Nearing the end of a new one, same procedure as every other, wanting to round off with a bang, but not knowing quite what to say - I'll settle for the simplest, yet most appropriate greeting of all:
HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE!!
A short summary of a year gone by...well, not really...what's there to sum up? My problem is, when it comes to mentioning all the things that have pleased me throughout the year, I never actually remember all of them. Not straightaway; not at the precise moment and out of the blue. So, I'll make it more general. To all the folks that contributed and for all their contribution; lots of thanks. For happy happenings, exciting events, interesting interactions. Et cetera. I'll move on to mention some of the significancies I do remember - note also, that all these things have been mentioned before, probably, and that I do credit most of my heroes and sources of inspiration along the way, rather than all at once, granting each and every one of them more attention, more elaborate honour. For, I must admit, I am better at random anticipation/appreciation and "pre-squee" than summaric crediting. Some clues, though, as promised, for the big events of 2007; basically divided into good things and bad things; starting for the former, of course, and focusing mainly on that. Johan Harstad and Jo Nesbø gave me a couple of brilliant new books, Russel T. Davies gave me a new season of "Doctor Who", which was so much more than I'd bargained for, and next year Billie and Catherine are back for our common entertainment, whooray, David Tennant and Gerard Butler starred in brilliant films, "Heroes" came into my life to occupy my heart and my night time, along with James McAvoy and ooolalalala Rochester (aka Toby Stephens; I loved him before "Jane Eyre" as well, honest!) and speaking of which, that wonderful series; groups of folks who insisted on having me conquered straight away without any persuasion needed, Queen contributed with a brand new single, weeee, MIKA and Kent made two marvellous new albums and Katie Melua's wasn't bad either. As for the best films I've seen this year, very briefly; "300" rocked max (undoubtedly my favourite, and a potential top-twenty), so did "Death Proof" (the Grindhouse features were released separately in Norway, and as usual I preferred Quentin's part), "Last King of Scotland", "Stardust", "Hairspray", "Across the Universe", "Eastern Promises", "Venus", "Sleuth", "The assasination of Jesse James by the coward Robert Ford" and some more from earlier this year, especially this spring, which I didn't note down and which I know I loved and now hate that I know I have forgotten. Apologies in advance. Bear in mind that I haven't seen "3.10 to Yuma", "My blueberry nights" or "American Gangster" yet. Hee hee. Disappointing efforts from a devoted moviegoer, though. As for the downsides to the overall grand medallion that was 2007; some of the sequels (oh, I hate "Spider-Man 3" with a passion!! and "Shrek 3" sucks big time!) and the "new popular music", with one oustanding exception represented by Amy Winehouse. Although she stated quite a bad representation, with regard to personal style, escpecially when showing up drugged and drunk in my hometown. Shame on yee, and back to rehab. Britney's Bizarre Behaviour (which is now a so well-known term in the papers, it should soon find its place in the Oxford Dictionary) and all the celeb pregnancies. (Oooh, let's reproduce and divorce our husbands and be yummy single mummys and show off our soon-regained "sexy figure". Yeehaa.) Spice Girls reunited and back on tour. Ugh. Victoria Beckham. Victoria Beckham's outfits and influence on the world. UGH. And, oh dear, this list is becoming way longer than intended. No positive vibes, no good. Quit. Think it was a good year, just don't wish to recall too much of...everything. Some things mentioned, some things left out, on or off purpose. Hate cavalcades and parades and all these listings (ironically, seeing that I love lists) of "what the past year had to offer". Maybe because it is a rather massive struggle to start over again, to continue onwards with the new and the unwritten; having to get back on track with January and all the demands, the deadlines, the months to come which you desperately, necessarily have to fill with these obligatory elements that they claim to be in order. Well, well, more philosophy later. Ain't quitting fully, anyway. Seeyalater, aligators!
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
List of Loving Who
In order to celebrate the fact that I did get a sonic screwdriver for Christmas (did I mention? Properly?) My very own, official Detector of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff...that goes ding! at - anything, technically, since I am constantly pressing the (wrong) button...buttons...plural: there's two! And this funny switch, to release the sonic mode. Spiral-shaped black plastic tube. I have no idea whatsoever, but it looks cool. Thus, haven't quite figures out how to use it, but at least I managed to insert the batteries. Not sure I will be able to remove them, though. Still, and despite the problematic constructions that made me feel useless in ways I can only remember from my years of putting together Barbie-furniture and building Lego cars, I love my fandom merchandice! Watch the devoted fangirl run around, sonically screw-driving just about anyone in close proximity totally crazy! Weeee! But let me continue the (more?) serious discussion, I decided to compose this piece mainly because I found myself so thoroughly inspired by this post, and because New Year's Eve is approaching, shortly, and we're summing up the most important events of the year; Main Sport Events, Main Entertainment Events, Main World News, Main Blah Blah Blah Blah Unimportancies; but this is important to me, so I thought I'd finally gather and put in writing some of the more specific reasons why I love the revamped "Doctor Who". New Who, that is. Getting over the disappointment that was "VotD", how I am sooo anxious about Series 4, copycat'ing the ingenius "DW encyclopedia" that I seriously want for my birthday; oh, I can see many reasons why I should do this. But most of all, it truly is to honour and praise what remains the best (sci-fi or - well - regardless of genre, really) show in the Universe. Whooray for Who. Points of admiration, in no particular order:
1. The TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimensions In Space. Who wouldn't want a Blue Box-shaped time machine that can go anywhere in the galaxy and travel between the centuries? Looks like I've got one parked in my back yard (mmmhm, yeah) and I keep looking at its picture with twinkly starry eyes. Whoosh whoosh.
2. Christopher Eccleston. The first, the one, the only. My Doctor. Arguably the best actor ever to have played the character and certainly the most handsome one. That topless torture scene in "Dalek" almost ruined the pause- and rewind-buttons on my remote. Hee hee.
3. The general sexiness of the male actors who've appeared on the show. Christopher may be the biggest hunk of them all, but David Tennant also has his moments. Moreover: John Simm, John Barrowman (the love!! Multitalent man and my hero!), Marc Warren, Noel Clarke, Anthony Head (evil genius), Shaun Dingwall, Andrew Hayden Smith, Will Thorp (TOBY!!)...and so on.
4. The scripts. Dialogue writings never were better - even when the niveau sinks to unprecedented levels of nonsense (see "Voyage of the Damned" and "Love and Monsters"), it's of course better than most other series. By far. Watch "The Empty Child", "The Impossible Planet" or "Blink" and you'll know what I mean. Also, with relation to that: Steven Moffat. The Übermensch of writers. He's is utterly amazing and we all wish we knew just what, exactly, exists inside that man's head. Please, make him sir or something, someday soon, yes?
5. The fans. And our little groups. Whovians come in all ages, shapes, sizes; belong to all possible lines of fascination, occupation, profession, predilection. And we're so good at fanfiction, it hurts. Pretty decent when it comes to passionate interest (read: worshipping) too. Always a topic left to discuss. Always a coupling left to ship. The never-ending brilliance. Note that the above-mentioned "Who Love Meme" is currently bordering on 19 pages of random mentionings. That's a rather huge number of posts. And, consequently, number of things we love. It's all you need, love.
6. The fact that there's an actual fight to be on the show, amongst reputable British actors and actresses, of whom almost everyone that I (personally) adore have been given a chance and succeeded. Moreover - that they've all done wonderful jobs and been given wonderful roles. Good work(ing conditions).
7. The fact that a show about an absent-minded, strangely clad dude with two hearts, no ethic principles, no money, no self-preservation instinct; also completely lacking in approprate morale, no wonder I love him; who generates loads of violence, death following in his wake, and who does companion selection based on a strict sex quota, usually taking pretty females only for permanent appointement, can earn so much respect from the general, grown up public. 'Cos he's just too good. Loveliest alien to ever walk the earth, and he always saves the day. No matter the cost, no matter the enemy.
7. Rose Marion Tyler. Best companion, best actress, best coupling opportunities in Whostory. Nine/Rose rocks. Ten/Rose is possibly even better. Beautiful, brillaint, bold woman. Also, Rose's family. And the Powell Estate. Would move in there anytime, preferrably to camp on Jackie's couch.
9. Banana-references. Best source of potassium!
10. Wobbly sets, unlikely tech and quirky humour. Daleks still look a lot like pepper pots, now, don't they? And what's with the new Cybermen marches? Still look like they're about as flexible as kitchen fixtures. Then there's the jokes; the direct and indirect and silly and pun-based ones. The gag reels and the references to other fandoms. Scooby-doo chases and Ghostbusters. Love! ;) Similarly, that other classic series and highly admired folks refer to Doctor Who, like The Simpsons in particular, and that it's become such an institution in British popular culture. Everyone knows their Who; to name one example, jelly babies is seen in immediate connection with this show, the jb-site at wikipedia even has a direct link to WHO's; and this not the case in Britain only - the show's got fans all over the world and they're all equally enthusiastic. People write songs about it, write on-and-off canon fact books and more or less authorized biographies, produce documentaries and broadcast the Specials episodes on big screens around the countries. Longest running TV show on the planet, no wonder, and still going strong!
11. Doctor supplements. Fine features. And, speaking of unlikely tech. Who looks at a screwdriver and thinks "Oooh! This could be a little more sonic!"? Well - tell you what, Jack - in a minute he could put up some shelves. Best futuristic accessory known to mankind and all other kinds of beings. Trust me, I've got one too. In fact, everyone should have a sonic screwdriver available. Also, the TARDIS parts, of course. Amazing what that Blue Box can do. Taking off like a rocket at the end of "Runaway Bride" was possibly one of the finest moments, ever, on the show!
12. The "Doomsday" finale. No further comments, except the observation of fans still moping over the scene and how the whole of Britain was in tears at the moment of broadcasting. Apparently. It even made media headlines; as the most depressing, but at the same time fantastic ending of any made TV episode. Respect! And a grand example of what is (again, arguably) the best thing about Doctor Who: how it moves us. Engages us. Makes us overly enthusiastic. Provides us with catchphrases, silly liners, stupid obsessions we just can't help being...obsessed with. I have enough seriousness and troublesome facts on my mind, elsewhere, I need to watch television that sends me off to dreamy places beyond my imagination that I can allow myself to be absorbed with and that affects me in ways that aren't necessarily sensible, or healthy, but absolutely undeniable nonetheless.
1. The TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimensions In Space. Who wouldn't want a Blue Box-shaped time machine that can go anywhere in the galaxy and travel between the centuries? Looks like I've got one parked in my back yard (mmmhm, yeah) and I keep looking at its picture with twinkly starry eyes. Whoosh whoosh.
2. Christopher Eccleston. The first, the one, the only. My Doctor. Arguably the best actor ever to have played the character and certainly the most handsome one. That topless torture scene in "Dalek" almost ruined the pause- and rewind-buttons on my remote. Hee hee.
3. The general sexiness of the male actors who've appeared on the show. Christopher may be the biggest hunk of them all, but David Tennant also has his moments. Moreover: John Simm, John Barrowman (the love!! Multitalent man and my hero!), Marc Warren, Noel Clarke, Anthony Head (evil genius), Shaun Dingwall, Andrew Hayden Smith, Will Thorp (TOBY!!)...and so on.
4. The scripts. Dialogue writings never were better - even when the niveau sinks to unprecedented levels of nonsense (see "Voyage of the Damned" and "Love and Monsters"), it's of course better than most other series. By far. Watch "The Empty Child", "The Impossible Planet" or "Blink" and you'll know what I mean. Also, with relation to that: Steven Moffat. The Übermensch of writers. He's is utterly amazing and we all wish we knew just what, exactly, exists inside that man's head. Please, make him sir or something, someday soon, yes?
5. The fans. And our little groups. Whovians come in all ages, shapes, sizes; belong to all possible lines of fascination, occupation, profession, predilection. And we're so good at fanfiction, it hurts. Pretty decent when it comes to passionate interest (read: worshipping) too. Always a topic left to discuss. Always a coupling left to ship. The never-ending brilliance. Note that the above-mentioned "Who Love Meme" is currently bordering on 19 pages of random mentionings. That's a rather huge number of posts. And, consequently, number of things we love. It's all you need, love.
6. The fact that there's an actual fight to be on the show, amongst reputable British actors and actresses, of whom almost everyone that I (personally) adore have been given a chance and succeeded. Moreover - that they've all done wonderful jobs and been given wonderful roles. Good work(ing conditions).
7. The fact that a show about an absent-minded, strangely clad dude with two hearts, no ethic principles, no money, no self-preservation instinct; also completely lacking in approprate morale, no wonder I love him; who generates loads of violence, death following in his wake, and who does companion selection based on a strict sex quota, usually taking pretty females only for permanent appointement, can earn so much respect from the general, grown up public. 'Cos he's just too good. Loveliest alien to ever walk the earth, and he always saves the day. No matter the cost, no matter the enemy.
7. Rose Marion Tyler. Best companion, best actress, best coupling opportunities in Whostory. Nine/Rose rocks. Ten/Rose is possibly even better. Beautiful, brillaint, bold woman. Also, Rose's family. And the Powell Estate. Would move in there anytime, preferrably to camp on Jackie's couch.
9. Banana-references. Best source of potassium!
10. Wobbly sets, unlikely tech and quirky humour. Daleks still look a lot like pepper pots, now, don't they? And what's with the new Cybermen marches? Still look like they're about as flexible as kitchen fixtures. Then there's the jokes; the direct and indirect and silly and pun-based ones. The gag reels and the references to other fandoms. Scooby-doo chases and Ghostbusters. Love! ;) Similarly, that other classic series and highly admired folks refer to Doctor Who, like The Simpsons in particular, and that it's become such an institution in British popular culture. Everyone knows their Who; to name one example, jelly babies is seen in immediate connection with this show, the jb-site at wikipedia even has a direct link to WHO's; and this not the case in Britain only - the show's got fans all over the world and they're all equally enthusiastic. People write songs about it, write on-and-off canon fact books and more or less authorized biographies, produce documentaries and broadcast the Specials episodes on big screens around the countries. Longest running TV show on the planet, no wonder, and still going strong!
11. Doctor supplements. Fine features. And, speaking of unlikely tech. Who looks at a screwdriver and thinks "Oooh! This could be a little more sonic!"? Well - tell you what, Jack - in a minute he could put up some shelves. Best futuristic accessory known to mankind and all other kinds of beings. Trust me, I've got one too. In fact, everyone should have a sonic screwdriver available. Also, the TARDIS parts, of course. Amazing what that Blue Box can do. Taking off like a rocket at the end of "Runaway Bride" was possibly one of the finest moments, ever, on the show!
12. The "Doomsday" finale. No further comments, except the observation of fans still moping over the scene and how the whole of Britain was in tears at the moment of broadcasting. Apparently. It even made media headlines; as the most depressing, but at the same time fantastic ending of any made TV episode. Respect! And a grand example of what is (again, arguably) the best thing about Doctor Who: how it moves us. Engages us. Makes us overly enthusiastic. Provides us with catchphrases, silly liners, stupid obsessions we just can't help being...obsessed with. I have enough seriousness and troublesome facts on my mind, elsewhere, I need to watch television that sends me off to dreamy places beyond my imagination that I can allow myself to be absorbed with and that affects me in ways that aren't necessarily sensible, or healthy, but absolutely undeniable nonetheless.
A very fond thanks!!!
SO. Christmas pressies! :D What did one receive and what were the reactions? After all my babbly exclamations about what I expected, what I wanted, what was the main thing (about Christmas) that I was looking forward to, tralala the essence of Christmas spirit, I surely ought to mention what I actually got - as well. First things first: practical items! Warm and sensible clothes (stonewashed denim), healthy food (chocolates, marzipan, sweets), daily necessities (cinema tickets, dvd's, crime fiction books) and convenient gift vouchers (for the biggest record store in Bergen) and more. (If not so very grown-up; no socks, no ties, no cups, no plates, no cutlery, no table cloths. Thank God.) Happy happy days. Thanks a lot, you guys, this was all very much appreciated. VERY very much appreciated! Me hearts meaningful, wonderful, thoughtful and beautiful Christmas gifts! I am lucky enough to have family and friends who give me things I truly want, even vehemently desire; often both cheaper and nicer and more practical, in reality, than the things I (apparently should) need. Which, I must admit, seems somwhat ironic. But I hate things I allegedly need. I want something I want, to quote that cynical Alan Rickman-admiring babe from "Love Actually". Be it homemade or priceless or extremely valuable or ridiculously cheap. It's the thought that matters - and those, if possible, stating reason for giving me cutlery (or worse) for Christmas would be considered no less than purely evil. Consequently, I'd rather have a self-decorated card with some bird or whatever on the cover, instead of a gift that is given based on an idea of my being supposed to need stuff that I was never even asked if I need. Fortunately, my family knows that. And I did get a couple of bird cards. However, and most importantly, there were four presents (in addition to the cards, haha) from my parents this year that truly represented things I've said I wanted. Mind you; needed, too, for the sake of my personal interests and mental well-being. Catchword: "Doctor". Under the tree I found no less than two box sets of TV series featuring dead-charming Doctor men; "House" and "WHO". Weee! You can imagine my undescribable joy; I was absolutely euphoric. Screaming at the top of my lungs, hugging my folks so tight, I think they feared I was gonna squeeze them to death. On Christmas Eve, no less. But my goodness, what a perfect duo of collected loveliness! Also, my mother had got me DW's "2007 Storybook", with Doctor/Rose short stories, on sale. Oh, the angst and weepy shippyness. Tears in my eyes after two paragraphs. Have had to read very slowly and in limited amounts per day. Such a treat, though - for my (said) shippy heart! And last, but certainly not least, saved for the final surprise of the evening, there was this strange, unidentifiable object with sharp plastic edges, wrapped in green with small santas on it. "No big deal", said mom and dad, with huge smiles to go along. And well, they were lying. I excitedly removed the paper, only to reveal...my very own SONIC SCREWDRIVER. Yup, that's right. And that's when I started jumping up and down, loudly expressing my glee, in our strictly speaking too tiny for that kind of activities-kinda living room. I am probably blessed with the most fandom-respecting, ingenius parents in the history of Time and Space. Basically speaking. I am an overly lucky fangirl in her twenties who still have a family that's enthusiastic on her behalf even though that means the world evolves around David Tennant, at times. For the record, I do count myself lucky. And I write this because I know I'm not the only one. I've been reading slightly ashamed fan community posts from fathers-of-three who quietly inquire whether wishing for a 10 cm plastic TARDIS model, for their own entertainment's sake, is indeed pathetic. It's not. Despite being adults we're still entitled to some fun, I mean - who decided what's too childish when it comes to Christmas wishes? Why should anyone feel shameful about wanting miniature Doctor Who accessories, picture books and David Tennant dolls at the age of 34? I wholeheartedly approve of, and support, these various, most charming passions! Cos that's what we behold. Charming passions. Fanboys and fangirls, out there, I hope you also got what you wanted, what you earnestly craved, and I hope you get to induldge in your fandoms; I hope your surroundings are as supportive and understanding as mine. Also, now I can go around bleeping people like a mad woman! No more closed doors, no more impossible lockers. Hee hee hee. Might not want to go through the security check at the airport armed with the screwdriver, though. Not the psychic paper that accompanied it, either, for I simply wouldn't be able to resist pointing the bright UV light at the security guards and grin manically. This thing even makes authentic noises. And looks scaringly realistic. Oooh, go Scaramouche the new-born Time Lady!!! *Twisted laughter* Did I say for the purpose of my "mental well-being"? Hmmm. Maybe more along the lines of unhealthy, these presents.
[Image: Never was a happier fangirl! As photographed by Daddy and hopefully with an illustrative facial expression, albeit not the best picture ever taken of myself.]
myself: how seen the earth
I'm human. Just don't like admitting to it.
Don't picture the bigger negative of the radiant old lot.
It's a fact, but I'm a fan of fiction.
Wish I were inhabitant of any alien-like world.
Where I was new and ignorance was more allowed.
Wish I were some devil I knew better
than my very devilish own self.
Peace, you folks, you happy audience, you watchful eyes
of patronizing wisdom brought upon me, willingly
or ever so vigilantly involuntarily.
I'm humanly; too similiar; humiliated with my own
grown stasis.
I'm human, I'm my anchor, I don't drift away.
I won't let me, I don't alienate, and it's 'cos I can't.
I'm human and I'm so aware.
"poor poriness"
by scaramouche, the po(t)et, absolutely unconscious but conscious, somehow, after-all, maybe that's what they call the subconscious, and maybe this is how I see it work. Soundtrack: Stars - "My favourite book".
late night be post-party poesy / to read beetween the lines // this is what I see / now, me / this is what I tried to be / I failed, but I care less / God bless / I see what I see and I keep my distance and I find my content quite pleasurable / my contest my prize my valuable pieces / I'm fine / I find my borders quite confined / I see no more / so please apologise / I watch the sci-fi, watch the world, the fiction and the real(i)ty may mingle / see no difference / the fictious and the actual blend / I hear no cried objection / I don't care / so hear me now // too much sugar and a careless home / too much drinking and a self-accusing falsified (of recreation) throne / I bet you never understood / I bet you never removed the cap to place the hood / I found the cravings irresistible / I found the reproach hard to bear / so I care less / and here I am not caring anymore no more / and I am fine // and then becoming clarified / to blur the mind with further toxication / I seek the fluid as to stun myself, my paralysing purposes / could sting themselves without the bees / but I can't help but love the buzz / and I'm the trees, the flowers, all the powers / I am the agent without any true agenda / secret service would adore me, but again would not be very hidden anymore / 'cos I disclose it all / that's why I fall / for my own sad temptations / where I fall straight into the traps / I set myself, on what's become my own behalf / here's how I'm born, here's how I die, and you may ask for anything / polarity and sudden continuity / the scolded problems fret therein // a globe, the buzz / the load of issues tissued onto surface that is skin / to cover me / won't fit inside the covers / that are mine / and make up me / but what made up myself
what say the weird about the wicked
a schism of wine across the boards
of plain and versus news and versus bolder
what stays rustic, pray when ashore
belt down my caffeine with a gasp and dread
reject nutricious complements for
safer deals of sugar holding cards
such do I play my dice but never cheat
will be a while till I do grasp the final sentence
won't contemplate it now, right now,
won't see the earth turn till it turn my way
and be partaker of the low partaken fields
go on and go the finalising distance
to close the bonds and share entirety
the undivided as through broken glass
more scratches break the broken chord
frail overbearing, lenient, the finer choice
such are the finest people of a kind
and may we soon induldge in catty power
we are the super level headed troupers
consequently, of the very uppermost,
superb - so drift away the more superfluous
allow me, windy blows, to gaze upon the sky
and see the stars that dwell within my view
Don't picture the bigger negative of the radiant old lot.
It's a fact, but I'm a fan of fiction.
Wish I were inhabitant of any alien-like world.
Where I was new and ignorance was more allowed.
Wish I were some devil I knew better
than my very devilish own self.
Peace, you folks, you happy audience, you watchful eyes
of patronizing wisdom brought upon me, willingly
or ever so vigilantly involuntarily.
I'm humanly; too similiar; humiliated with my own
grown stasis.
I'm human, I'm my anchor, I don't drift away.
I won't let me, I don't alienate, and it's 'cos I can't.
I'm human and I'm so aware.
"poor poriness"
by scaramouche, the po(t)et, absolutely unconscious but conscious, somehow, after-all, maybe that's what they call the subconscious, and maybe this is how I see it work. Soundtrack: Stars - "My favourite book".
late night be post-party poesy / to read beetween the lines // this is what I see / now, me / this is what I tried to be / I failed, but I care less / God bless / I see what I see and I keep my distance and I find my content quite pleasurable / my contest my prize my valuable pieces / I'm fine / I find my borders quite confined / I see no more / so please apologise / I watch the sci-fi, watch the world, the fiction and the real(i)ty may mingle / see no difference / the fictious and the actual blend / I hear no cried objection / I don't care / so hear me now // too much sugar and a careless home / too much drinking and a self-accusing falsified (of recreation) throne / I bet you never understood / I bet you never removed the cap to place the hood / I found the cravings irresistible / I found the reproach hard to bear / so I care less / and here I am not caring anymore no more / and I am fine // and then becoming clarified / to blur the mind with further toxication / I seek the fluid as to stun myself, my paralysing purposes / could sting themselves without the bees / but I can't help but love the buzz / and I'm the trees, the flowers, all the powers / I am the agent without any true agenda / secret service would adore me, but again would not be very hidden anymore / 'cos I disclose it all / that's why I fall / for my own sad temptations / where I fall straight into the traps / I set myself, on what's become my own behalf / here's how I'm born, here's how I die, and you may ask for anything / polarity and sudden continuity / the scolded problems fret therein // a globe, the buzz / the load of issues tissued onto surface that is skin / to cover me / won't fit inside the covers / that are mine / and make up me / but what made up myself
what say the weird about the wicked
a schism of wine across the boards
of plain and versus news and versus bolder
what stays rustic, pray when ashore
belt down my caffeine with a gasp and dread
reject nutricious complements for
safer deals of sugar holding cards
such do I play my dice but never cheat
will be a while till I do grasp the final sentence
won't contemplate it now, right now,
won't see the earth turn till it turn my way
and be partaker of the low partaken fields
go on and go the finalising distance
to close the bonds and share entirety
the undivided as through broken glass
more scratches break the broken chord
frail overbearing, lenient, the finer choice
such are the finest people of a kind
and may we soon induldge in catty power
we are the super level headed troupers
consequently, of the very uppermost,
superb - so drift away the more superfluous
allow me, windy blows, to gaze upon the sky
and see the stars that dwell within my view
Thursday, December 27, 2007
"My Christmas is always like this..."
WARNING: ÜBERSPOILERISH FOR VOYAGE OF THE DAMNED. DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED IT YET, AND/OR DON'T WISH TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS.
[Image: very characteristic pose for the 2007 Christmas Special. Melancholy Time Lord, on his own, enters lonely home, whilst recalling depressing events of year gone by and desperately missing and moping over lost companions. Oh, bugger off, this makes me too depressed. Me wants happy sci-fi, and me wants it NOW! Also, David - as seen pictured here - deserves so much more and so much better. Copyright david-tennant.com, slightly PhotoShopped by yours truly, all rights reserved and personalized. David T. belongs to the fans and the Beeb, as do his heroic persona.]
Just a briefing. Reactions. Feedback, inspirations, mood, shaking it off-stuff. Back for more later. But for now: I don't really know what to say about "Voyage of the Damned". Finished wathing it about three seconds ago, and the first thing I did was run over to the boards to read more responses to the piece. Since, in all honesty, I have no defined opinion to voice. It was all very flimsy and inconsistent and speedy, but also quite epic and magnificently filmed, at times, the special effects were marvellous, the costumes were cool, the cinematography were customarily stylish, but all in all - and really, the big picture, the main impression; that's what counts - it wasn't very good. And I'd been looking forward to this for such a long time, the anticipation was unbelievably oversized, and at the moment I am indeed slightly disappointed. Or, no, I am actually enormously disappointed, sad and angry. Because there was nothing grand about it, and that's just what we'd been expecting, and what we've been given the last couple of years. This was, in addition, promoted as the biggest, most dramatic, most exciting Special to date, with the most advanced technology, but it completely missed out when it comes to distinction. Eccentricity, charm, fun, what the others had so much of. I was counting on the Who Team's ability to say in-continuity, to follow up the magnificent storylines of Series 3, to give us a touch of the proper Doctor Magic and in that respect this was a total failure. I am left with a feeling of emptiness, of insignificanct events and pointless exploisons. And I'm embarassed. Cos this was below the standards, in every possible sense. "Titanic" is a giant big ship (unfortunate name, by the way, would you imagine?) drifting about in space, first crashing into the TARDIS, then getting hit by meteors, then falling to Earth. Basic synopsis: big tragedy must be avoided at all costs. Biiig-bara-boom's inbetween. Who can rescue men and mice, if not The Doctor? Well, not this on this occasion. Not quite. Some points of critique, in short: first, way too much action packed into one little piece of TV making. The proportions were constantly off the scale; as though they'd tried too hard and then just given up, when nearing the end. When the credits rolled, and I tried summing up what I'd been witnessing, I hadn't got a clue. The Episode was halting along like a train off course, with a non-existing story outline and inexplainable incidents. Not to mention the the very surprising lack of nifty dialogue. I counted three memorable lines. Highly unusual for "Doctor Who", and most tragic for a writer like Russel T. Davies who used to be magnificent. Still is, from time to time. But this was a step in the wrong direction. DW scripts need polishing, ingenius twists and turns, heart-warming conversations, pompous monologues. Here, we got panic-ridden one-liners and inappropriate mentionings of Gallifrey. Bah. Loved The Doctor's comment on the "unlucky suit", though, but mostly because of the ironic detail of how this and "The Lazarus Experiment" both are episodes in which he wore that particular garnment, and how they both suffer the same writing malfunctions. Didn't hate either, but that doesn't justify the major flaw. Moreover, really bad acting overall. Too little screen time for each character and thus, the lousiness was probably due to inability to give believable performances. I mean, the material they were offered was limited to say the least. Scared faces, crying faces, hysteric faces, robot faces. Kylie Minogue had it all, and simultaneously, she was missing everything. Pulled it off very badly. She's a great singer, but she didn't show any particular acting skills, so unfortunately my sum of fears came true. I'd hoped she would be wonderful, instead she was a flat and uninteresting waitress whom The Doctor apparently came to fancy, which is something that I - again - have real trouble understanding, seeing that this Astrid Perth is probably the dullest person ever to have been on the show. Pretty, yes, but not someone I could have imagined travelling with our hero. (And her name was not explained as to have anything to do with the Blue Box, nope, sorry.) I certainly didn't mourn her death, despite the heroic deed that lead to it. Pity is, I think Kylie made an effort, but someone screwed up her chances. Not very difficult guess, who that was. Her interaction with The Doctor didn't work, despite Kylie and David's obvious chemistry, since the dialogue was out of place and the scenes were so incoherently put together, I wanted to weep. The rest of the gang, accidentally saved by The Doc and then following his tail, was equally annoying. Crazy couple in blue shirts, arrogant stock market speculator, old man with strange and somewhat deluded ideas about Earthly traditions. Whoa. Spikey dude with the red painted head was too silly to be worthy of mentioning. Whereas the new Angels, the Host, were a group of pathetic villains in pathetic costumes with pathetic agenda; aaargh; making them, in a way, the biggest disappointment of all. When they carried The Doctor off the bridge and started flying up towards the roof, like some ridiculed Christmas Carol, I buried my head in my hands, unable to watch. What's with the religious fuss, eh? What's with the flying Doctor? I seriously don't like this tendency! On top of this, literally, you had the depressing themes, unfathomable loads of deaths, people being butchered carelessly throughout; no breaks, no logic; confusing plot, stupid gags, even the extras messed up, and - most irritating thing ever - the constant running! All they did was run around - for no reason whatsoever! The were screaming, and shouting, and talking on intercom's; then teleporting, then killing, then getting killed, and suddenly The Doc was left all on his own again. Boohoo. He looked rather frustrated with the whole situation, and I don't blame him one bit. David did a superb job, as usual, but he couldn't save this. No-one could. Come to think of it, everything was simply out of order. Just didn't function. Sank like the ship; like a stone; just impossible to put my finger on what was wrong with it; I can't say it totally sucked, but it had no style; I do think that's the main problem. It did in no sense resemble the classic "Doctor Who", the show at its best, the way we've grown used to seeing it. And I love "Doctor Who", like that, and espcecially because I love it so very much, I am terribly let down by this Disaster Special - but similarly, I am sincerely waiting to be surprised again, in a very different manner, with the upcoming series that has got to be better. I need a comeback with a bang. A well-written, well-composed, well-enacted, well-syncronised, well-ordered bang, that is. And no Kylie. Please? I can't wait to see Catherine Tate spice things up, and I can't wait for Billie's return, and oh, they'd better not ruin this. They didn't ruin my Christmas, I love David Tennant too much to ever let them, but they surely made me a bit mad. For last, but most importantly - my dear Doctor, you are so very wrong about one thing. So very, very, very wrong. You might say your Christmas'es are always like this (see title of this post), you might claim to be habitual about it, sticking to the great traditions, but that's not true. Your Christmas'es can be utterly brilliant as well; they can be invasions of the Sycorax, swordfighting alongside Rose Tyler, revitalization through tea and sinister Prime Minsiters. Nothing (yet) beats "The Christmas Invasion" when it comes to really GREAT Christmas Specials. You bet I miss Rose, more and more. The 2007 Special was a shell of glittering polish with blunt, daft contents. Series 1 and 2 can't even be considered in comparison, and I do pray it's not a continuing drop of quality we're spotting here. Preview for Series 4 was awesome, admittedly, but judging from our experience with trailers, with regard to "Voyage of the Damned", maybe that's not a good sign after all? Fact is, in this case, they should have stopped with the trailer. The "VotD" trailer was excellent, very promising, would've done nicely. The episode in itself, on the other hand, was a different case altogether. Ok, it wasn't down right poor; for my conclusion I have to say, it did have its brighter moments, but it certainly didn't live up to my hopes and expectations either. Rounding off with a drop of positivity: David is the best, The Mill still knows how to make computer animated machines look fantastic, Murray Gold creates living magic, Kylie Minougue has nicey boots. Fingers crossed, this was a one-off tale of lacking inspiration and that we'll have the best show in the Universe back to its normal heights in just a short while.
Monday, December 24, 2007
The Lovely Christmess
Po(t)etens Oppdrag nr. XII.
Category: holiday celebration. Disclaimers: no particular love for the current season required. No need to understand anything to appreciate everything, or however. Maybe the other way around, I dunno. Style: traditional, slightly surrealistic, very melodic. Repetitious in a good sense; (literally) red line of closely followed subject throughout. Last verse follow same form, albeit extremely differently looking altogether. General info: As promised, here's the Christmas themed babbly song thingy. What(ever) Christmas means to me, etc. As mentioned further down the site. Didn't turn out quite as expected, but fulfilling nonetheless. That is a great word, by the way, nonetheless. Loves the adverbials. Bit like fantastically, frantically, fanatically or outmost, perfected intelligibility. I'm starting to babble completely, so let's cut to the chase.
"The Day Before Tomorrow" - [late-night-draft] - ode for preparation day
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, loving Christmas, yet aware of the obstacles. Loads of reasons to stay home, alone, with telly and micro wave food at Christmas Day. Observably.
I painted dubiously red the linen
carpets, rugrats, flat out tyres
put the curtains on display
in technicoloured multipatterns
I set up ornaments throughout
the looking glass looked credulous
in motions, still life, child support
come candle sticks burnt at both ends
I gathered audiences to be quiet
the admiration, preservation,
place the many boxes on the shelves
were out of sight, were out of trouble
I flinched when merely questioned
tell-tales, scorings, fillings, vicious
relatives are never so related
paper trees do wither in the silent snow
I spent the hours as of grasses green
were clad in white but dressed in utter blue
the table cloth dance from a mouse trap
dingling chandeliers in front of mine idyllic
galore the recipes for success story
thinner paper, more absorption
screw the genie back inside the bottle
realization never guaranteed
explain the host as through the guest
in welcomes, chitchat, mimicry
and all the savages behind the screen
see further introduction habits
beyond the purpose lay the honest lie
of cartoon moments mixed with pleasure dome
in our most ironic hour, praise
the hidden meaning that we rarely spot
here come the final revelation of our
christmas paradigm;
somewhere along the lane division
when parted theory and practise,
I'm a slight divine
and matter mostly to myself in better planning
Category: holiday celebration. Disclaimers: no particular love for the current season required. No need to understand anything to appreciate everything, or however. Maybe the other way around, I dunno. Style: traditional, slightly surrealistic, very melodic. Repetitious in a good sense; (literally) red line of closely followed subject throughout. Last verse follow same form, albeit extremely differently looking altogether. General info: As promised, here's the Christmas themed babbly song thingy. What(ever) Christmas means to me, etc. As mentioned further down the site. Didn't turn out quite as expected, but fulfilling nonetheless. That is a great word, by the way, nonetheless. Loves the adverbials. Bit like fantastically, frantically, fanatically or outmost, perfected intelligibility. I'm starting to babble completely, so let's cut to the chase.
"The Day Before Tomorrow" - [late-night-draft] - ode for preparation day
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, loving Christmas, yet aware of the obstacles. Loads of reasons to stay home, alone, with telly and micro wave food at Christmas Day. Observably.
I painted dubiously red the linen
carpets, rugrats, flat out tyres
put the curtains on display
in technicoloured multipatterns
I set up ornaments throughout
the looking glass looked credulous
in motions, still life, child support
come candle sticks burnt at both ends
I gathered audiences to be quiet
the admiration, preservation,
place the many boxes on the shelves
were out of sight, were out of trouble
I flinched when merely questioned
tell-tales, scorings, fillings, vicious
relatives are never so related
paper trees do wither in the silent snow
I spent the hours as of grasses green
were clad in white but dressed in utter blue
the table cloth dance from a mouse trap
dingling chandeliers in front of mine idyllic
galore the recipes for success story
thinner paper, more absorption
screw the genie back inside the bottle
realization never guaranteed
explain the host as through the guest
in welcomes, chitchat, mimicry
and all the savages behind the screen
see further introduction habits
beyond the purpose lay the honest lie
of cartoon moments mixed with pleasure dome
in our most ironic hour, praise
the hidden meaning that we rarely spot
here come the final revelation of our
christmas paradigm;
somewhere along the lane division
when parted theory and practise,
I'm a slight divine
and matter mostly to myself in better planning
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Charging Celebration Batteries
First: piece of information for all the woken minds. It's late, I'm not tired, I'm trying to make the time fly and I'm trying to get in the mood, the right mood, for the Big Day tomorrow. Christmas coming up, and scary enough - it's already here. In many ways. Or rather, in 30 minutes. Half past eleven, I'm in over my head with anticipation, building-up, enthusiasm, restless waiting. Will, with all likelihood, sink like a stone tomorrow morning, feeling all insufficient and distressed and not knowing how to celebrate properly, then having to do more of this, the preparatory stuff, to get back up on the high pitched level of eagerness and Christmas Love. Reckon it won't be the biggest problem ever. I'm pretty good at enthusiastic behaviour. And tomorrow, that's all that counts. In Norway, as mentioned below, our Christmas Eve takes place on the 23rd, and then we celebrate Christmas on the 24th, with presents and big dinner in the evening. Well, at least the celebration part constitutes an accurate description. The presents may be distributed a little more throughout the day, so to speak, at least if you've got children. Or adults pretending to be children. Moreove, the big dinner is either traditional, following district or family or national routines inroctrinated over many a generation, more or less ridiculous, definately fattening, not necessarily tasty. Alternatively, it's the random choice of the hour, due to personal preferences (of the hour) - which might prove a far more appetizing choice. Anyhow, the decision regarding dishes depend on the folks cooking. Some have steak. Some have rack of lamp, some have ribs, some have both. Some have pizza. It varies, as in most other countries. Habits tend to do so, in fact, and in my family they're continuously changing. At the moment, we do steak. Of sorts. And strawberries for dessert. Loads of cookies and treats, surprise surprise, and yours truly make béarnaise sauce. (Think I spelled that correctly.) Then we try to have the time of our lives, watching fantastic holiday special programmes (not the Star Wars one, I still prefer Doctor Who and Disney - thank goodness) and dressing up in our most fancy clothings (or the ones that are most comfortable for eating sessions, I tend to prefer the latter). I'm describing this now, because I have a very strong theory that I will not be able to spend much time here during the Christmas Day, as opposed to today. Which was fun, but rather anti-social. No, tomorrow I'll be celebrating big time. That's the plan. And in order to do so, there are certain preparations need going through. Here follows some!
CHECK LIST: or what my family's been doing today. Which is quite a bit, considered I got up at ten. Started off somewhat normally, with ordinary breakfast and bits or working, wherafter I switched to said preparing.
% Decorated Christmas Tree (big thing), with all the more or less broken and self-made or expensively purchased or been-given-as-present ornaments we've collected over the years.
% Watched "Love Actually" whilst decorating said Tree. Which was just as touching and romantic and atmosphere-setting as ever. Do believe my parents got a bit tired of all my "OH! he's been on "Doctor Who" once! And so has she!"-outcries, though. But come on, Thomas Sangster really is the most adorable kid on film, in history. I do hope he'll stay on-screen, for me to enjoy, for many many years to come. Weeee. Also, Laura Linney. And Hugh Grant as himself; sorry the Classic Hugh Grant Role; no, wait, hang on; sorry it's The PM. Ehem. Martine McCutcheron, Billy Bob, Alan Rickman (mmmm), Mr. Bean, Keira (no deck speeches this time, fortunately), Martin Freeman, Jack Bauer's daughter, Mr. Darcy (...), Bill Nighy, the list is endless. Even Parkinson and Ant & Dec, as themselves, found the opportunity to join in. One of my favourite films and the ultimate Holiday Trigger.
% Listened to the "I Y Christmas" albums I bought solely because they'd managed to include Band Aid, Yoko Ono, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole and Samantha Mumba. On one single piece of record. That's compilation for ya'!
% Eaten fish for dinner. With Yoko yoodling in the background. Because we really need to enjoy the incredible taste of meat, all through the Christmas days, and in order to to that, we need something to compare it to. Something that establishes a harsh contrast and increases the want for something...juicy. Makes the purpose crystal clear, especially for a wannabe-veggie. But this is the one time of year when I turn to modifications of my strict principles. I eat my mother's steak. No arguments there.
% Set the Christmas table. My job, apparently. With a little help from the rest of the family. So now I'm surrounded my stuffed mice, felt angels and hand-crafted ceramic santas. Hope none of the latter ones pull up a trombone-in-disguise machine gun and starts threatening me. (Insider's Doctor Who joke. Very funny, yes.) Feels quite out of place, albeit cosy. Red and green and extremely thorough. In the same situation, I suppose, as the ones who were filming the whole chaos at the santa's helpers' workshop scene in the (ever-so-infamous) Disney film. I mean, we all know the elves are for real, I just haven't figured out where they're hiding at. Yet.
% Have made Christmas babbly song thingy, to be posted shortly. Keep your eyes open and your ears shut. This is my most Christmassy hour, doesn't happen every day. Literally speaking. It's now past twelve, actually it's almost half past, so I can say in all honesty and with all the hearty commitment I can possibly procure - to humans and aliens and animals and demons and angels and trolls, wherever you are, whatever you're up to, whoever you're with:
A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL!! :)
CHECK LIST: or what my family's been doing today. Which is quite a bit, considered I got up at ten. Started off somewhat normally, with ordinary breakfast and bits or working, wherafter I switched to said preparing.
% Decorated Christmas Tree (big thing), with all the more or less broken and self-made or expensively purchased or been-given-as-present ornaments we've collected over the years.
% Watched "Love Actually" whilst decorating said Tree. Which was just as touching and romantic and atmosphere-setting as ever. Do believe my parents got a bit tired of all my "OH! he's been on "Doctor Who" once! And so has she!"-outcries, though. But come on, Thomas Sangster really is the most adorable kid on film, in history. I do hope he'll stay on-screen, for me to enjoy, for many many years to come. Weeee. Also, Laura Linney. And Hugh Grant as himself; sorry the Classic Hugh Grant Role; no, wait, hang on; sorry it's The PM. Ehem. Martine McCutcheron, Billy Bob, Alan Rickman (mmmm), Mr. Bean, Keira (no deck speeches this time, fortunately), Martin Freeman, Jack Bauer's daughter, Mr. Darcy (...), Bill Nighy, the list is endless. Even Parkinson and Ant & Dec, as themselves, found the opportunity to join in. One of my favourite films and the ultimate Holiday Trigger.
% Listened to the "I Y Christmas" albums I bought solely because they'd managed to include Band Aid, Yoko Ono, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole and Samantha Mumba. On one single piece of record. That's compilation for ya'!
% Eaten fish for dinner. With Yoko yoodling in the background. Because we really need to enjoy the incredible taste of meat, all through the Christmas days, and in order to to that, we need something to compare it to. Something that establishes a harsh contrast and increases the want for something...juicy. Makes the purpose crystal clear, especially for a wannabe-veggie. But this is the one time of year when I turn to modifications of my strict principles. I eat my mother's steak. No arguments there.
% Set the Christmas table. My job, apparently. With a little help from the rest of the family. So now I'm surrounded my stuffed mice, felt angels and hand-crafted ceramic santas. Hope none of the latter ones pull up a trombone-in-disguise machine gun and starts threatening me. (Insider's Doctor Who joke. Very funny, yes.) Feels quite out of place, albeit cosy. Red and green and extremely thorough. In the same situation, I suppose, as the ones who were filming the whole chaos at the santa's helpers' workshop scene in the (ever-so-infamous) Disney film. I mean, we all know the elves are for real, I just haven't figured out where they're hiding at. Yet.
% Have made Christmas babbly song thingy, to be posted shortly. Keep your eyes open and your ears shut. This is my most Christmassy hour, doesn't happen every day. Literally speaking. It's now past twelve, actually it's almost half past, so I can say in all honesty and with all the hearty commitment I can possibly procure - to humans and aliens and animals and demons and angels and trolls, wherever you are, whatever you're up to, whoever you're with:
A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL!! :)
Present Fluff
Pre-Christmas Celebration, with obsessive spoilerish fangirl musings. I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist. Well, technically, the ones I should be apologizing to are my parents, who were left in curious unintelligibility as I spent more than two hours of my day-before-Christmas-Eve (which equals Christmas Eve, in Norway) absorbed in writing this piece instead of preparing for the Big Day, which is what I should have been doing, but then again - how does one deal with anxiousness, if not with outrageous fandom exploitation and fictious couple worshipping...? (My mother thinks I should not feel that ashamed, though.) My way of abreacting, works exceptionally well. This story is so very Christmassy and cute and fluff-filled, and I really love it, but I've realized it's probably for the fans - mostly. The rest may appreciate my skills (?) in composing English prose. With or without television references. I'm also a sucker for perfection, but since that doesn't always conincide with perfect input of intense creativity, writing kicks of massive quantity, I did spend an awful lot of time editing a considerably short work, that could have been completed sooner, had I only been slightly more inspired. Effective. Whatever. Anyways, the final result is here; a little sentimental Christmas morning tale with which I am - admittedly - quite content. And of course, I hope all the nitpicking paid off. Errors, disputes, shipping, silliness; all belongs to yours truly. And may you still enjoy! Merry Christmas, beforehand! Me is excited and it shows.
FANFICTION: "DOCTOR WHO". Reunion-fic, starring Ten and Rose, loads of shippy innuendos. Set post-Doomsday, and thus spoilerish. One, ultimate version of the possible meeting between two timeless lovers. Sad and angsty, but bear in mind the Christmas factor. And the fact that I still, and always, love Happy Endings. Option: the second paragraph constitutes a kind of choice If you like the official "Doomsday" version, you can either stop reading and love my continuity, or love my continuty and accept my personal twist which follows immediately. Alternative: the first paragraph may be seen as a "Doomsday" alteration, whereas the other one is (sort of) series four-related; could be a connection between the two events. Regardless, my starting point for the fic was that of Rose in her bed, hearing The Doctor's voice, as seen in said "Doomsday". Moreover, one may of course interpret as one pleases, although reader moderation is recommended. Don't read to much into it, in other words. Disclaimer: All characters property of the BBC. I don't own the BBC, but the BBC owns me - heart and soul. Thanks for lending me themes I never tire of writing about. All my love, to the Series of a Lifetime and the Production Company I adore. Happy Holidays, guys!
"Present for imagination"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et and the ever-so-devoted fangirl.
"Rose..."
Just a breath. A meak, warm breath of air against her ear lobes, softly drifting into the auditory senses and colliding with her dozing consciousness, pulling her out of her sleep. Slowly. Like fingertips dancing smoothly across her forehead, in the perfect steps of a waltz, tracing the line of her hair and sliding through loose strains at the back. She shivered slightly when the neck came in contact with the unmistakable form of a knuckle, drawing fleeting strokes along her arteries. She hadn't open her eyes yet; mostly because this mysterious guest to her intimate spheres opted for a few light touches across her lids as well. Lying perfectly still, she let the caressing continue, and hoped its originator was aware of the tiny smile on her lips that it had brought about. Judging from the increasing pressure against her skin, that had already been affirmed. Her duvet was folded carelessly around her body, the neck of her night gown had shifted out of place and was clinging to her upper arm. The seams of its edging kept pressing into her skin, and somewhere beyond her current mental perception, there was a notion that maybe she should relocate herself to a better position; or even get up, start the day; a rational conclusion that she ought to depart from slumberland and maybe find out who the heck was playing with her face. But then she decided it could wait. After all, she was not severely bothered by the sudden intrusion. Despite the awkward resting position, and the uncertainty regarding the cicrcumstances for the physical proximity, she found this state of being absolutely comfortable. Almost unnoticeable puffs of a whispering voice lingered in the atmosphere above her, and whilst mesmerized by its low tone, she attempted to work on her concentration and determine the various syllables. An urge grew, within her drowsiness, to figure out some meaning behind the kind-sounding utterance. After a while of furrowing her brows, and picking up a few familiarities, she changed her mind and decided the murmuring were not to be conceived, it must rather be fully appreciated. If only as dream-caused illusions, accentuated by the surrouning silence. A trail of despair caught up with her, when she realized, but she brushed it away with the equally strong desire to enjoy the illusion as long as it lasted. It was hardly the first. But quite real, she thought, even deceptively realistic. She remembered the many earlier occasions when she had supposed it would be truth, not dare. Just to be disappointed again, much more than she could bear. So this time, she rejected it. Happily, she dove into a rhythm of patting and humming, and induldged in the sweet devotion of the stranger. There was a quick break when the bed moved and she felt a pile of warmth shoot up her spine as someone, obviously another person, lay down beside her, and the first and most foremost sentiment that hit her brainwork was oh my god, I can't tell anyone about this dream, they'll think I've gone insane. And of course, when she eventually exited this set of made-up pieces, this wishful thinking, she would never mention it again. In fact, she told no-one about her multiple situations of flashbacks and false discoveries. They wouldn't be able to comfort her in the manner she craved, nor would she have been able demand it. Such was the fate she was condemned to, and that was a fate which she, right now, didn't wish to achnowledge. "Rose", came the whisper, buried into her nape, and further out in the realms of her awareness, she pictured the never-ending stir inside the never-tidied console room. The rapid motion and the extatic exclamantions, the tumbling over loose wires and their friends' shouting as the ship heeled. Desperately, she clung to the prospects of these being something else than images of her imagination. That she didn't wake because she didn't have to, that her response was due to recognition; the grand, old instincts; and that she would be allowed to trust in this. Willing to endure anything, as long as she were given a single chance. The sleeping body apparently wanted no further hesitation, so it made the choice on her behalf. She lifted her arm, out of pure habit, and gave room for the other to tuck his underneath. A steady grip tightened around her waist and she grabbed the cold hand at the end, warming it with her own. The load of memories washed over her, engulfing her in a breathtaking flood of glee and pain and connection and sorrow. These trips; the wanting, the waiting, the never-ceasing lust for adventure. How they'd played with the most terrible, abhorringly ugly and fearful or forces; how they'd laughed at darkness until they were sure it'd vanished. At least all they could see was the light. They made a run for it, the two of them, and they honestly thought they wouldn't be interrupted. Despite facing danger every day, or maybe precisely therefore, they'd distanced themselves from it. Now, she felt it all coming back. Every, single, minute, insignificant, inexorable part if it. Suddenly, she'd returned to this peculiar life she once beheld, without having given it any grave concern, without challenge. A dreamer's invitation; would be on no account refused. And so, she shook off her doubt. Again. She locked her fingers around his, like she used to, and squeezed her gaze shut. A chin was placed gently in an oblong cave of skin and bone on her shoulder blade, fitting perfectly, and the voice whispered her name once more, slowly, with explicit security, and she thought this is enough, right here, this is all I need. This is my home. Please, please don't go.
"I won't go", she heard from the neighbour pillow, "I promise". She wanted to reply how he'd said so the last time, too, how he'd always made himself indispensable through promises. But just as she wanted to break free of the grasp, to cut off the taunting visions, the voice went on. "I came to stay", it lured, "and about time, I reckon, my apologies for being a little late - but truly, you should know what I went through to get here. Blimey. There was this sandstorm combined with a space tremor, major star dust undertow and a rocket off course in the middle of it, really inconvenient, and I was sucked into a - I dunno, spiral caleidoscope thing - and you should have seen me riding the tide wave of the whole...", at this point she'd turned and was staring disbelievingly into his overly enthusiastic face. Then taking in his messy hairdo, his crinkled shirt, his more recently acquired wrinkles; the striking appearance of someone who oughtn't be there, but seemed to have popped up anyway. Work of magic, how typical. Some other signs of ageing, a different colour to his suit, and an awful tie - but she instantly knew, nonetheless. That beautiful, brilliant look; the tears were running down her cheeks as she finally extended her shivering thumb to test the reliability of the shape before her. It complied with a kiss. The same, huge grin to follow; she observed, with pleasure; the crooked nose, the unchangeably bizarre ears, the twinkle in his focused glance. The same man, basically. "You're back", she blurted out, in utter delight, and he nodded. "Seemed as the only appropriate undertaking. Especially considering the season." The wide-awake girl tucked in his embrace replied to this with an incredulous expression that he later changed with an action consisting of another kiss and a more explanatory follow-up phrase: "Merry Christmas, Rose." She beamed, then gasped, then rolled her eyes. She cupped his jaw, one palm on either side, whilst he - on his side - gave the impression of an insolent child. The innocense was so tangible, she found it hard to bear. No wonder he challenged her concentration. Self-reproaching, albeit not very regretful, she let him in on her newest finding. "I forgot", she said, "in the midst of everything, I've forgotten!" Three seconds passed, then it dawned on him, and he was laughing out loud. On which she punched him lovingly in the stomach. Multiple times, till he was shrieking his surrender; yet his fits of laughter prevented them both from putting a stop to it. "But still", he continued, when finally regaining his strength to speak and having captured both her fists in a firm grip, "that is of a somewhat lessened importance to me, at the moment. Also, I can think of worse things you could have forgotten." She smiled back at him, and leaned in to seal that agreement properly. After a short while, she added the obvious, but necessary greeting that would make his hearts leap and the idea of forever come a giant, reassuring bit closer:
"Merry Christmas, my Doctor."
FANFICTION: "DOCTOR WHO". Reunion-fic, starring Ten and Rose, loads of shippy innuendos. Set post-Doomsday, and thus spoilerish. One, ultimate version of the possible meeting between two timeless lovers. Sad and angsty, but bear in mind the Christmas factor. And the fact that I still, and always, love Happy Endings. Option: the second paragraph constitutes a kind of choice If you like the official "Doomsday" version, you can either stop reading and love my continuity, or love my continuty and accept my personal twist which follows immediately. Alternative: the first paragraph may be seen as a "Doomsday" alteration, whereas the other one is (sort of) series four-related; could be a connection between the two events. Regardless, my starting point for the fic was that of Rose in her bed, hearing The Doctor's voice, as seen in said "Doomsday". Moreover, one may of course interpret as one pleases, although reader moderation is recommended. Don't read to much into it, in other words. Disclaimer: All characters property of the BBC. I don't own the BBC, but the BBC owns me - heart and soul. Thanks for lending me themes I never tire of writing about. All my love, to the Series of a Lifetime and the Production Company I adore. Happy Holidays, guys!
"Present for imagination"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et and the ever-so-devoted fangirl.
"Rose..."
Just a breath. A meak, warm breath of air against her ear lobes, softly drifting into the auditory senses and colliding with her dozing consciousness, pulling her out of her sleep. Slowly. Like fingertips dancing smoothly across her forehead, in the perfect steps of a waltz, tracing the line of her hair and sliding through loose strains at the back. She shivered slightly when the neck came in contact with the unmistakable form of a knuckle, drawing fleeting strokes along her arteries. She hadn't open her eyes yet; mostly because this mysterious guest to her intimate spheres opted for a few light touches across her lids as well. Lying perfectly still, she let the caressing continue, and hoped its originator was aware of the tiny smile on her lips that it had brought about. Judging from the increasing pressure against her skin, that had already been affirmed. Her duvet was folded carelessly around her body, the neck of her night gown had shifted out of place and was clinging to her upper arm. The seams of its edging kept pressing into her skin, and somewhere beyond her current mental perception, there was a notion that maybe she should relocate herself to a better position; or even get up, start the day; a rational conclusion that she ought to depart from slumberland and maybe find out who the heck was playing with her face. But then she decided it could wait. After all, she was not severely bothered by the sudden intrusion. Despite the awkward resting position, and the uncertainty regarding the cicrcumstances for the physical proximity, she found this state of being absolutely comfortable. Almost unnoticeable puffs of a whispering voice lingered in the atmosphere above her, and whilst mesmerized by its low tone, she attempted to work on her concentration and determine the various syllables. An urge grew, within her drowsiness, to figure out some meaning behind the kind-sounding utterance. After a while of furrowing her brows, and picking up a few familiarities, she changed her mind and decided the murmuring were not to be conceived, it must rather be fully appreciated. If only as dream-caused illusions, accentuated by the surrouning silence. A trail of despair caught up with her, when she realized, but she brushed it away with the equally strong desire to enjoy the illusion as long as it lasted. It was hardly the first. But quite real, she thought, even deceptively realistic. She remembered the many earlier occasions when she had supposed it would be truth, not dare. Just to be disappointed again, much more than she could bear. So this time, she rejected it. Happily, she dove into a rhythm of patting and humming, and induldged in the sweet devotion of the stranger. There was a quick break when the bed moved and she felt a pile of warmth shoot up her spine as someone, obviously another person, lay down beside her, and the first and most foremost sentiment that hit her brainwork was oh my god, I can't tell anyone about this dream, they'll think I've gone insane. And of course, when she eventually exited this set of made-up pieces, this wishful thinking, she would never mention it again. In fact, she told no-one about her multiple situations of flashbacks and false discoveries. They wouldn't be able to comfort her in the manner she craved, nor would she have been able demand it. Such was the fate she was condemned to, and that was a fate which she, right now, didn't wish to achnowledge. "Rose", came the whisper, buried into her nape, and further out in the realms of her awareness, she pictured the never-ending stir inside the never-tidied console room. The rapid motion and the extatic exclamantions, the tumbling over loose wires and their friends' shouting as the ship heeled. Desperately, she clung to the prospects of these being something else than images of her imagination. That she didn't wake because she didn't have to, that her response was due to recognition; the grand, old instincts; and that she would be allowed to trust in this. Willing to endure anything, as long as she were given a single chance. The sleeping body apparently wanted no further hesitation, so it made the choice on her behalf. She lifted her arm, out of pure habit, and gave room for the other to tuck his underneath. A steady grip tightened around her waist and she grabbed the cold hand at the end, warming it with her own. The load of memories washed over her, engulfing her in a breathtaking flood of glee and pain and connection and sorrow. These trips; the wanting, the waiting, the never-ceasing lust for adventure. How they'd played with the most terrible, abhorringly ugly and fearful or forces; how they'd laughed at darkness until they were sure it'd vanished. At least all they could see was the light. They made a run for it, the two of them, and they honestly thought they wouldn't be interrupted. Despite facing danger every day, or maybe precisely therefore, they'd distanced themselves from it. Now, she felt it all coming back. Every, single, minute, insignificant, inexorable part if it. Suddenly, she'd returned to this peculiar life she once beheld, without having given it any grave concern, without challenge. A dreamer's invitation; would be on no account refused. And so, she shook off her doubt. Again. She locked her fingers around his, like she used to, and squeezed her gaze shut. A chin was placed gently in an oblong cave of skin and bone on her shoulder blade, fitting perfectly, and the voice whispered her name once more, slowly, with explicit security, and she thought this is enough, right here, this is all I need. This is my home. Please, please don't go.
"I won't go", she heard from the neighbour pillow, "I promise". She wanted to reply how he'd said so the last time, too, how he'd always made himself indispensable through promises. But just as she wanted to break free of the grasp, to cut off the taunting visions, the voice went on. "I came to stay", it lured, "and about time, I reckon, my apologies for being a little late - but truly, you should know what I went through to get here. Blimey. There was this sandstorm combined with a space tremor, major star dust undertow and a rocket off course in the middle of it, really inconvenient, and I was sucked into a - I dunno, spiral caleidoscope thing - and you should have seen me riding the tide wave of the whole...", at this point she'd turned and was staring disbelievingly into his overly enthusiastic face. Then taking in his messy hairdo, his crinkled shirt, his more recently acquired wrinkles; the striking appearance of someone who oughtn't be there, but seemed to have popped up anyway. Work of magic, how typical. Some other signs of ageing, a different colour to his suit, and an awful tie - but she instantly knew, nonetheless. That beautiful, brilliant look; the tears were running down her cheeks as she finally extended her shivering thumb to test the reliability of the shape before her. It complied with a kiss. The same, huge grin to follow; she observed, with pleasure; the crooked nose, the unchangeably bizarre ears, the twinkle in his focused glance. The same man, basically. "You're back", she blurted out, in utter delight, and he nodded. "Seemed as the only appropriate undertaking. Especially considering the season." The wide-awake girl tucked in his embrace replied to this with an incredulous expression that he later changed with an action consisting of another kiss and a more explanatory follow-up phrase: "Merry Christmas, Rose." She beamed, then gasped, then rolled her eyes. She cupped his jaw, one palm on either side, whilst he - on his side - gave the impression of an insolent child. The innocense was so tangible, she found it hard to bear. No wonder he challenged her concentration. Self-reproaching, albeit not very regretful, she let him in on her newest finding. "I forgot", she said, "in the midst of everything, I've forgotten!" Three seconds passed, then it dawned on him, and he was laughing out loud. On which she punched him lovingly in the stomach. Multiple times, till he was shrieking his surrender; yet his fits of laughter prevented them both from putting a stop to it. "But still", he continued, when finally regaining his strength to speak and having captured both her fists in a firm grip, "that is of a somewhat lessened importance to me, at the moment. Also, I can think of worse things you could have forgotten." She smiled back at him, and leaned in to seal that agreement properly. After a short while, she added the obvious, but necessary greeting that would make his hearts leap and the idea of forever come a giant, reassuring bit closer:
"Merry Christmas, my Doctor."
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
The (oh-so-sonic) Radicals
Writing this from another location, in another condition. Soundtrack: Christmas carols. From folks such as George Michael and Toni Braxton. Just when I'd left for home and was determined to spend some days with peace and quiet, not fussing about with daily checkings of internet news sites, just relaxing and let time pass without any particular involvement or engagement on my behalf, the whole world (seems to have) decided to go on a rather dramatic course of radical change, and the poor holidaying me suddenly had to deal with massive amounts of updates in various departments. Exceptional, extraordinary events to rattle my state of attempted, idle holiday harmony. Instead, I was faced with a need for intense skimming of fan communities. Such as The Doctor's. For one thing, I discovered that Catherine Tate is EVIL! It is now official, the woman is a prankster of outergalactic stature - suitably enough - and her out of the blue revelation of David Tennant's "departure from Doctor Who" was, apparently, just a joke! And a really bad one too! This according to David himself, no less, who's now stated that the woman "stitched him up good and proper" with her speech on Jonathan Ross, and that she was allegedly "oblivious" to the fact that his phone had been ringing non stop for hours thereafter. Well, thanks a lot, Cathy. You made us all a bunch of nervous wrecks there - possible conditions and doubt and all. Despire the fact that I completely adore her acting, and do find (or found, hehe) her incredibly clever as a person, that was truly a mean deed towards someone she's working with that close and whose character is currently one of the most beloved on television. Not to mention the fans. Think I just did, though. Fans go crazy following pronouncements like this. Which is probably exactly why she did it. Anyways, good news for all namely fans, as of now - David Tennant is NOT leaving the show and still claims to be having the "best job in the Universe". Hurray! We can rejoice in further adventures of the ever-so-charming Time Lord. And Rose Tyler. Maybe not together, for David has also disproved of filiming scenes with her. "But we will understand it all at the right time, when the context becomes clearer." Heard that one before, yeah.
Second, the Christmas Special has its special screening the other night, an occasion which saw the attendance of many...familiar faces. Jackie, Mickey - and The Doc! Very sweet to see parts of the old gang back and chatting again. Even Sarah Jane - sorry Liz Sladen - was present. Moreover, we got the first, few sneek peaks from what we've got to expect from the upcoming Special, And due to what we've been granted so far of info and spoilers and clips, I think it's fair to say it definately looks extremely promising. A bit shocking too. There's the whole TARDIS/Astrid anagram which is becoming increasingly curious and there's the scene where The Doctor is GARGANTUOUS SPOILER ALERT snogging Astrid, aka Kylie Minogue. Which should be quite distressing for all the fangirls. Or, maybe not? Okay, David had already stated many times that for sure, if you've actually got someone like her (meaning Kylie) onboard the TARDIS, wouldn't you want them to share a kiss? On the other hand, this doesn't look very innocent and casual, peck on the lips, this looks pretty passionate. And strange as it might seem, I honestly don't mind. Troubled, moi? Nopes, not this time around. If it'd been Martha, Donna, Romana, Susan (ugh!), Sarah Jane, any other companion, I would've wanted to kill the man. Seeing that his love and kissing should be reserved for a certain blonde with kick-ass abilities. But, come on, this is Kylie. And it's Christmas. And, again, it's kind of sweet. Also, and that's probably the main reason for my strange, whole-hearted accept - her name is an anagram of the TARDIS. Gotta mean something? Or maybe it's just there to disgust us slightly. Ergo, that we haven't yet fathomed to what extent The Doctor loves his ship, and maybe he loves it so much, he is in fact more than willing to make out with it. Way of caressing it. He is stroking the console a lot. And calling it "girl". Well, it is a girl. Ships usually are female. And the TARDIS is a very special ship. Mind you, these Time Machines were "grown", consequently they are living beings. And that puts the whole kissing thing into a kind of perspective. Regardless of the weirdness. This is Doctor Who, and as long as the direct "victim" of the kissing desire comes in the form of Miss "I should be so lucky"-Minogue, there's no reason to object - is there? Didn't think so! In other words: we've got sinking space ships, alien waitresses, nostalgia, off-planet Christmas celebrations, bizarre villains, blue people, red people, spikey people (love the spikes-man! looks like mister Sith from Episode 1!!!), soap star people, really annoying people...Ladies and Gentleman, here comes the never-ending row of surprises and matters to fuss about, with endless lists of questions, unsolvable logic problems, puzzles, riddles, spoilers, disasters, fantastic writing, poor writing, amazing sets, wobbly sets, and in one single adjective: fascination. I am fascinated by "Doctor Who". Basic description, need nothing further. Once you're grabbed, it won't let go. Once you've got a taste, you can't wait to have the whole piece. I'm more of a victim than Kylie'll ever be. All I want for Christmas truly is My Doctor - with a tiny twist of Screwdriver magic. Won't disappoint!
Second, the Christmas Special has its special screening the other night, an occasion which saw the attendance of many...familiar faces. Jackie, Mickey - and The Doc! Very sweet to see parts of the old gang back and chatting again. Even Sarah Jane - sorry Liz Sladen - was present. Moreover, we got the first, few sneek peaks from what we've got to expect from the upcoming Special, And due to what we've been granted so far of info and spoilers and clips, I think it's fair to say it definately looks extremely promising. A bit shocking too. There's the whole TARDIS/Astrid anagram which is becoming increasingly curious and there's the scene where The Doctor is GARGANTUOUS SPOILER ALERT snogging Astrid, aka Kylie Minogue. Which should be quite distressing for all the fangirls. Or, maybe not? Okay, David had already stated many times that for sure, if you've actually got someone like her (meaning Kylie) onboard the TARDIS, wouldn't you want them to share a kiss? On the other hand, this doesn't look very innocent and casual, peck on the lips, this looks pretty passionate. And strange as it might seem, I honestly don't mind. Troubled, moi? Nopes, not this time around. If it'd been Martha, Donna, Romana, Susan (ugh!), Sarah Jane, any other companion, I would've wanted to kill the man. Seeing that his love and kissing should be reserved for a certain blonde with kick-ass abilities. But, come on, this is Kylie. And it's Christmas. And, again, it's kind of sweet. Also, and that's probably the main reason for my strange, whole-hearted accept - her name is an anagram of the TARDIS. Gotta mean something? Or maybe it's just there to disgust us slightly. Ergo, that we haven't yet fathomed to what extent The Doctor loves his ship, and maybe he loves it so much, he is in fact more than willing to make out with it. Way of caressing it. He is stroking the console a lot. And calling it "girl". Well, it is a girl. Ships usually are female. And the TARDIS is a very special ship. Mind you, these Time Machines were "grown", consequently they are living beings. And that puts the whole kissing thing into a kind of perspective. Regardless of the weirdness. This is Doctor Who, and as long as the direct "victim" of the kissing desire comes in the form of Miss "I should be so lucky"-Minogue, there's no reason to object - is there? Didn't think so! In other words: we've got sinking space ships, alien waitresses, nostalgia, off-planet Christmas celebrations, bizarre villains, blue people, red people, spikey people (love the spikes-man! looks like mister Sith from Episode 1!!!), soap star people, really annoying people...Ladies and Gentleman, here comes the never-ending row of surprises and matters to fuss about, with endless lists of questions, unsolvable logic problems, puzzles, riddles, spoilers, disasters, fantastic writing, poor writing, amazing sets, wobbly sets, and in one single adjective: fascination. I am fascinated by "Doctor Who". Basic description, need nothing further. Once you're grabbed, it won't let go. Once you've got a taste, you can't wait to have the whole piece. I'm more of a victim than Kylie'll ever be. All I want for Christmas truly is My Doctor - with a tiny twist of Screwdriver magic. Won't disappoint!
Monday, December 17, 2007
Eating habits. And Christmas.
Soundtrack: CHRISTMAS SONGS! By Mariah Carey, Natalie Cole, Chris Rea, ABBA, you name it. I went out for lunch with two good friends from the University last Friday, and one of them gave a striking - if very appropriate - comment on my choice of dish. Seeing that I chose "chocolate cake with ice cream", whilst the two others had gratinated bread and vegetables and thus opted for something far more "healthy", as commonly considered, my friend found it reasonable to inquire: "How come I've never seen you consume a proper, nutricious kind of meal - as in EVER?!" Wherafter we all started laughing, pretty loudly, and I tried to talk my way out of it, arguing that we had mozarella pizza together once, and that there had to be some time when she'd seen me eat bread or baguettes or whatever, but she fended that off by describing what I usually have to eat when we're together - in the university cantine - which is neither pizza nor bread, in fact far from it; ie my beloved doubledecker; hence, I eventually had to give up, admitting to her allegations. Harsh, but true. I then explained, very humbly, how I do eat either sweet or "sensible", but that I also need both, and she accepted that (with a risible face). And then I offered them a taste of my delicious cake, and had them finally and entirely shut up about the matter. After all, I do eat chocolate for lunch and vegetable stew for dinner, no problemo. But it is a fact that I might want to re-consider my eating habits a bit. Could have chocolate cake for dinner as well, maybe? No, dear, might want to put myself on some kind of Hollywood-diet of spinach and egg whites instead. Ugh. OK, explanation time, and let's have a short story about how I tend to function as a physical being; probably relevant, since I'm so frequently decribing my more mental habits and my somewhar abstract, intellectual desires rather than confirming how I am indeed an ordinary human with ordinary human dispositions. (This is why this will never be a proper blog. I'm not nearly distressed enough, with wobbly knees and head aches, it simply doesn't concern me.) Thing is, I'm like a strangely built and slightly unpredictable automobile. I mean, I have no idea about cars, but the metaphor will have to do. I'm really an old bird; I've got well-worn tyres but I still roll. My body's like a machine. It needs maintenance. And the required type of gasoline for my tank is made of dark, sinful materials. In a very figurative meaning. Products you wouldn't normally recommend for a vehicle of my classification. A little more caretaking, some extra attendance and a round of polishing, and I'll be as good as new. Working perfectly, on every occasion. I'll bat my lighting eyes and flash my shiny paint and you won't be able to resist. Come to think of it, and quite amusingly, the whole car-parallellism also applies to many (other) sides of my personality. I do tend to be driven in the wrong directions, I often choke when pushed a little too hard. (See: early mornings and pre-exam stress.) And sometimes I experience engine failure. I wake up parked in unfamiliar garages and outside strange houses, I'm often incompetent in conversation and all I can do is grumble. Angry grinding. Or whooshing, as they say on "Doctor Who". But eventually, I get my dosis of sugar and caffeine and nougat, or the likes, and then I'm up to speed and chugging about at top gear. Never mistaken. So, maybe I'm like one of those cars people criticize but can't stop buying? Like Fiats and Ladas? Which are decent vehicles, but have particular demands - or, wishes - making them cars with true personality. My family's got a grey Fiat Scudo and it definately has a mind of its own. A very decisive one. And when it doesn't want to go any further, it doesn't hesitate to tell us. Bang! in the middle of the highway; my parents getting furious and itself playing dead. Yeah, now and then I do feel like turning off the ignition and just sit right down, somewhere inconvenient, behaving contrarily until someone feeds me chocolate muffins and cappuccino. Hang on, I think I've actually done that. But, odd behaviour set aside, it all comes down to a share of necessary input that I yearn for, and this leads me to another discussion with regard to something incredibly obvious, at the current moment:
We're closing in on Christmas, the time of year when folks around the world induldge in the best kinds of food the grocery stores have to offer; this one week when we allow ourselves to bask in numerous, luxurious gourmet dishes and all the sweets we can possibly gobble; why should that be anything different? Why is such gluttony an accepted tradition, and not my "improper" cake lunches? I enjoy my little piece of "Holiday"; my ordinary Christmas, if you like; every single day of the year. As long as one doesn't overdo it, that works excellently. I hate saving the entire load of fun for one specific period, into which you will then have to cram everything, and where you must take on the whole lot of amusement - which, again, often turns Christmas time into an overdose of forced-on pleasure, making it all the less amusing. But still, Christmas is very special to me, and will always remain so, it holds a special place in my heart that - on the whole - might need to be visited a little more often than with other people. Consequently, I can also enjoy every aspect of Christmas, albeit in smaller portions, because I know that January isn't the end of it, just the new start for my ongoing adventure of cookies for breakfast and brownies for lunch. And the rest of it. Haha. Mostly, I don't wish for Holidays to end. I think that's my biggest obstacle, and probably why I regard myself slightly childish. I like to do something completely "irresponsible", even during weekdays, in the sense that you move plans that were orgininally reserved for the weekends to an ordinary Wednesday. So let me emphasize, it's the same with Saturdays. I love Saturdays. They are the best. And because that makes me miss them, when it's Monday and back to school and boredom, and the lot, I grant myself some Saturday feeling on days that aren't even close to being Saturday. It's the notion, the atmosphere, of the Holidays, the vacations, the weekends; the relaxation and the tranquility. The good mood. It makes us genuinely harmonic, so why should we deny it? Yup, that is the überimportant morale of this (overly long) post is: there's no wrongdoing in allowing oneself this (or any) treat! Every day! It's the same as saying live everyday as though it were your last. Or: live life with a smile. Can't do that if you're thinking about nutrition all the bloody time, now, can you? I proclaim, let us fully delight in the happiness of the Yuletide, with its calories and crackers, and draw inspiration from how it teaches us to make others happy. Why do we (I) love Christmas so much; presumably because it's a fulfillment of these various elements of joy that we (I) crave, in life. It's an example of how good life can be, and thus; let it be an example to follow, closely, to teach us how to make our lives even better. Not consider all the dangers and possible weight gains. Not worry about the blinking, disturbingly fading light bulbs amongst the bright red decorations. There are plenty of problems in the Universe to deal with, already, we could surely use our Christmassy ability to push them aside during the rest of the year. For the lucky ones who can both afford and take part in the celebration, the ones who aren't lonely or sad or bound to go without Christmas dinner; count your blessings, instead of uncounting the days 'till you have to be "well-functioning" again. And revel in every day of Christmas as you revel in every other day you can spend with all the opportunities you've been given. That's my ideal. And when I feel like I can handle this irrealistic goal-making process, I drink an extra glass of wine and take an extra spin around the Christmas tree, give my dogs a proper hug and tell myself it surely could be worse.
We're closing in on Christmas, the time of year when folks around the world induldge in the best kinds of food the grocery stores have to offer; this one week when we allow ourselves to bask in numerous, luxurious gourmet dishes and all the sweets we can possibly gobble; why should that be anything different? Why is such gluttony an accepted tradition, and not my "improper" cake lunches? I enjoy my little piece of "Holiday"; my ordinary Christmas, if you like; every single day of the year. As long as one doesn't overdo it, that works excellently. I hate saving the entire load of fun for one specific period, into which you will then have to cram everything, and where you must take on the whole lot of amusement - which, again, often turns Christmas time into an overdose of forced-on pleasure, making it all the less amusing. But still, Christmas is very special to me, and will always remain so, it holds a special place in my heart that - on the whole - might need to be visited a little more often than with other people. Consequently, I can also enjoy every aspect of Christmas, albeit in smaller portions, because I know that January isn't the end of it, just the new start for my ongoing adventure of cookies for breakfast and brownies for lunch. And the rest of it. Haha. Mostly, I don't wish for Holidays to end. I think that's my biggest obstacle, and probably why I regard myself slightly childish. I like to do something completely "irresponsible", even during weekdays, in the sense that you move plans that were orgininally reserved for the weekends to an ordinary Wednesday. So let me emphasize, it's the same with Saturdays. I love Saturdays. They are the best. And because that makes me miss them, when it's Monday and back to school and boredom, and the lot, I grant myself some Saturday feeling on days that aren't even close to being Saturday. It's the notion, the atmosphere, of the Holidays, the vacations, the weekends; the relaxation and the tranquility. The good mood. It makes us genuinely harmonic, so why should we deny it? Yup, that is the überimportant morale of this (overly long) post is: there's no wrongdoing in allowing oneself this (or any) treat! Every day! It's the same as saying live everyday as though it were your last. Or: live life with a smile. Can't do that if you're thinking about nutrition all the bloody time, now, can you? I proclaim, let us fully delight in the happiness of the Yuletide, with its calories and crackers, and draw inspiration from how it teaches us to make others happy. Why do we (I) love Christmas so much; presumably because it's a fulfillment of these various elements of joy that we (I) crave, in life. It's an example of how good life can be, and thus; let it be an example to follow, closely, to teach us how to make our lives even better. Not consider all the dangers and possible weight gains. Not worry about the blinking, disturbingly fading light bulbs amongst the bright red decorations. There are plenty of problems in the Universe to deal with, already, we could surely use our Christmassy ability to push them aside during the rest of the year. For the lucky ones who can both afford and take part in the celebration, the ones who aren't lonely or sad or bound to go without Christmas dinner; count your blessings, instead of uncounting the days 'till you have to be "well-functioning" again. And revel in every day of Christmas as you revel in every other day you can spend with all the opportunities you've been given. That's my ideal. And when I feel like I can handle this irrealistic goal-making process, I drink an extra glass of wine and take an extra spin around the Christmas tree, give my dogs a proper hug and tell myself it surely could be worse.
Packing for traditions
Another personal rendition of (yet) another classic christmas tune. I am indeed mocking up the holidays. Although this is not actually a song, this is more like free verse. Starting and stopping at no particular place of time or tune, just continuous and quite impatient babble from an eager Po(t)et. For, I'm so utterly anxious (again! keep being anxious these days - no wonder?) about the rest of the week, and the next week of course, the many special days to come. And soon, I will be flying home for Christmas. Packing first - but, yeah, can't wait to see those faces. Meeting me at the airport with Billie Piper honours the Fourth Doctor-length scarves and back-to-childhood bearhugs. All the fuss, the glitters, gold and trees with presents underneath; all this awaiting me. The candles and the snowy fields, the good old Christmas soundtracks and the sleigh rides. I feel I'm slowly getting into the right mood, so to speak, the condition of anticipation. That certain chill, the tickling down my spine, that says something extraordinary's on the way. It's bizarre, with all these traditions, how we never tire of them. I'm sure I could celebrate Christmas every month, I love it so much. And I have no problem with always looking forward to it. The same things every year; the expected incidents and predicted events, the same films, the same songs; and yet, it doesn't matter. We're not so different now, from when we were babies, are we? Oh, these glorious, problem-free ages when our mothers could do the "mommy's gone, mommy's there, where's mommy?"-game over and over again, and we laughed just as hard every single time. I recognize it. I recognize the sensation; in my body, in my soul, from head to toes; and it's a return - to all the blissful eras I shouldn't remember but funnily enough believe I do. Nail-bitingly happy about the long-awaited season. I could repeat that over and over again, and it seems to be my only occupation these days. I'm a little stuck with Christmas, somehow. An ever-turning loop of repetitous squee, just a bit like watching "Doctor Who", but who could blame me? Leaving on a plane tomorrow evening, my bags all filled up with surprises - and some practical items; have been pondering for ages, I've made lists of needs; planning, packing and writing in turns - and most of all I just want the transport to another state of mind. This grand, old trip across the rooftops - literally - and it's gonna take some hours, but I'll be there. Coming home for Christmas, once again.
And, moreover: Apart from packing, I've also completed the DW-calendar's Dalek-game today. All twelve levels, I eventually got pretty pissed. Not that it wasn't entertaining, but after the 9 first sets, you just wanted it to end. Some of them were ridiculously difficult too, and the Dalek isn't the most flexible first-hand player in Time and Space. But cool to be in control of one's own villain, no doubt! Anyways, when finished, I did get my fabulous reward - identical with the one I got for the companion quiz; an exclusive behind-the-scenes peak of "Voyage of the Damned"! Hurray...or maybe a little disappointing, yeah? However, a very cute picture this time - of David and Kylie together - and so secret and well-earnt, I decided to post it here for everyone to see. Happy Holidays-to-come, to the lot of you, and remember to watch the Christmas Überspecial on the 25th! ;) Copyright the BBC, I'm sure - in fact, this is the closest I'll ever get to proper picture stealing. Grab and go. Well, run. They do look lovely together, though, and I hope the Beeb will pardon my insolence. It is Christmas (soon), after all. I says; thank you!
And, moreover: Apart from packing, I've also completed the DW-calendar's Dalek-game today. All twelve levels, I eventually got pretty pissed. Not that it wasn't entertaining, but after the 9 first sets, you just wanted it to end. Some of them were ridiculously difficult too, and the Dalek isn't the most flexible first-hand player in Time and Space. But cool to be in control of one's own villain, no doubt! Anyways, when finished, I did get my fabulous reward - identical with the one I got for the companion quiz; an exclusive behind-the-scenes peak of "Voyage of the Damned"! Hurray...or maybe a little disappointing, yeah? However, a very cute picture this time - of David and Kylie together - and so secret and well-earnt, I decided to post it here for everyone to see. Happy Holidays-to-come, to the lot of you, and remember to watch the Christmas Überspecial on the 25th! ;) Copyright the BBC, I'm sure - in fact, this is the closest I'll ever get to proper picture stealing. Grab and go. Well, run. They do look lovely together, though, and I hope the Beeb will pardon my insolence. It is Christmas (soon), after all. I says; thank you!
[David Tennant (The Doctor) in close conversation with Kylie Minogue (Astrid Perth), planning an attack on the Evil Angels - perhaps? Regardless the circumstances, me is looking forward to seeing this coupling on-screen! Very much!]
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Mother Love
It's late, it's late...but, I mean, what do you do? When you should be doing something else, then people give you other things that needs to be done, and you'd rather do them? Here and now? You go to work, that's what! And turns it on - Mr. Bad Guy and also - soundtrack: "Prelude for time feelers" - Eluvium. "Dead to the world" - Röyksopp. Ever so suitable. Have grown attached to Boxed @ the LJ and her brilliant, exclusive fanmixes. From Doctor Who, Heroes, House, no less. Similar minds think alike and think well! So, although I can't comment right there below, I give you credit here: big thanks to Carina, you clever girl I wish I knew!
Po(t)etens Oppdrag nr. XI: å takke min mor.
Kategori: sentimental ode til familiemedlem.
Og andre lesere, forsåvidt. Som deg, KATRIN!! :)
Fordi dere er så greie og kommenterer det jeg skriver!
Randi said, today @ 8:40 PM: "Jeg fornemmer en tone av motstand og opposisjon men den er så fin og vag den tonen...jeg måtte lese mange ganger før jeg fikk helt tak i hva det var jeg fornemmet. Poeten har en veldig fin streng som vibrerer kjenner jeg."
Hvordan går det an å forstå slik? Jeg har en genial tolker i min mor, likeledes er min mor genial på fortolkninger. Min mor er generelt litt genial. Og dette har hun da virkelig dreisen på. Poetiske strenger, aldri tenkt på dét. Egentlig. Men hun har rett. Er noe skjørt og tynt og samtidig holdbart der, i poesien, noe som dirrer under vekten av ens egne tanker og dernest las fare over mot en annen side (av publikasjon og offentliggjøring), mens denne sammenhengende bevegelsen; den konstante murringen; blir igjen. Det evige ved diktningen, tror jeg, og den ofte utiltenkte effekten; dette man bidrar med selv, kanskje ubevisst, og ender opp med å yte til leserne, til de som ønsker å tolke. Noe mamma fanget opp og klarte å reflektere med to setninger, om fornemmelse. Imponert. Og kanskje er det nettopp slik, at man ikke ser essensen i egne dikt nøyaktig i den forstand man burde, at man trenger utenforstående "sensorer" som kan kommentere her og der og gi en...elegante hint om hva som funker. Og at det er enklere for dem, at de ser det mer umiddelbart. Tingen er at det mamma skriver alltid passer så godt, at hun alltid ser de poetiske intensjonene, og ofte før jeg ser dem selv. Som sagt. Så jeg besluttet å si takk på den eneste måten jeg syntes var passende, i retur, og det ble da et lite hyllest-dikt til min mor og mødre generelt, fordi det er noe eget med moderlig forståelse, og fordi pappa allerede har fått et hyllest-dikt om hvordan han også (stadig) forstår meg! ;) Ergo, det gjelder dere begge. Jeg er så heldig å ha foreldre som leser det jeg skriver, og alltid har gjort det, og som ikke går av veien for å være både (særdeles) kritiske og meget konsise, direkte, i sin kritikk - sådan - men da også poengtert, så utrolig forståelsesfulle, for det jeg driver med. Ikke alle Po(t)eter kan skilte med slike fordeler i bakhånd! Jeg tror det er en trygghet i å ha positive (og altså, stundom mer kritiske) kommentatorer å lene seg på, når livet (og andre, mindre forståelsesfulle mennesker, les: universitetsansatte) går en imot.
"Of my sincerest thankfullness"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et - written for Randi, my mother, and loyal commentator. Best interpretor of my subtle, double meanings - providing interpretations I didn't even expect. Never thought of my thoughts the way she thinks of them, is that a good thing? Possibly. According to the following verse: DEFINITELY.
made my evening, mother
who keeps on understanding
my poetic strings so perfectly
albeit their quivering interferes
she remains the mountain high
of motherly compassion and critique
whatever works she'd tell
to carry thoughts across the void
and fleeting barriers aside
beyond the lines she grasps
and makes my memories matter
publicized for readers
such as her and be there likes
of what she comprehends in truth
within the methods I don't get
but she finds all spot-on
like silver needles in the rotten hay
reflected with a sentenced clear
gave evidence, impression,
mother knowing best and of the rest
the turning wheels, the devils
sees me through, and holds me up
to clock in safely at the other side
beholding comments sure enough
of thin and icey, yet so steadfast
writings from a poet's pen
Po(t)etens Oppdrag nr. XI: å takke min mor.
Kategori: sentimental ode til familiemedlem.
Og andre lesere, forsåvidt. Som deg, KATRIN!! :)
Fordi dere er så greie og kommenterer det jeg skriver!
Randi said, today @ 8:40 PM: "Jeg fornemmer en tone av motstand og opposisjon men den er så fin og vag den tonen...jeg måtte lese mange ganger før jeg fikk helt tak i hva det var jeg fornemmet. Poeten har en veldig fin streng som vibrerer kjenner jeg."
Hvordan går det an å forstå slik? Jeg har en genial tolker i min mor, likeledes er min mor genial på fortolkninger. Min mor er generelt litt genial. Og dette har hun da virkelig dreisen på. Poetiske strenger, aldri tenkt på dét. Egentlig. Men hun har rett. Er noe skjørt og tynt og samtidig holdbart der, i poesien, noe som dirrer under vekten av ens egne tanker og dernest las fare over mot en annen side (av publikasjon og offentliggjøring), mens denne sammenhengende bevegelsen; den konstante murringen; blir igjen. Det evige ved diktningen, tror jeg, og den ofte utiltenkte effekten; dette man bidrar med selv, kanskje ubevisst, og ender opp med å yte til leserne, til de som ønsker å tolke. Noe mamma fanget opp og klarte å reflektere med to setninger, om fornemmelse. Imponert. Og kanskje er det nettopp slik, at man ikke ser essensen i egne dikt nøyaktig i den forstand man burde, at man trenger utenforstående "sensorer" som kan kommentere her og der og gi en...elegante hint om hva som funker. Og at det er enklere for dem, at de ser det mer umiddelbart. Tingen er at det mamma skriver alltid passer så godt, at hun alltid ser de poetiske intensjonene, og ofte før jeg ser dem selv. Som sagt. Så jeg besluttet å si takk på den eneste måten jeg syntes var passende, i retur, og det ble da et lite hyllest-dikt til min mor og mødre generelt, fordi det er noe eget med moderlig forståelse, og fordi pappa allerede har fått et hyllest-dikt om hvordan han også (stadig) forstår meg! ;) Ergo, det gjelder dere begge. Jeg er så heldig å ha foreldre som leser det jeg skriver, og alltid har gjort det, og som ikke går av veien for å være både (særdeles) kritiske og meget konsise, direkte, i sin kritikk - sådan - men da også poengtert, så utrolig forståelsesfulle, for det jeg driver med. Ikke alle Po(t)eter kan skilte med slike fordeler i bakhånd! Jeg tror det er en trygghet i å ha positive (og altså, stundom mer kritiske) kommentatorer å lene seg på, når livet (og andre, mindre forståelsesfulle mennesker, les: universitetsansatte) går en imot.
"Of my sincerest thankfullness"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et - written for Randi, my mother, and loyal commentator. Best interpretor of my subtle, double meanings - providing interpretations I didn't even expect. Never thought of my thoughts the way she thinks of them, is that a good thing? Possibly. According to the following verse: DEFINITELY.
made my evening, mother
who keeps on understanding
my poetic strings so perfectly
albeit their quivering interferes
she remains the mountain high
of motherly compassion and critique
whatever works she'd tell
to carry thoughts across the void
and fleeting barriers aside
beyond the lines she grasps
and makes my memories matter
publicized for readers
such as her and be there likes
of what she comprehends in truth
within the methods I don't get
but she finds all spot-on
like silver needles in the rotten hay
reflected with a sentenced clear
gave evidence, impression,
mother knowing best and of the rest
the turning wheels, the devils
sees me through, and holds me up
to clock in safely at the other side
beholding comments sure enough
of thin and icey, yet so steadfast
writings from a poet's pen
The Long Wait
NOW, LET'S SEE. 10 DAYS AND COUNTING.
OVERLOADED WITH EXCITEMENT, CAN'T HELP IT.
(ALSO: INSTANT, IMMEDIATE WANT TO SQUEEZE-HUG SCOTTISH SPEAKING ALIEN BOY WITH REALLY FANCY OUTFIT AND ÜBERSEXY GLASSES.)
*THEN COME THE DRUM ROLLS*
OKAY. HERE GOES:
OVERLOADED WITH EXCITEMENT, CAN'T HELP IT.
(ALSO: INSTANT, IMMEDIATE WANT TO SQUEEZE-HUG SCOTTISH SPEAKING ALIEN BOY WITH REALLY FANCY OUTFIT AND ÜBERSEXY GLASSES.)
*THEN COME THE DRUM ROLLS*
OKAY. HERE GOES:
"I'm The Doctor. I'm a Time Lord.
I'm 903 years old and I'm the man
who's gonna save YOUR life
and all 6 billion people on the planet below.
You got a problem with that?!"
Nope. Not at all. Feel free to save my life anytime, David. Preferrably in a tux. This new trailer for "Voyage of the Damned" gives an absolutely fantastic first glance of what appears to be an absolutely fantastic episode, at least that was my first impression, and I adore the choice of music. Then again, that spooky Rose meets The Doctor-theme was always a favourite of mine. Strange thing. Let it also be said that Kylie comes off as an extraordinarily cool assistant, much more than I'd dare hope for, and I'm happy to say that. Note that this overwhelming supposition of acting abilities follows a 2 minute preview of a 70 minute show, which does say a lot. Ooh, the auspicious notions. I love her albums, but I honestly didn't think she could act (judging from her early videos and the horrendous "Neighbours"...*shivers*...) but prejudice aside, this looks as good as it can possibly get. Doctor Who meets Disaster Movie (yup, David's said so himself) meets James Cameron meets Star Trek meets...I dunno. Itself, in the mirror, perchance. I'm expecting traditional Christmas Special-style with ridiculous monsters and inappropriate references to the creation of Earth; waitress costumes, spikey-faces, singing blue villain folks and all. Like the man said, will rescue all inhabitants in the world and probably grant us all a very Merry Christmas along the way. Me is anxious. With barely contained excitement, that is. Still, and with ten more days of waiting, I might go a bit mad. Which, again, is a mood that should suit the return of "Doctor Who" just fine.
And by the way, about the accurate explication of the age-thing: "Doctor Who" is (I further suppose) the only show on television, or in existence, ever, which develops its story arc in the impeccable way that it simply adds new information for every possible continuity error that may appear, to avoid logical flaws, and actually manages to make this rewriting make sense. And with new information comes new explanations. Twist, turn, there you have it. Makes the whole series even more brilliant, in my opinion. So, what if you want to argue The Doctor can't actually be 903 years old precisely? He lied, he died, he regenerated, he met his old self, he played cricket, he shot a piano, he killed a Dalek on the way. He had an injection of mysterious huon particles that accidentally changes Time Lord DNA. He snogged Rose and absorbed the Time Vortex. Loads of sensible tie-in procedures there, everything's more likely than the less likely rest. Limitless potential, as usual, and how I love it! Also, if nothing else helps to explain, let's settle for the whole wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey-stuff again. Steven Moffat agrees, I applaud. Ten cheers for travelling in time!
Drastic moments Whovian Spoiler Update!
Soundtrack: "Drastic Measures" - Sarah Slean. Uhm, in the midst of everything; according to someone who should know this (Catherine Tate), David Tennant is going to quit "Doctor Who" after completing Series 4. Apparently, she revealed this somewhat überspoilerish fact on National Television, no less, while visiting talk show host Jonathan Ross. So it's not even a secret anymore. I found the whole transcript here at the DW-LiveJournal, and the discussions are all over the net as I write, with various opinions in often contrary, sometimes compatible directions as to what one might think of a new Time Lord and whether one will actually miss David. The reasons for the possibly true departure remain unknown, however, and it could be a piece of utter rubbish that someone posted on a DW-comm., just to be funny, and which the Beeb will deny shortly, but it seems people agree to have heard her speech correctly. And if she indeed stated this, why would Catherine Tate who stars in Doctor Who, lie about such a matter? She also confirmed that her character Donna will only stay for one more season (big tell-tale-heart day for you, Cathy?) and not feature in the three specials coming in 2009 - but also that David Tennant, on the other hand, will. This means we have three stories where the subject of plot and the identity of the companions, possibly also that of The Doctor himself, is pretty unsure. I find that mildly hair-rising. Basically, because it gives these episodes indefinitite potential, but simultanously poses an enormous pitfall into which they might just as well plunge. I cross my fingers it will be three hours of fabulously unbelievably never-before-seen miraculously sci-fi GRANDEUR. A proper, fond farewell to Mister Tennant. Which is no more than he deserves. I don't really want to say anything about his qualities and how I've enjoyed his portrayal of Le Doc, at the moment, not before I know for sure that he'll leave forever, but to give you a hint: it won't be the same without him. That's for sure. And, with this particular series, what is "forever" anyway? As proven by a certain Miss Billie Piper, saying bye-bye, even if soaked in tears, doesn't necessarily mean "we'll never meet again", but rather "sorry, luv, but it will take a while for me to construct some kind of devise to jump back into your parallell world and have us reuinte, so meanwhile why don't you make yourself a cuppa tea or something?". An set of ironic circumstances, for which I am very, very grateful.
Moreover, Catherine's statement does leave room for a couple of conclusions, and some very neat ones too, like: Billie Piper and David Tennant will rejoin because David Tennant is indeed leaving, as predicted, and she didn't want to let him finish off his Doctor-era without an appropriate rencounter with Rose, as previously stated. Billie loves David, as Rose loves The Doctor; these are old speculations which cause this whole story to come as no real surprise, and leave us quite certain that the two lovebirds may in fact get some screen time together, re-establishing the bond between them, which is happy happy news. It suggests an outline of incidents that involves fanciful travels to planets made of CGI sceneries, visiting old Gallifrey, crossing borders and boundaries and maybe seeing some further cameos by the other Time Lords? That'd be great. A last resort-kind of solution would be three episodes of flashbacks, or The Doctor travelling with three new, different assistants - like the upcoming Christmas Special (more on that later!!) which looks amazing. Fine promises. To me, anyhow, the only acceptable alternative - since Rose is coming back - is a heart-warming, redeeming sort of reunion. Sad, fair enough, but on the whole a timely and fitting situation. I'd love for the two of them to continue their trips in the fashion they exhibited at the end of Series 2, in episodes like "The Satan Pit" and "Fear her". The whole style of copying "Ghostbusters", "Scooby-doo" and even "Star Wars"; wildly running around, employing techincal terms they didn't understand themselves, deducting and investigating and intruding; whilst having loads of fun. Was all such...exceptionally lovable television. Some more episodes like that - pretty, pretty please?
And finally, what I'm rooting for: adventures that lead up to a content Tenth Doctor regenerating at the end of the last special, with an older Rose present, as always holding his hand, thus fulfilling their relationship with a satisfcatory finale. She stays with him until the end, how could it else be? With the incarnation she learned to love (truly) gone, but in a "better" sense than on the last occasion, Rose can also wave the time travelling life byebye, providing a boundless future for a new Doctor with new missions, a new mind, and all loose ends tied up in the best way possible. Conflicts settled, unanswered questions hopefully solved. I hope he gets a complete memory wipe and wakes up not knowing who he is, finding a new companion, building a new TARDIS, starting a new life as a different man. That's not such a bad idea, is it? Should write a fanfic about that someday. Bottom line is, I think The Doctor deserves to be rid of the nasty memories and losses he's suffered so far, and without Rose - for Billie's not staying without David, I'm sure - our poor, beloved Time Lord must forget the past, and his past appearances, otherwise he'll just go on moping - and I'm slightly tired of the moping, to be frank. Either Ten or Rose together, as in happy times are here again, or rather Eleven with somebody utterly different. Works for James Bond, should work for The Doc. No more Martha or Donna, we need yet another fresh start. New beginnings. The above-described, afore-mentioned happy-go-lucky travelling could also work with a new Doc and a new assistant. Surely it could. But I want more of Rose/Ten, first and foremost. And of course, although Tennant's Doctor does leave the official storyline, and (most likely) takes Rose with him, that'll just result in (the ghosts of) the two of them living on blissfully and merrily on some strange planet far away, rescuing helpless aliens and saving the day, everyday, for the rest of their lives. Back to what they once were. Together. Hand-holding, immortality, indestructable love, TARDIS tales, et cetera. At least, it'll be a fate for us shippers to imagine. I'll be counting on, hoping for, that solution regardless what happens over the next series.
Moreover, Catherine's statement does leave room for a couple of conclusions, and some very neat ones too, like: Billie Piper and David Tennant will rejoin because David Tennant is indeed leaving, as predicted, and she didn't want to let him finish off his Doctor-era without an appropriate rencounter with Rose, as previously stated. Billie loves David, as Rose loves The Doctor; these are old speculations which cause this whole story to come as no real surprise, and leave us quite certain that the two lovebirds may in fact get some screen time together, re-establishing the bond between them, which is happy happy news. It suggests an outline of incidents that involves fanciful travels to planets made of CGI sceneries, visiting old Gallifrey, crossing borders and boundaries and maybe seeing some further cameos by the other Time Lords? That'd be great. A last resort-kind of solution would be three episodes of flashbacks, or The Doctor travelling with three new, different assistants - like the upcoming Christmas Special (more on that later!!) which looks amazing. Fine promises. To me, anyhow, the only acceptable alternative - since Rose is coming back - is a heart-warming, redeeming sort of reunion. Sad, fair enough, but on the whole a timely and fitting situation. I'd love for the two of them to continue their trips in the fashion they exhibited at the end of Series 2, in episodes like "The Satan Pit" and "Fear her". The whole style of copying "Ghostbusters", "Scooby-doo" and even "Star Wars"; wildly running around, employing techincal terms they didn't understand themselves, deducting and investigating and intruding; whilst having loads of fun. Was all such...exceptionally lovable television. Some more episodes like that - pretty, pretty please?
And finally, what I'm rooting for: adventures that lead up to a content Tenth Doctor regenerating at the end of the last special, with an older Rose present, as always holding his hand, thus fulfilling their relationship with a satisfcatory finale. She stays with him until the end, how could it else be? With the incarnation she learned to love (truly) gone, but in a "better" sense than on the last occasion, Rose can also wave the time travelling life byebye, providing a boundless future for a new Doctor with new missions, a new mind, and all loose ends tied up in the best way possible. Conflicts settled, unanswered questions hopefully solved. I hope he gets a complete memory wipe and wakes up not knowing who he is, finding a new companion, building a new TARDIS, starting a new life as a different man. That's not such a bad idea, is it? Should write a fanfic about that someday. Bottom line is, I think The Doctor deserves to be rid of the nasty memories and losses he's suffered so far, and without Rose - for Billie's not staying without David, I'm sure - our poor, beloved Time Lord must forget the past, and his past appearances, otherwise he'll just go on moping - and I'm slightly tired of the moping, to be frank. Either Ten or Rose together, as in happy times are here again, or rather Eleven with somebody utterly different. Works for James Bond, should work for The Doc. No more Martha or Donna, we need yet another fresh start. New beginnings. The above-described, afore-mentioned happy-go-lucky travelling could also work with a new Doc and a new assistant. Surely it could. But I want more of Rose/Ten, first and foremost. And of course, although Tennant's Doctor does leave the official storyline, and (most likely) takes Rose with him, that'll just result in (the ghosts of) the two of them living on blissfully and merrily on some strange planet far away, rescuing helpless aliens and saving the day, everyday, for the rest of their lives. Back to what they once were. Together. Hand-holding, immortality, indestructable love, TARDIS tales, et cetera. At least, it'll be a fate for us shippers to imagine. I'll be counting on, hoping for, that solution regardless what happens over the next series.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Conditions for actions
"Ripe Endowment" - [draft] - like saying you're not true
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, attempting to write something about linoleum, one thing leading to another, and - whoa! - I ended up with this. Or, well, not quite. I was going to write an introductory verse for a piece of Norwegian prose which I started off during a bus ride this evening, and there you have it - the fleeting mind, ever-so-occupied, with its the next and sudden fancies along the train tracks of my thoughts. I rest my case. Thus, the verse turned into something completely different from what I'd originally pictured would go along with the prose. And then I couldn't even finish the prose itself, so I finished this instead! It's about being evil, really, and how we discard the ideas others. At least, that was my intentions. Not quite sure what's become of it by now, though. Slightly short, for being a poem of mine, but I won't destroy it by continuing in what might become a flawed direction. Still, I have added "draft" to the title, as to indicate that it might not be completely finalized either.
I waltz over your linoleum
like sweeping a ballroom floor
with my gown as a mop
and voluminous weapon
I cradle in your filth
like an incubated tremor
with my feet for support as I rush
off the ground and into the soil
I dismember your wisdom
like a plug that unfit for the circuit
got stuck in-between to be pulled
and broke easily as a twig
I abandon your every ship
form a stowaway offcast in battle
denying the prospects you spend in haste
were to jettison back like a buoy
I murmur within your tone
like repeating without revision
chanting disillusionment with ease
an echo of your faulty constructs
I float across your universe
like infiltrating numerous black holes
I dive and dwell, I soon divide
sorting as you endeavour harvest
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, attempting to write something about linoleum, one thing leading to another, and - whoa! - I ended up with this. Or, well, not quite. I was going to write an introductory verse for a piece of Norwegian prose which I started off during a bus ride this evening, and there you have it - the fleeting mind, ever-so-occupied, with its the next and sudden fancies along the train tracks of my thoughts. I rest my case. Thus, the verse turned into something completely different from what I'd originally pictured would go along with the prose. And then I couldn't even finish the prose itself, so I finished this instead! It's about being evil, really, and how we discard the ideas others. At least, that was my intentions. Not quite sure what's become of it by now, though. Slightly short, for being a poem of mine, but I won't destroy it by continuing in what might become a flawed direction. Still, I have added "draft" to the title, as to indicate that it might not be completely finalized either.
I waltz over your linoleum
like sweeping a ballroom floor
with my gown as a mop
and voluminous weapon
I cradle in your filth
like an incubated tremor
with my feet for support as I rush
off the ground and into the soil
I dismember your wisdom
like a plug that unfit for the circuit
got stuck in-between to be pulled
and broke easily as a twig
I abandon your every ship
form a stowaway offcast in battle
denying the prospects you spend in haste
were to jettison back like a buoy
I murmur within your tone
like repeating without revision
chanting disillusionment with ease
an echo of your faulty constructs
I float across your universe
like infiltrating numerous black holes
I dive and dwell, I soon divide
sorting as you endeavour harvest
Up Against the Wallies
I spent all of yesterday (apart from some cookie making and Lebkuchen-eating with a friend) making wallpapers with the help of the newest love of my geeky life, PhotoShop, trying to teach myself some new functions and techniques. Got quite frustrated, since I realized I have too few (!) "Doctor Who"-pictures to work with. Yup, for your information, DW screencap's comes in pretty handy as excercise material. That's why I need more than 3000 of them, as well. Trying hard to justify that load of gigabyte-eating pixels, continuously, and I do have an extra hard disk that makes it somewhat less inconvenient. Also, the beauty of it all! I need no beautysleep as long as I acquire my daily, instant dosis of alarmingly handsome Doctor faces, from the Series 2 photo shoots. Lol. Fangirling, etc etc. None of these fit my design for the perfect wallie, however, so the following publications are - in other words - not the ultimate results that they could have become, potentially speaking, but I didn't bother searching through Tragical History Tour (or the likes) for more pic's and decided to use some old and well-working ones instead. These are pretty soppy and shippy and very much open for further editing. Not complete, as far as I'm concerned, but I decided to post them nonetheless. Mostly as proof that I have actually been doing something sensible in the latter days. Doesn't get any more direct than this:
The big "remember us; the times we had, the way we were"-wallpaper:
The big "remember us; the times we had, the way we were"-wallpaper:
[Copyright: Scaramouche Tyler, all rights served. PhotoShopped and stuff, very proud of my newly found ability to edit blend modes. Which, thus, was slightly overused. Also, note David Tennant's incredibly stylish James Bond-look. No wonder he's stated that he wants to play the secret agent, once, "or maybe rather a villain". I don't know what would be better. Literally speaking. In fact, this pic was taken from the "Bond-ish" scene in "The Lazarus Experiment". Other pic's from episodes 1.1., 1.2, 2.1 and - of course - angsty details from 2.13. Thanks to The Beeb, Time and Space and Imaginary Hero for many insightful tips, from a while ago. The inserted text lines are taken from my recent poem, from the Biggest Ever tenth edition of Po(t)etens Oppdrag, about The Doctor missing Rose. (What else.) The huge title in the middle is, of course, taken from the Queen song by the same name.]
...and the one that says SPOILER, then: AWWWWWW!!!
[Copyright: Scaramouche Tyler, all rights served. This is a very simple thing that I made in honour of Catherine and Billie's reappearances in Series 4, as Donna Noble and Rose Tyler, respectively. I love both actresses, with a passion, and I can't wait to see them on-screen together! Meanwhile, have to make the time fly, by counting down to the big event with fandom-infected dedications like this. Billie-pic's taken from DailyMail, actually, who just couldn't resist (fortunately!) publishing these nice behind-the-scenes shots of her on set in Cardiff. Did I mention I don't hate spoilers? I'm one of those sad stories who try to find out as much as I can, beforehand, because I want happy endings to look forward to. That's the bottom line. Consequently, my God, I fear the upcoming episodes of WHO. But this wallie at least leaves a decent promise of utter sweetness yet to be seen! Billie looks adorable, and I love Catherine's shirt. The writings are all mine, albeitvery cliché, and the star-thing was something I added as a very last touch - and which I've come to like the best about the whole thing.]
And last, some headers to go along with the rest of the themed products:
[Copyright: Scaramouche Tyler, all rights served. I love my texturizer! Actually, the last one was also made on a whim - and it seems, that's the way I work best (with PhotoShop) and the choices I make really really quick procure the best results. Shouldn't have thought so, since I am a very indecisive kind of person; who always go over things thirteen times, nitpicking, before I'm finished; but, strange as it might seem, I keep learning my PS tricks by chance, developing skills unwittingly and succeeding quite by accident. About the same way I suppose Rose will find herself thrown back into the arms of The Doctor. Chance Reuinion, sounds good to me!]
"What? What?! WHAT?!" Titanic may be sinking, but I'm still afloat...
...or already overboard. You decide. Soundtrack: Queen's new single. "Say it's not true". Brand new guitars and vocals. Oh, it feels incredible, finally being able to put that in writing!
It's been a while. What am I doing? What have I been doing? I don't know, really. I think I'm still slightly worn-out after all the reading and working over the past few weeks, I'm not quite up to normal speed yet. Strangely or understandably exhausted, trying not to mind it too much. Don't feel like my energy's pumping back immediately, and all at once, to put it that way. I think it's more likely to take some further, massive efforts on my behalf. At the moment, however, I'm not worrying about it, and I'm definately not stressing it; I'm letting this recuperation take its time, providing myself with the necessary rest, peace, quiet, beer and fine looking gentlemen (on the telly, of course) to keep me company. Going to bed at twelve, getting up at ten, feeding my soul with British celeb gossip and LiveJournal stuff for breakfast, lunch and tea. Dinner, sorry. Yeah, I'm turning into a Brit, and I thoroughly enjoy it. Must remember to work on my accent, though. (Not a 100% complete, still abusing American slang too often.) Meanwhile, I'm also doodling with PhotoShop - and that's about it, with regard to creative musings - beyond this, I'm saying bye-bye to friends who are leaving home for Christmas, drinking coffee with neighbours, strolling up and down Bergen's beautifully lighted Christmas Streets, shopping for presents and having a great time. Quite simply. Relaxing, listening to good music, eating clementines. Mind you, The Doctor actually used a clementine to kill a Sycorax leader (really bad alien dude) once. Well, techinically, it was a satsuma - and it belonged to some boyfriend of Jackie Tyler's. Who is, for the ignorant reader's record, Rose Tyler's mother. Anyway, did its job. Speaking of which (meaning The Doctor), I've moreover been making some pretty fanciful wallpapers that I'll publish later on. For entertainment purposes solely. Including big and unavoidable spoilers for series four, beware. Although, I don't think anyone who's reading my blog will be capable of not knowing, by now, who's due to come back during the next season(s). I'm so looking forward to it, I can hardly breathe from all the "squee!" and thus, must abreact through artwork and manip-creations. To get my share of fulfilled expectations; wishes put in concrete terms. Realization is a somewhat different matter, left to be confirmed or to heavily disappoint us. Hoping for the former alternative, of course, but I have my sincere doubts. If I were to choose, everyone would be overjoyed and überhappy, running about holding hands and snogging under a mistletoe. Part of the season, I believe, and what it's doing to me. Please, be not scared, I'll probably feel "better" in January. No, I won't. I mean, I'll probably be less sentimental. But then again, I love sentimentality and floating around in the purple skies. Seventh heaven stuff, whilst one's feet are placed very much on the ground. I'm down to earth and weightlessly dreaming, and I can't help smiling at the wonderful combination. If that's the "problematic thing" about being a childish fangirl person, it'll remain a problem which I welcome - heartfully - and want no solutions to. If you ask me, honestly, what I've been up to lately, I guess I'd have to say that I've been contemplating less than usual. Considering fewer troubles, which I think has done me good. (Although, I feel I'm currently approaching a state of "back to normal", in the sense that this is becoming a far more philosophic post than intended.) Haven't allowed myself to dwell on any complications of the school-oriented, mental, ethical, argumentative (etc) kind; nor of any other, universal, worldy, outer-wordly dimensions. In all, it's been a week of rather restricted magnitude. As described earlier, in previous tale of my life. The Blogging Scara. Now, that is something new. But, simulatenously, I'm not changing my personality. At least not on a very serious level. There is this intrinsic need that I behold to find a deeper meaning to almost everything, even this, and to return to contemplation - after a break of utter nonsense. Blog-pause indicates nonsense, by the way. Or practicing exam material. Which again leads back to nonsensicality; alternatively, provokes it. The insatiable hunger. Now, since I'm past that, I guess we must settle for the less ideal option. I'm enduring a period of physically demanded defusion. Rendered passive. And therefore, I'm predicting a future couple of days where I'll be determined to alter that situation. Heading in that direction now, beginning to see it clearly, it's over and done with my laziness. Forcing my mind back on track, forcing my body to reconnect with my brains, forcing my self-induced moment of indifference to recoil and finally end. But it's not that easy. Maybe you need to switch between modes, constantly, and to modify your concentration; in order to be a thinker on a professional level. Man, that sounds pretentious. But, my slightly more encouraging idea is, the mind is always present (unless you develop Alzheimers; in which case it sort of refuses to co-operate, and in which case I will start living very dangerously) and ready to function. In practice, you can control it like a vehicle of buttons, wires, motors - but, naturally, a true supporter of this belief wouldn't do that. The mind is an intricate, fine machine. Its machinery is of a precious kind and in order to obtain the moments of exemplary inspiration, the much-debated, much-sought-after "epiphanies" of mysteriously visionary behaviour; of impossible creativity or revolutionary thinking; you somehow need to distance yourself from it, and skip wanting to understand how it works, and at the same time give yourself up to its powers, induldging in what it has to offers. Indeed, both my body and my mind work like old cars with unpredictable ignitions. Sometimes, they won't be switched on. Then I have to resort to patience, which is a quality I really don't possess very much of; go all destructive and angry (after a number of hours, days, weeks) because I can't work properly. At my exams, I'll write intensely for thrity minutes or so, then lay my pen down, eat something, drink something, visit the loo, take thirty minutes off biting my pencil and making annoyed drawings in the corners of my rough paper, then write intensely for two more hours, then leave. Such is my routine. I'm always one of the first to hand in, I'm always one of those who writes the most and piss of the teachers with ugly hand writing and lack of structure. No matter what I write, that is. To employ an unsuitable metaphor, I run in and out of these long tunnels of mental focus, and when I eventually see the light, when I exit one tunnel, it takes some time before I dare enter a new one. And whilst I'm inside, I don't consider, so carefully, what I'm actually constructing. Afterwards, there are loads of pieces I can't define, far less explain. Pressing buttons, that's all I do. And, very well, this turned out to be one of the most extensive and complicated posts I'd ever written which I will now at last round off. Lenthiness not intended. I was gonna write a short update on my eased-back living, how I love Die Deutschen Lebkuchen (delicious gingerbread cakes - comes with chocolate!) and how I long for Christmas. On the other hand, and as mentioned above, I'm not very clever at this whole informal babble thingy. I make everything more complicated than I should, in fact, but that's an even more complicated discussion which I will leave for another time, another place, another holiday season. Haha. So, I'm officially on the contemplative road again. Whatever it is fangirls of my stature, my kindred nature, find use in contemplating. Bon voyage de devant.
It's been a while. What am I doing? What have I been doing? I don't know, really. I think I'm still slightly worn-out after all the reading and working over the past few weeks, I'm not quite up to normal speed yet. Strangely or understandably exhausted, trying not to mind it too much. Don't feel like my energy's pumping back immediately, and all at once, to put it that way. I think it's more likely to take some further, massive efforts on my behalf. At the moment, however, I'm not worrying about it, and I'm definately not stressing it; I'm letting this recuperation take its time, providing myself with the necessary rest, peace, quiet, beer and fine looking gentlemen (on the telly, of course) to keep me company. Going to bed at twelve, getting up at ten, feeding my soul with British celeb gossip and LiveJournal stuff for breakfast, lunch and tea. Dinner, sorry. Yeah, I'm turning into a Brit, and I thoroughly enjoy it. Must remember to work on my accent, though. (Not a 100% complete, still abusing American slang too often.) Meanwhile, I'm also doodling with PhotoShop - and that's about it, with regard to creative musings - beyond this, I'm saying bye-bye to friends who are leaving home for Christmas, drinking coffee with neighbours, strolling up and down Bergen's beautifully lighted Christmas Streets, shopping for presents and having a great time. Quite simply. Relaxing, listening to good music, eating clementines. Mind you, The Doctor actually used a clementine to kill a Sycorax leader (really bad alien dude) once. Well, techinically, it was a satsuma - and it belonged to some boyfriend of Jackie Tyler's. Who is, for the ignorant reader's record, Rose Tyler's mother. Anyway, did its job. Speaking of which (meaning The Doctor), I've moreover been making some pretty fanciful wallpapers that I'll publish later on. For entertainment purposes solely. Including big and unavoidable spoilers for series four, beware. Although, I don't think anyone who's reading my blog will be capable of not knowing, by now, who's due to come back during the next season(s). I'm so looking forward to it, I can hardly breathe from all the "squee!" and thus, must abreact through artwork and manip-creations. To get my share of fulfilled expectations; wishes put in concrete terms. Realization is a somewhat different matter, left to be confirmed or to heavily disappoint us. Hoping for the former alternative, of course, but I have my sincere doubts. If I were to choose, everyone would be overjoyed and überhappy, running about holding hands and snogging under a mistletoe. Part of the season, I believe, and what it's doing to me. Please, be not scared, I'll probably feel "better" in January. No, I won't. I mean, I'll probably be less sentimental. But then again, I love sentimentality and floating around in the purple skies. Seventh heaven stuff, whilst one's feet are placed very much on the ground. I'm down to earth and weightlessly dreaming, and I can't help smiling at the wonderful combination. If that's the "problematic thing" about being a childish fangirl person, it'll remain a problem which I welcome - heartfully - and want no solutions to. If you ask me, honestly, what I've been up to lately, I guess I'd have to say that I've been contemplating less than usual. Considering fewer troubles, which I think has done me good. (Although, I feel I'm currently approaching a state of "back to normal", in the sense that this is becoming a far more philosophic post than intended.) Haven't allowed myself to dwell on any complications of the school-oriented, mental, ethical, argumentative (etc) kind; nor of any other, universal, worldy, outer-wordly dimensions. In all, it's been a week of rather restricted magnitude. As described earlier, in previous tale of my life. The Blogging Scara. Now, that is something new. But, simulatenously, I'm not changing my personality. At least not on a very serious level. There is this intrinsic need that I behold to find a deeper meaning to almost everything, even this, and to return to contemplation - after a break of utter nonsense. Blog-pause indicates nonsense, by the way. Or practicing exam material. Which again leads back to nonsensicality; alternatively, provokes it. The insatiable hunger. Now, since I'm past that, I guess we must settle for the less ideal option. I'm enduring a period of physically demanded defusion. Rendered passive. And therefore, I'm predicting a future couple of days where I'll be determined to alter that situation. Heading in that direction now, beginning to see it clearly, it's over and done with my laziness. Forcing my mind back on track, forcing my body to reconnect with my brains, forcing my self-induced moment of indifference to recoil and finally end. But it's not that easy. Maybe you need to switch between modes, constantly, and to modify your concentration; in order to be a thinker on a professional level. Man, that sounds pretentious. But, my slightly more encouraging idea is, the mind is always present (unless you develop Alzheimers; in which case it sort of refuses to co-operate, and in which case I will start living very dangerously) and ready to function. In practice, you can control it like a vehicle of buttons, wires, motors - but, naturally, a true supporter of this belief wouldn't do that. The mind is an intricate, fine machine. Its machinery is of a precious kind and in order to obtain the moments of exemplary inspiration, the much-debated, much-sought-after "epiphanies" of mysteriously visionary behaviour; of impossible creativity or revolutionary thinking; you somehow need to distance yourself from it, and skip wanting to understand how it works, and at the same time give yourself up to its powers, induldging in what it has to offers. Indeed, both my body and my mind work like old cars with unpredictable ignitions. Sometimes, they won't be switched on. Then I have to resort to patience, which is a quality I really don't possess very much of; go all destructive and angry (after a number of hours, days, weeks) because I can't work properly. At my exams, I'll write intensely for thrity minutes or so, then lay my pen down, eat something, drink something, visit the loo, take thirty minutes off biting my pencil and making annoyed drawings in the corners of my rough paper, then write intensely for two more hours, then leave. Such is my routine. I'm always one of the first to hand in, I'm always one of those who writes the most and piss of the teachers with ugly hand writing and lack of structure. No matter what I write, that is. To employ an unsuitable metaphor, I run in and out of these long tunnels of mental focus, and when I eventually see the light, when I exit one tunnel, it takes some time before I dare enter a new one. And whilst I'm inside, I don't consider, so carefully, what I'm actually constructing. Afterwards, there are loads of pieces I can't define, far less explain. Pressing buttons, that's all I do. And, very well, this turned out to be one of the most extensive and complicated posts I'd ever written which I will now at last round off. Lenthiness not intended. I was gonna write a short update on my eased-back living, how I love Die Deutschen Lebkuchen (delicious gingerbread cakes - comes with chocolate!) and how I long for Christmas. On the other hand, and as mentioned above, I'm not very clever at this whole informal babble thingy. I make everything more complicated than I should, in fact, but that's an even more complicated discussion which I will leave for another time, another place, another holiday season. Haha. So, I'm officially on the contemplative road again. Whatever it is fangirls of my stature, my kindred nature, find use in contemplating. Bon voyage de devant.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)