I’m rewatching Hjem til jul tonight because I got hyped learning about season 2 yesterday.
I’m still in love with Johanne and I’m still available for that glass of wine while watching Love Actually!
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Though, in fairness, I must confess that I have a pretty long list of favorite birds.
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merry christmas! hoping everyone finds at least one fungus today…
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Another random shoutout to all my peeps who put up with my weirdness on their dashes because like, sometimes I can’t stand /myself/ idk how YOU do it haha
I love you all <3
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“I’m grumpy. I spit. I wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I’m just…different, apparently.”Out of every fictional character, Ash from The Fantastic Mr Fox is the one I relate to the most/ am probably the most like, which is kind of strange considering he’s a stop motion fox from a Wes Anderson film, but oh well.
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I ship Wellenore they’re so adorable 😊😊😊 he’s just so awkward but she likes him anyway ☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️
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“There comes a point where Susan, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick. She’s become irreligious basically because she found sex. I have a big problem with that.” – JK RowlingCan we talk about Susan’s fabulous adventures after Narnia? The ones where she wears nylons and elegant blouses when she wants to, and short skirts and bright lipstick when she wants to, and hiking boots and tough jeans and big men’s plaid shirts when she feels like backpacking out into the mountains and remembering what it was to be lost in a world full of terrific beauty— I know her siblings say she stops talking about it, that Susan walks away from the memories of Narnia, but I don’t think she ever really forgot.
I want to read about Susan finishing out boarding school as a grown queen reigning from a teenaged girl’s body. School bullies and peer pressure from children and teachers who treat you like you’re less than sentient wouldn’t have the same impact. C’mon, Susan of the Horn, Susan who bested the DLF at archery, and rode a lion, and won wars, sitting in a school uniform with her eyebrows rising higher and higher as some old goon at the front of the room slams his fist on the lectern.
Susan living through WW2, huddling with her siblings, a young adult (again), a fighting queen and champion marksman kept from the action, until she finally storms out against screaming parents’ wishes and volunteers as a nurse on the front. She keeps a knife or two hidden under her clothes because when it comes down to it, they called her Gentle, but sometimes loving means fighting for what you care for.
She’ll apply to a women’s college on the East Coast, because she fell in love with America when her parents took her there before the war. She goes in majoring in Literature (her ability to decipher High Diction in historical texts is uncanny), but checks out every book she can on history, philosophy, political science. She sneaks into the boys’ school across town and borrows their books too. She was once responsible for a kingdom, roads and taxes and widows and crops and war. She grew from child to woman with that mantle of duty wrapped around her shoulders. Now, tossed here on this mundane land, forever forbidden from her true kingdom, Susan finds that she can give up Narnia but she cannot give up that responsibility. She looks around and thinks I could do this better.
I want Susan sneaking out to drink at pubs with the girls, her friends giggling at the boys checking them out from across the way, until Susan walks over (with her nylons, with her lipstick, with her sovereignty written out in whatever language she damn well pleases) and beats them all at pool. Susan studying for tests and bemoaning Aristotle and trading a boy with freckles all over his nose shooting lessons so that he will teach her calculus. Susan kissing boys and writing home to Lucy and kissing girls and helping smuggle birth control to the ladies in her dorm because Susan Pevensie is a queen and she understands the right of a woman to rule over her own body.
Susan losing them all to a train crash, Edmund and Peter and Lucy, Jill and Eustace, and Lucy and Lucy and Lucy, who Susan’s always felt the most responsible for. Because this is a girl who breathes responsibility, the little mother to her three siblings until a wardrobe whisked them away and she became High Queen to a whole land, ruled it for more than a decade, then came back centuries later as a legend. What it must do to you, to be a legend in the body of a young girl, to have that weight on your shoulders and have a lion tell you that you have to let it go. What it must do to you, to be left alone to decide whether to bury your family in separate ceremonies, or all at once, the same way they died, all at once and without you. What it must do to you, to stand there in black, with your nylons, and your lipstick, and feel responsible for these people who you will never be able to explain yourself to and who you can never save.
Maybe she dreams sometimes they made it back to Narnia after all. Peter is a king again. Lucy walks with Aslan and all the dryads dance. Maybe Susan dreams that she went with them— the train jerks, a bright light, a roar calling you home.
Maybe she doesn’t.
Susan grows older and grows up. Sometimes she hears Lucy’s horrified voice in her head, “Nylons? Lipstick, Susan? Who wants to grow up?” and Susan thinks, “Well you never did, Luce.” Susan finishes her degree, stays in America (England looks too much like Narnia, too much like her siblings, and too little, all at once). She starts writing for the local paper under the pseudonym Frank Tumnus, because she wants to write about politics and social policy and be listened to, because the name would have made Edmund laugh.
She writes as Susan Pevensie, too, about nylons and lipstick, how to give a winning smiles and throw parties, because she knows there is a kind of power there and she respects it. She won wars with war sometimes, in Narnia, but sometimes she stopped them before they began.
Peter had always looked disapprovingly on the care with which Susan applied her makeup back home in England, called it vanity. And even then, Susan would smile at him, say “I use what weapons I have at hand,” and not explain any more than that. The boy ruled at her side for more than a decade. He should know better.
Vain is not the proper word. This is about power. But maybe Peter wouldn’t have liked the word “ambition” any more than “vanity.”
Susan is a young woman in the 50s and 60s. Frank Tumnus has quite the following now. He’s written a few books, controversial, incendiary. Susan gets wrapped up in the civil rights movement, because of course she would. It’s not her first war. All the same, she almost misses the White Witch. Greed is a cleaner villain than senseless hate. She gets on the Freedom Rider bus, mails Mr. Tumnus articles back home whenever there’s a chance, those rare occasions they’re not locked up or immediately threatened. She is older now than she ever was in Narnia. Susan dreams about Telemarines killing fauns.
Time rolls on. Maybe she falls in love with a young activist or an old cynic. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Frank Tumnus, controversial in the moment, brilliant in retrospect, gets offered an honorary title from a prestigious university. She declines and publishes an editorial revealing her identity. Her paper fires her. Three others mail her job offers.
When Vietnam rolls around, she protests in the streets. Susan understands the costs of war. She has lived through not just the brutal wars of one life, but two.
Maybe she has children now. Maybe she tells them stories about a magical place and a magical lion, the stories Lucy and Edmund brought home about how if you sail long enough you reach the place where the seas fall off the edge of the world. But maybe she tells them about Cinderella instead, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, except Rapunzel cuts off her own hair and uses it to climb down the tower and escape. The damsel uses what tools she has at hand.
A lion told her to walk away, and she did. He forbade her magic, he forbade her her own kingdom, so she made her own.
Susan Pevensie did not lose faith. She found it.
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Companion to this piece.
Reblogging this because life after the train crash fanfic is important.
I’ve loved this post for years.
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Jeremy Brett: The Real Sherlock Holmes | The Lineup:
Your first Holmes, like your first Doctor, is something special. Brett was mine.
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Radiohead release new song ‘Burn the Witch’
After scrubbing their internet presence, the band release a brand new song
I’ll be over here listening to this all day.
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Sanderlings (Calidris alba)
Jones Beach West End, NYSanderlings were one of the first shorebirds I learned to reliably identify, and they still have a special place in my heart. They’re also really fun to watch as they run up and down in the surf.
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It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees. Do you know that Joni Mitchell song? I wish I had a river I could skate away on. Such a sad song. And not really about Christmas at all but I was thinking about it tonight as I was decorating my Christmas tree. Unwrapping funky ornaments made of Popsicle sticks and missing my mother so much I almost couldn’t breathe. I always miss my mother at Christmas but somehow it is worse this year since I need some advice from her. I need her to make me some cocoa and tell me that everything that’s going badly in my life will sort itself out.
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lies:
Favorite world-building elements: Language
I really appreciate the parts chosen here, not just the shiny and chrome and witness stuff. Also another thing that has stood out to me is the early use of synonyms when Nux asks a passing War Boy what’s going on and his response is “Treason! Betrayal! An Imperator gone rogue!” That sounds like a line from classic lit. Like Shakespeare. And it’s on the basis of that line and the call-and-response like in that first gif that makes me think the War Boys (and probably just people in the Mad Max universe in general) have a very strong oral tradition of story telling.
Makes sense, actually. The vast majority of the people we see are kept in extreme poverty, with the exception of few chosen ones. How do you keep so many people from rioting against the few who rule? You tell them stories. You create a greater reason to justify the need for things to go in a certain way. That’s what Immortan does: he weaves a story about him being a sort of god, with the Valhalla as reward for the (few) ones he has to keep in fairly good conditions to provide gas, weapons, and defence for the citadel. It figures that in a post apocalyptic world they would mostly be illiterate (I could be wrong, but I don’t remember seeing even one book), so of course the stories need to be handed down orally.
Indigenous Australian people have the longest oral history in the world.
Also I almost bust a gut laughing in the cinema when Charlize Theron said “fang it” in her Hollywood American accent. Like, honey no. That phrase is the native tongue of 17-year-old semi-sober bush rats.
Thank you so much for adding to it, Cass!
I have no knowledge whatsoever about Indigenous Autralian culture, so I went by logic, but this adds another layer of importance to the matter. So, I guess Immortan uses an already existing tradition and twists it to his own advantage (maybe using the books in the vault as a reference?) to create a suitable reason for his dictatorship?
The more I read about this movie, the more layers I find out about it.
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