Oh, Sara.
So I just made this fanmix in about an hour, "art" and all please don't judge my photoshop skills, I swear I'm a good person, and a few weeks ago I wrote this weird, disorganized collection of paragraphs about Sara, and now I'm going to throw them together and call it a Sara Sidle post. Because she's my favorite, and I love her, and all this talk about the season 8 premiere is driving me up the wall (primarily because I'm trying to not read any of the talk). This post is obviously brimming with season 7 spoilers, so be warned.
Save Sara Sidle: a Season 8 Premiere Mix
1. Death in Vegas: Dirge (for those tense, hauling-ass-in-the-SUV scenes, or something.)
2. Feist: Honey Honey (for the Lab Rat scenes, i.e. Grissom brooding and Hodges totally saving the day by bringing back his Robot Dance.)
3. The Arcade Fire: Cold Wind
4. Tori Amos: Siren (because according to some weird unspoken international law, every Sara mix must contain at least one Tori Amos song. I don't know.)
5. Cinephile: What Becomes Of Us
6. Fluke: Atom Bomb
7. Athlete: 24 Hours (For the getting close/rescue/Poncho scene.)
8. Air: Dead Bodies (Possibly a bit over the top, but possibly...I don't care.)
9. The Devlins: Waiting (Tom Lord-Algae Mix)
10. Sia: Breathe Me (I can hear you thinking "Sia? Really?" and I know, this song turns up on like, every Sara mix ever created, but it just fits. So shhhhhh.)
Zip: http://www.sendspace.com/pro/vyivxh
Her fingertips have vanished and her hands are in the process of going, melting into the cold; her cells are whirling apart into the wind and rain, which carries an unexpected cut, even for someone accustomed to the blustery wet nights of San Francisco. It’s a different kind of cold out here -a lack of heat, a vacuum created by the sudden absence of the sun, of the prevalent dry heat that rises and falls and breathes during the day. It’s a complete inversion, a blue sky turned bright orange.
She thinks she is still contracting her hand, scraping it uselessly against the sludge of rain and dirt, afraid that if she stops and someone finds her she will be taken for dead; she keeps flexing her fingers, even when the cold seals over her nerves and she can no longer feel the rain striking her skin, the way a castaway flashes a mirror into the empty sky. SOS.
Her brain blitzes frenetically, skimming low over memories, dipping into faces, circling images from her childhood and then hop-scotching into a month old case, her favorite restaurant, a book she wanted to buy, and the living room of Grissom’s old apartment. She sees Catherine’s sweep of hair draped down her shoulder, Greg’s cock-eyed smile and David’s pale blue scrubs. The shine of an autopsy table and the plastic bag of lemons in her locker.
She sees herself laid out on a refrigerated slab, watches herself press those cold, unfamiliar toes into ink and then look up into her own face, feels that percussive slam of shock, which still reverberates in her spine sometimes, when she’s exhausted and can’t sleep and it all overcomes her. She knows what she will look like on that slab, and is glad that, if she dies today, she won’t have to see herself that way again.
Grissom - she wonders that Grissom is doing. It is a familiar, worn thought, an old song that she hums unaware. It used to be the only way to relax the day’s grip on her mind as she lay in bed - imagining Grissom unlocking his front door, taking off his jacket, placing his briefcase on a table, pouring hot water into a mug, watching poker on his television. She wants to give herself up to these thoughts, close her eyes and sink into them like a hot spring, but she knows that now is not the time to fall asleep, because Grissom is not doing any of these things. By now she is missing; by now, they are all looking for her, frantically, and she does not want to imagine Grissom finding her body, cataloguing her fingerprints and hosing her down in the morgue, so she concentrates on opening and closing her hand, patiently, a beat at a time. If death really wants her, it will take her, but until then she will keep her eyes wide open.
This is not her wreck, and this is not her day. Sara Sidle is not gone. She’s waiting.
Save Sara Sidle: a Season 8 Premiere Mix
1. Death in Vegas: Dirge (for those tense, hauling-ass-in-the-SUV scenes, or something.)
2. Feist: Honey Honey (for the Lab Rat scenes, i.e. Grissom brooding and Hodges totally saving the day by bringing back his Robot Dance.)
3. The Arcade Fire: Cold Wind
4. Tori Amos: Siren (because according to some weird unspoken international law, every Sara mix must contain at least one Tori Amos song. I don't know.)
5. Cinephile: What Becomes Of Us
6. Fluke: Atom Bomb
7. Athlete: 24 Hours (For the getting close/rescue/Poncho scene.)
8. Air: Dead Bodies (Possibly a bit over the top, but possibly...I don't care.)
9. The Devlins: Waiting (Tom Lord-Algae Mix)
10. Sia: Breathe Me (I can hear you thinking "Sia? Really?" and I know, this song turns up on like, every Sara mix ever created, but it just fits. So shhhhhh.)
Zip: http://www.sendspace.com/pro/vyivxh
Her fingertips have vanished and her hands are in the process of going, melting into the cold; her cells are whirling apart into the wind and rain, which carries an unexpected cut, even for someone accustomed to the blustery wet nights of San Francisco. It’s a different kind of cold out here -a lack of heat, a vacuum created by the sudden absence of the sun, of the prevalent dry heat that rises and falls and breathes during the day. It’s a complete inversion, a blue sky turned bright orange.
She thinks she is still contracting her hand, scraping it uselessly against the sludge of rain and dirt, afraid that if she stops and someone finds her she will be taken for dead; she keeps flexing her fingers, even when the cold seals over her nerves and she can no longer feel the rain striking her skin, the way a castaway flashes a mirror into the empty sky. SOS.
Her brain blitzes frenetically, skimming low over memories, dipping into faces, circling images from her childhood and then hop-scotching into a month old case, her favorite restaurant, a book she wanted to buy, and the living room of Grissom’s old apartment. She sees Catherine’s sweep of hair draped down her shoulder, Greg’s cock-eyed smile and David’s pale blue scrubs. The shine of an autopsy table and the plastic bag of lemons in her locker.
She sees herself laid out on a refrigerated slab, watches herself press those cold, unfamiliar toes into ink and then look up into her own face, feels that percussive slam of shock, which still reverberates in her spine sometimes, when she’s exhausted and can’t sleep and it all overcomes her. She knows what she will look like on that slab, and is glad that, if she dies today, she won’t have to see herself that way again.
Grissom - she wonders that Grissom is doing. It is a familiar, worn thought, an old song that she hums unaware. It used to be the only way to relax the day’s grip on her mind as she lay in bed - imagining Grissom unlocking his front door, taking off his jacket, placing his briefcase on a table, pouring hot water into a mug, watching poker on his television. She wants to give herself up to these thoughts, close her eyes and sink into them like a hot spring, but she knows that now is not the time to fall asleep, because Grissom is not doing any of these things. By now she is missing; by now, they are all looking for her, frantically, and she does not want to imagine Grissom finding her body, cataloguing her fingerprints and hosing her down in the morgue, so she concentrates on opening and closing her hand, patiently, a beat at a time. If death really wants her, it will take her, but until then she will keep her eyes wide open.
This is not her wreck, and this is not her day. Sara Sidle is not gone. She’s waiting.