A Hat, Moon Knight, poetry and so on
Apr. 28th, 2022 12:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
butterflykiki I got the Eliza Doolittle hat. :D It was much cheaper through Amazon than through Lightinthebox, which was where I originally found it. I would share a photo of me in it, if I could figure out how the heck to upload that. Maybe I'll Insta that puppy tomorrow, when I have more brain cells to figure it out. (If you have my phone number, I'll just send it to you in an IM.) I LOVE IT SO. I LOVE IT. IT BRINGS ME JOY, okay?
Moon Knight, episode 5: Holy wow.
* Some
* spoiler
* space
* just
*in
* case
... this was the first time since, I dunno, Buffy season 2, where I yelled, "NO. NO! THAT IS NOT-- NOT THE END, DON'T YOU--" and then the freaking black-screen faded into end-credits and I was left spluttering. I was so caught up in events that I totally lost track of how much time was left, and was completely appalled that we have Steven a frozen sand-statue, Marc looking kind of buzzed out of his brain in the Field of Reeds, and I'm assuming Mr. Third Personality (Jake? IS THAT YOU) wandering around the interior of the Death Barge and wondering where everyone got to. Meanwhile, Taweret trying to figure out how to send an e-mail to Layla, possibly while nervously counting how many pre-judged souls have been falling into the sands now.
Anyone else as convinced as I am that Jake literally head-butted his way out of that standing sarcophagus as soon as the guys weren't paying attention? That was so Mr. Third there, talking to "Doctor" Harrow and grabbing a pyramid to stab everyone in the area with. With an appearing-and-disappearing band-aid across the bridge of his nose to give you that clue.
What else? Trauma. Intensity. Great acting. A barge driving through a Van Gogh painting. Taweret being the most adorable tour guide ever. I can't, well, I'm not gonna approach a lot of the mental health issues. I'm still processing. I have many theories, but yeah. It all spirals down for me into DEAD STEVEN DEAD MARC WTF WTH WHAT. Ahem.
I am going to a poetry workshop this weekend, with my mom, with Camille Dungy running the workshop. It should be a very good time. So here, have some more poetry:
Association Copy
BY CAMILLE T. DUNGY
Lynda Hull
Maybe you sold it to buy junk. Though I like to think not.
And I don't want to think you used the money for food
or rent or anything obligatory, practical.
A pair of boots, perhaps. Thigh high burgandy boots
with gold laces. Something crucial as lilies.
Mostly, I want to believe you held onto the book,
that your fingers brailed those pages' inky veins
even in your final weeks. I want to believe
words can be that important in the end.
Who can help the heart, which is grand and full
of gestures? I had been on my way out.
He was rearranging his bookshelves
when, in an approximation of tenderness,
he handed me, like the last of the sweet potatoes
at Thanksgiving, like a thing he wanted
but was willing to share, the rediscovered book—
he'd bought it years ago in a used bookstore
in Chicago. Levine's poems, with your signature inside.
That whole year I spent loving him, something splendid
as lemons, sour and bright and leading my tongue
toward new language, was on the shelf. These
weren't your own poems, autographed, a stranger's
souvenir—we'd spent vain months leafing through
New York stacks for your out-of-print collections—but you'd cared
about this book, or cared enough to claim it, your name
looped across the title page as if to say, Please.
This is mine, This book is mine. Though you sold it.
Or someone else did when you died.
We make habits out of words. I grew accustomed
to his, the way they spooned me into sleep
so many times. Now I am sleepless and alone
another night. What would you give for one more night
alone? No booze. No drugs. Just that hunger
and those words. He gave me The Names of the Lost.
Need comes down hard on a body. What else
was sold? What else—do you know?—did we lose
Camille Dungy, "Association Copy" from Smith Blue. Copyright © 2011 by Camille Dungy. Reprinted by permission of Southern Illinois University Press.
Moon Knight, episode 5: Holy wow.
* Some
* spoiler
* space
* just
*in
* case
... this was the first time since, I dunno, Buffy season 2, where I yelled, "NO. NO! THAT IS NOT-- NOT THE END, DON'T YOU--" and then the freaking black-screen faded into end-credits and I was left spluttering. I was so caught up in events that I totally lost track of how much time was left, and was completely appalled that we have Steven a frozen sand-statue, Marc looking kind of buzzed out of his brain in the Field of Reeds, and I'm assuming Mr. Third Personality (Jake? IS THAT YOU) wandering around the interior of the Death Barge and wondering where everyone got to. Meanwhile, Taweret trying to figure out how to send an e-mail to Layla, possibly while nervously counting how many pre-judged souls have been falling into the sands now.
Anyone else as convinced as I am that Jake literally head-butted his way out of that standing sarcophagus as soon as the guys weren't paying attention? That was so Mr. Third there, talking to "Doctor" Harrow and grabbing a pyramid to stab everyone in the area with. With an appearing-and-disappearing band-aid across the bridge of his nose to give you that clue.
What else? Trauma. Intensity. Great acting. A barge driving through a Van Gogh painting. Taweret being the most adorable tour guide ever. I can't, well, I'm not gonna approach a lot of the mental health issues. I'm still processing. I have many theories, but yeah. It all spirals down for me into DEAD STEVEN DEAD MARC WTF WTH WHAT. Ahem.
I am going to a poetry workshop this weekend, with my mom, with Camille Dungy running the workshop. It should be a very good time. So here, have some more poetry:
Association Copy
BY CAMILLE T. DUNGY
Lynda Hull
Maybe you sold it to buy junk. Though I like to think not.
And I don't want to think you used the money for food
or rent or anything obligatory, practical.
A pair of boots, perhaps. Thigh high burgandy boots
with gold laces. Something crucial as lilies.
Mostly, I want to believe you held onto the book,
that your fingers brailed those pages' inky veins
even in your final weeks. I want to believe
words can be that important in the end.
Who can help the heart, which is grand and full
of gestures? I had been on my way out.
He was rearranging his bookshelves
when, in an approximation of tenderness,
he handed me, like the last of the sweet potatoes
at Thanksgiving, like a thing he wanted
but was willing to share, the rediscovered book—
he'd bought it years ago in a used bookstore
in Chicago. Levine's poems, with your signature inside.
That whole year I spent loving him, something splendid
as lemons, sour and bright and leading my tongue
toward new language, was on the shelf. These
weren't your own poems, autographed, a stranger's
souvenir—we'd spent vain months leafing through
New York stacks for your out-of-print collections—but you'd cared
about this book, or cared enough to claim it, your name
looped across the title page as if to say, Please.
This is mine, This book is mine. Though you sold it.
Or someone else did when you died.
We make habits out of words. I grew accustomed
to his, the way they spooned me into sleep
so many times. Now I am sleepless and alone
another night. What would you give for one more night
alone? No booze. No drugs. Just that hunger
and those words. He gave me The Names of the Lost.
Need comes down hard on a body. What else
was sold? What else—do you know?—did we lose
Camille Dungy, "Association Copy" from Smith Blue. Copyright © 2011 by Camille Dungy. Reprinted by permission of Southern Illinois University Press.
