Sorcery is the sauce fools spoon over failure to hide the flavor of their own incompetence.Tyrion Lannister, A Clash Of Kings
in the office pantry got an upgrade: it now draws water from the tap line and pumps it through a filter, finally retiring the gallon containers we have to keep replacing daily. Like prehistoric ape men lumbering cautiously towards the shiny, we hugged our water bottles protectively, wondering if the filter really works and its muffled electronic hum is just there for appearances. But, like any conversation that happens around the water cooler, all speculations ended with the satisfaction of thirst.
Must be nice for the water cooler to be talked about for once.
A balancing act
with ball and scepter
kept his court of skeptics
in contrivance of a plot
knaves who know their knives
and graves that crave
their fill of kings
whose head that crowned from
now comes crowned
with pearl and ruby
which his dubious detractors
that a hatchet put to use
in place of guillotine
may replace the ball and scepter
with his royal
head and member.
February 12, 2014
This was going to be a sweet pre-Valentine’s Day poem for @stanleyso until I carelessly wound my way down some sick road and turned my romantic intentions into a story about a bastard king who had his head and dick chopped off.
to have concluded Lev Grossman’s The Magicians with resentful feelings towards it. You can appreciate the depth of the well-illustrated human problems he stirred in protagonist Quentin Coldwater, but he never stopped to resolve or at least create meaning out of them. The narrator frequently admits how lost and indeterminate Quentin is, even as he is accepted into a school for magic, surrounded with secondary characters more interesting than him, and granted his childhood dreams by being literally transported to a land of fantasy that he thought only existed in books.
The novel also suffers from a violent shift in plot halfway through, marked by the characters’ journey to Fillory, a world with the exact descriptions, rules, and conflicts that C.S. Lewis’ Narnia has. One would think it were all an elaborate homage to the classics, but Grossman’s creation soon becomes an annoyingly familiar clone whose only original input is to pollute that world with a sulking, schizophrenic character who won’t loosen up for something magical even if a technicolor unicorn arrived on a rainbow and gored him up the ass.
One thing I can appreciate is the novel’s magic system that, although vague with its rules and executions, hints itself as a very exact and cerebral science. Unfortunately, Grossman abandons Quentin’s thirst to perfect this fantastical branch of education in favor of giving his character more reasons to be irrationally depressed. Lord knows we all love a whiny kid with no direction in life.
P.S. I am especially let down by this book because it was on my list for more than a year so you can imagine my excitement when I got it as a gift last Christmas…but only because I stated it very clearly on my wish list, heh.
That sick story about Kate’s dad sounds like the kind of demonic rants you’d tweet about your parents if they mistakenly got you an Xbox One for Christmas instead of the Playstation 4 you asked for, you fucking brats. Her sob story comes only second to Mrs. Deagle’s chair lift scene, though. Still one of the most satisfying ways to dispatch a flat character.
I fail to see how Let It Go is a beautifully written song. It strings a meandering set of lyrics featuring redundant, elementary-level adverb use, (“The snow glows white on the mountain tonight”) needless plot-driven observations, (“A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I’m the Queen”) and my favorite: abstract similes that make you wonder what purity level of meth the songwriter was shooting up his blowhole, observable in the painstakingly ‘shopped photo quote I made above. Believe me, I love the message of confidence and individuality it inspires in me, but in the same, privately shameful way a song that starts with “Do you ever feel like a plastic bag” lets me believe I am a unique pyrotechnic rocket that costs thousands of pesos a pop.
I’d more readily dish praise to Love Is An Open Door, whose unpretentious lyrics steer clear of imitating popular songs of gravity-defying proportions.
realize how far removed you are from your old self until you’re back in your childhood home, where Time lags behind almost deliberately, as if to dangle perfectly preserved articles of your youth right in your aged face. Just the same, you find Space has shuffled and sorted the house over the years to patch up the hole you left in your absence, that even your old bed has breathed out the familiar cavity formed by the weight of your sleeping body and has taken the shape of your younger sibling. And in the combined housekeeping duties of Time and Space in these places that only exist maybe three or four times a year, you think of yourself officially a guest, always welcome to stay, but only in the spare room, if that’s okay.