, tired of all the crap he's been through. He's still excited about life, but the weight is there in the close up shots. In his shoulders. Furrowed brows. 

I do like the way this is all shaping up. 

[1] I thought in the Donna/Pompeii episodes, the Doctor mentioned how there was a translation field. Mostly because everyone was speaking "English." "I'm speaking Latin right now??!!" etc. How come that doesn't happen here? I mean, this isn't the first time we've seen this happen: the lack of translation and only the Doctor can communicate. I guess this goes under the whole convoluted canon acceptance of non-canon Doctor things. [2]

[2] I just read a tumblr theory that the reason why the translation field doesn't work for Clara is because the TARDIS knows that Clara is a paradox. Also the reason why she wouldn't let Clara in with Mary.  HEAD CANON ACCEPTED. [3]

[3]FUCKYEAHFOOTNOTES

[4] Or perhaps it's because Clara's story is so much more full of stuff that the Doctor's. I mean, 1000+ years is a lot, but Clara has these different lives she may be living all at the same time. That's a lot to wrap an appetite around.

Doctor What

Oh Moffat. Why do I get my hopes up every time? You let me down time and time again. It's almost an abusive relationship: no matter how much it pains me, I go back to you.

Because there was so much hope in the teaser preview of The Bells of Saint John. SO MUCH. And when the actual episode came on, it fell flat.

Oh yes. And horrible name for an episode that has nothing really to do with the aforementioned bells (spolier alert: it's a telephone ringing) and gets thrown aside quite quickly.

I remember the good old days of Davies: where the first episode of meeting the new companion actually had a plot. Where the companion was dragged along for the ride and mystery of BIG BAD THING HAPPENING. Instead we get Moffat's excuse of an episode that introduces us to Clara in such a boring way. The BIG BAD THING that happens has no resolution. The Doctor doesn't seem to care at all about the rest of people being (spoilers! uploaded). Only Clara. Since when was he so selfish?

The mystery of Clara also gets nowhere. So the Doctor finds her. He didn't lose her again. Bah. Would have been more interesting if he did. Instead we have a boring, almost one dimensional woman with witty lines and a talking speed to match Smith's. I love Clara as a concept. And I love how Coleman portrays her. But her other incarnations were so much more interesting.

What kills me is the potential that this episode had. It could have been so much better. It could have felt like an hour's worth of story and mystery instead of a fast-paced look at how much the Doctor just cares about this ONE PERSON AND NOT THE REST OF THE WORLD. He doesn't even seem to be interested in who/what is behind this whole plot.

So, Dearest Moffat: please stop writing episodes. Or at least ask Davies to write again. Maybe it will counteract your inability to understand the concept of plot and follow-through.

Oryx and Crake

When did the body first set out on its own adventures? Snowman thinks; after having ditched its old travelling companions, the mind and the soul, for whom it had once been considered a mere corrupt vessel or else a puppet acting out their dramas for them, or else bad company, leading the other two astray. It must have got tired of the soul's constant nagging and whining and the anxiety-driven intellectual web-spinning of the mind, distracting it whenever it was getting its teeth into something juicy or its fingers into something good. It had dumped the other two back there somewhere, leaving them stranded in some damp sanctuary or stuffy lecture hall while it made a beeline for the topless bars, and it had dumped culture along with them: music and painting and poetry and plays. Sublimation, all of it; nothing but sublimation, according to the body. Why not cut to the chase?

But the body had its own cultural forms. It had its own art. Executions were its tragedies, pornography was its romance. 


-- Margaret Atwood Oryx and Crake

Let's Pretend This Did Happen

Caution: Fan-girling Ahead




I've been a fan of The Bloggess (aka Jenny Lawson) for a while. Ever since she posted about Beyonce (did you know that Beyonce doesn't trigger the spellcheck? That's how you know you made it. Unfortunately  "Bloggess" is not recognized. Work on this Google.).

Because, in case you really haven't know me for more than a week, I have conversations like this every day of my life. And truly, I'm surprised that my friend Jen and didn't already buy a giant metal chicken for our dorm room because we totally knew a place that sold them. So basically, Jenny Lawson stole our idea before we actually had it.

When I heard her book was coming out (Jenny Lawson's not Jen's. Jen doesn't have a book yet) I squeeed. And when I got my hands on an ARC because working at a bookstore does have some awesome perks, I jumped for joy. And really squeeed. A lot. Then I read it. And then I reviewed it and actually got more people to read the book because of it. WOOHOO.

So last week I got to meet her at the Paramus Barnes&Noble book signing. Now, I really didn't know what to expect. But she made me happier in person. And also spurred me to write about my bipolar story sooner rather than later. (It's a work in progress)

She loved my Sandman inspired tattoo. And my Friendship is Magic/Doctor Who shirt. And I gave her a Doctor Who blind bag thing that had "small balls." I took a bad picture of it.

You can't see it, but it does have small balls.

And she's following me on twitter. I got really excited over that. It's like I'm one step away from being vaguely internet famous. Not that she doesn't follow a thousand other people, but whatevers. 

And I also am convinced that cannot be a good posed picture of me. Like ever. 

Ugh. Crooked glasses! So not photogenic. (I'm on the left. Ms Lawson is the photogenic one)

So I guess the moral of the story is practice posing for pictures. And get my glasses fixed. And maybe exercise. 

Oh, and if you haven't yet. Read her damned book. It's in paperback now. You have no excuse.

Honest Truth

There are times: days, weeks.
Where all I can think about is how everyone I know will die.

So I crawl into bed while Jack is asleep and cry against his back until I pass out.
And during the day, while reading or on the computer, or even at work, I wonder "why am I doing any of this?"

I get paralyzed by the fact that I could lose Jack (or anyone in my family really) at any second.