like jokes or war, it's all in the timing
The Rangers are killing me here. They are genuinely a better team than the Flyers this year, and I am so afraid they're going to do something dumb and not win this series like they should. Luckily, they won this afternoon, and can win the series on Tuesday.
***
Orphan Black: Governed by Sound Reason and True Religion
HOLY SHIT MRS. S.
I think it's clear that while she's not currently involved with either the Proletheans or the Neolutionists, she did have something to do with Project Leda (I'm sure everyone has already explained this, but in case you're not up on your Greek mythology, Zeus becomes a swan to impregnate Leda, who ends up having two sets of twins - Castor and Pollux, and Clytemnestra and Helen (of Troy), with Castor and Clytemnestra being Tyndareus' mortal children, and Pollux and Helen being Zeus' demigod children.), though she's not wrong when she says her protection of Kira has so far been bulletproof.
Death kidnapped Kira! Kira doesn't trust Mrs. S.!
Also, ALISON. Going to Aynsley's funeral as Holly Golightly! Trapping Donnie and proving he's her monitor! Drinking with Felix! I felt so bad when Felix cut her off! I understand why he had to, but oh, Alison. She's going to do something really awful and hopefully entertaining.
Also: Alison: "I killed Aynsley!" Felix: "No, Aynsley wore a scarf in the kitchen!" ♥♥♥
I'm glad Helena is alive and Tomas is dead, but ugh ugh ugh, these new scientific Proletheans are totally going to breed belt buckle dude ("We think of you as our son" and "Who are you?" "Family.") with Helena. Poor Helena. I hope she murderizes all of them and then has a nice bowl of jello.
I really hope Cosima doesn't fall too far to the dark I mean Dyad side. I understand wanting to get information about her genetics and her illness, but they're already trying to turn her against Sarah. And man, I don't trust Delphine at all.
Art! I love that Sarah finally clued Art in and he's dealing by being grumpy and drinking double scotches.
Also, is Daniel, Rachel's righthand dude, played by the guy who was Doral on BSG?
Lastly, I feel like Angie is way too gung-ho about the whole thing, especially for a case she's not even supposed to be investigating, and I fear it's only going to get her killed. Don't wear any scarves in Alison's kitchen, Angie!
***
So yesterday I wrote a hundred words of Steve/Bucky, a hundred words of one remix, two hundred words of a different remix, and now I'm just rotating through, trying to see what comes together. Sigh. Writing is hard!
***
Today's poem:
Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing
by Margaret Atwood
The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.
I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/658241.html.
people have commented there.
***
Orphan Black: Governed by Sound Reason and True Religion
HOLY SHIT MRS. S.
I think it's clear that while she's not currently involved with either the Proletheans or the Neolutionists, she did have something to do with Project Leda (I'm sure everyone has already explained this, but in case you're not up on your Greek mythology, Zeus becomes a swan to impregnate Leda, who ends up having two sets of twins - Castor and Pollux, and Clytemnestra and Helen (of Troy), with Castor and Clytemnestra being Tyndareus' mortal children, and Pollux and Helen being Zeus' demigod children.), though she's not wrong when she says her protection of Kira has so far been bulletproof.
Death kidnapped Kira! Kira doesn't trust Mrs. S.!
Also, ALISON. Going to Aynsley's funeral as Holly Golightly! Trapping Donnie and proving he's her monitor! Drinking with Felix! I felt so bad when Felix cut her off! I understand why he had to, but oh, Alison. She's going to do something really awful and hopefully entertaining.
Also: Alison: "I killed Aynsley!" Felix: "No, Aynsley wore a scarf in the kitchen!" ♥♥♥
I'm glad Helena is alive and Tomas is dead, but ugh ugh ugh, these new scientific Proletheans are totally going to breed belt buckle dude ("We think of you as our son" and "Who are you?" "Family.") with Helena. Poor Helena. I hope she murderizes all of them and then has a nice bowl of jello.
I really hope Cosima doesn't fall too far to the dark I mean Dyad side. I understand wanting to get information about her genetics and her illness, but they're already trying to turn her against Sarah. And man, I don't trust Delphine at all.
Art! I love that Sarah finally clued Art in and he's dealing by being grumpy and drinking double scotches.
Also, is Daniel, Rachel's righthand dude, played by the guy who was Doral on BSG?
Lastly, I feel like Angie is way too gung-ho about the whole thing, especially for a case she's not even supposed to be investigating, and I fear it's only going to get her killed. Don't wear any scarves in Alison's kitchen, Angie!
***
So yesterday I wrote a hundred words of Steve/Bucky, a hundred words of one remix, two hundred words of a different remix, and now I'm just rotating through, trying to see what comes together. Sigh. Writing is hard!
***
Today's poem:
Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing
by Margaret Atwood
The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.
I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/658241.html.
people have commented there.