All Eyes on Me

It made me smile to learn that they were making a sequel series to Willow, the 1988 fantasy movie starring Warwick Davis. Normally I’m not a huge fan of decades-later sequels, but Willow has a special place in my heart, and I’m kind of happy to hear there’s new interest in it. It’s not exactly an amazing film, but I’ve enjoyed it since I was young. And there are two particular things about it, in my opinion, that made it special.

The first of which is Warwick Davis himself. I think that in a less ableist world, he would have become not just, like, a beloved specialty actor, but a star— if nothing else, maybe something like Peter Dinklage. He’s not a thespian on Dinklage’s level, but he is an utterly charming and engaging screen presence. And he’s just wonderful as Willow Ufgood. Compelling, lovable, sympathetic, believable. I was floored to learn he was just eighteen years old when he played that role— to carry a whole film like that so young is quite a feat. And he has the most beautiful face. I remember being struck by it when I was small and the impression of it never left me. A face made to be onscreen, full of expression and life, with a light of its own. Willow’s face is so beautiful.

The second is the kind of hero Willow is. He is the one who goes on the quest not because he is a great warrior, or an aspiring sorcerer. It’s because he’s a father. The task is to see that a special baby is saved from the witch who is hunting her, and Willow has to be the one to do it, because he has come to love her and knows how to care for her. Willow has the sweetest little family, a wife and two children he loves, and they don’t have to die to further his growth; he’s just delighted to get to come back to them. And I particularly love how baby care is explicitly part of what he brings to the adventure. Willow often references what to feed her, changing her, how to transport her safely, a depiction of parental tenderness that is so rarely seen in male adventure heroes. His heroism is in love and compassion above all. It’s one of the reasons I was so impressed to hear he was only eighteen years old, that such a young person was so believable as a family man, while still feeling quite young. In fact, I think this young man as a father while setting off on adventure inspired me when I was conceiving of Nathaniel Hawking, who also has two little kids at the beginning of his journey.

Bernie and I rewatched the movie the other night, and I enjoyed it as much as I ever have. We’ve started the new series, which honestly is just okay, but I’m liking it all the same. Willow deserves a little more love for being something special.

Marking down for posterity—

Today is the first time my niece Shai and I had a conversation. She’s a little more than two and has been speaking for a while, but she wouldn’t really talk to me. But today I read her a bunch of books, and she spoke back to me, and we talked to each other.

Made me smile. :-)

October Review Challenge, #17 - "What’s your most romantic line?"

So I actually love romance. I love the dance of two people who are drawn to each other and tracing the path of how it breaks down reserve and obstacles to find their way together. I really enjoy writing it into a larger adventure, though I tend to not like pieces that are solely in the romance genre— I recently realized that it’s because I feel like in pure romance I don’t get to see the characters as people pursuing their own needs and goals outside of the relationship, and therefore have a harder time understanding why they fall for each other. But when it’s part of a story in another genre, I adore it.

I love when characters say romantic things to each other. Just the right line can hit you in the guts and take your breath away. They can be tricky to write— I mentioned I find the “picking of the words” part to be the hardest part of writing anything —but I think I’ve managed a few.

The most explicitly romantic piece I’ve ever written is probably Adonis. The genre is alternate history epic, but the relationship between Diana and Aidan is the heart of the story. A goal of mine for that story is that they are not excessively articulated, as both characters are going through things they don’t really know how to talk about it, so there’s honestly not a lot of individual lines that are particularly romantic out of context. It’s more the whole gestalt that makes the feeling, I’d say.

I also like writing romance that is... a little fucked up. I’m not sure why that is; probably I get a little transgressive thrill. People who probably shouldn’t be together. Unrequited loves. Things where the power dynamic might be off, like with Aidan and Diana. So I get a kick when I can make the audience’s guts twist because there’s something devastatingly romantic about a situation where things are messed up. I think there’s something compelling about Aidan, almost destroyed at the hands of powerful women just like Diana, terrified of being vulnerable to her, wanting her so badly he cannot help but lay himself open to her. But the foremost example I can think of this is the sad case of Colonel Reginald Prescott Hawking, completely in love with a woman who could never feel the same, and who in trying to love, he did the worst wrongs anyone could do to her.

I think there is something absolutely heartbreaking about what those two did to each other. They were friends once, but his falling in love with her was the beginning of the end, because she could never return it. And in this incompatibility, they caused each other irreparable harm. But it was important to me to structure their scenes in part IV: Gilded Cages together, where it explains how things happened between them, to feel romantic in order to make the true point— it didn’t matter how romantic their interactions were, because she did not and could never want that from him. So I really wanted the romance THERE.

He has a bunch of lines that hit it, I think. When Victoria doesn’t understand why Reginald is so willing to do whatever she needs, his answer is a gut punch: “My God, Victoria. Don’t you know?” And when he tries to assure her he’s there for her, I had him say “Never doubt me, Victoria. Please.” It was my attempt to evoke Hamlet’s poetry to Ophelia, “Doubt thou the stars are fire / Doubt thou the sun doth move, / Doubt all truth to be a liar, / But do not doubt my love.” But one of the absolute most devastating ones is actually in a supplemental piece, where they are together for the first time on their wedding night, which Victoria dreads without being able to say why. He promises her, with all the adoration in the world, “I’ll be gentle. I promise.” And proceeds to commit the gentlest rape in the world.

I guess I ought to mention something that is romantic in a less fraught way. I’d probably pick Arthur in his marriage proposal to Mary in Fallen Women. It’s been a long time in coming, but as much as he wants them to be together, he doesn’t know if it can fit into her life, and in powerful contrast to the Colonel, he is resolved to not allow that to impose on her life. Instead of trying to take charge and fix everything for her, he asks her to show him the way, promising, “Lead, and I’ll follow.” A solemn vow of low to go wherever she goes, and be what she needs, while being certain to obtain her consent. That may not always factor into the things I find romantic, but it can sure pack a hell of a wallop when it does.


Photo by Dan Fox

Forever Captain:
“His Part to Play”
By Phoebe Roberts
~~~

Summary: “Steve Rogers has retired to the 1940s to build a new life with Peggy. In leaving behind the mantle of Captain America, at last he’s got a measure of peace. Still, Steve will never stop feeling the responsibility to step up as a hero— except he's not sure how much power his actions have at this point in the timeline. Somehow he must reconcile his new life and identity with the responsibility and burden of being a hero out of time.”

Chapter summary: Steve and Peggy's first days reunited in the midcentury post-Endgame.

Whatever message you want to convey? Whatever love, care, concern, thought, well-wishing, hope, congratulations, whatever you want to say? Do it with food.

Take people out to their favorite restaurant.

Send people fancy baskets of fruit, cheese, wine, chocolates, charcuterie.

Spend time and effort in the kitchen lovingly crafting something with your own hands that has a piece of your soul and all your good intentions.

Stuff gathers dust and it's hard to pick something that will be appreciated. Instead, say it with food. Everyone eats. Everyone needs to eat. When they are happy, food is for celebration. When they are sad, food brings comfort. When they are weary, the gift of it makes it easier to be nourished and grow strong again.

The message of food is baked into its very nature: "I want you to live, enjoy, grow strong." All the well wishes of the world.

Even if you have a crazy diet freak like me, there's nothing like the gift of food. Crudités platters. Frozen steaks and chops in the mail. Fruit baskets. Invitations to dinner, home cooked or eaten out. The one gift everyone has the capacity to appreciate, no matter who they are.

Say it with food.

I very much enjoyed Captain America: Civil War. But there was one thing that really bothered me, so much so that once it happened it slightly soured the rest of the film for me. For those of you who know me, it shouldn’t surprise you: the kiss between Steve Rogers and Sharon Carter. And NO, JERKFACES, it’s NOT because of my massive crush on him. It’s because it just doesn’t WORK.

I am a hardcore Steve and Peggy shipper. I love the two of them so much that any other pairing just doesn’t compare for me. And I loved the way they couched Steve’s feeling for her— he’d been waiting for “the right partner.” Not just anyone, but the right one. The old-fashioned way their relationship developed was so charming. And I admit, I have a weird soft spot for lovers who are never for anyone but each other. I get that most people don’t see things that way, but even if they must insist on the characters moving on with other relationships, Sharon Carter is absolutely the wrong character for this to happen with Steve.

I will give them credit. This was something I’d been dreading since Avengers, so the fact that they held out this long, four years and like three more movies, is something. They probably were probably actively trying not to rush it. But they clearly knew the implications of the whole deal were creepy. There’s a reason they did not draw attention to the fact that her name was Carter, or her relationship to Peggy at all, until CA:CW.

The storyline is a relic from a dated, significantly less mature time in the development of comic book storytelling, and though some would attribute solely to the lack of respect for female characters, I would say it’s mostly due to the resistance to change. Comics have a notorious history toward refusing to ever let things meaningfully or permanently grow and change. So, when Cap’s freezing was made part of his story, bringing him forward in time, they decided to make him latch on to the Sharon Carter character by making her resemble and in fact have a blood relation to an old love interest.

I understand the desire to maintain the spirit of what we loved in these stories in the comics. But for the cinematic universe, they’ve made such a strong effort to realize these stories for the screen that I really don’t think including that in the adaptation made sense. Adaptation between mediums requires translation, and retelling stories demands updating for the current time. And all the myriad ways the idea of that relationship doesn’t work demonstrates that it just doesn’t make sense to have been included.

First off, the two of them have no chemistry. Steve and Sharon have barely spent any time together and nothing of substance ever happened or was said between them. Nobody in the audience developed any emotional investment in their relationship. Plus we have basically no idea who Sharon is. Again, very little time has been spent with her, and the actress is so bland that no real personality has been created within what little character the writing has supplied. There’s no narrative reason for them to have a relationship, and no audience member who has any desire to see it. Added to the fact that it felt like an afterthought crammed into an already jam-packed film, what exactly were they hoping to accomplish? My only real thought is, with the increasing mainstreaming of slash fandom, that they were trying to remind the audience that he’s straight.

The execution of it felt awkward and gross, too. They basically get together OVER PEGGY’S COOLING CORPSE. Who in the world thought that was something they should write for Cap? I actually thought using her death as his propulsion to take his stance was a strong idea. But that awkward, chemistry-free lip lock occurred like TWO DAYS after they put Peggy in the ground, and I can't grasp who didn’t find that to be indecent and out of character.

And there’s just this creepiness to it. If they HAVE to have Cap get together with somebody new… she REALLY should not be any blood relation to Peggy. There’s just too many gross implications tied up in it. There’s the suggestion that he likes her, not for herself, but for who she reminds him of. There’s this very uncomfortable sense of replacement, like she’s an acceptable Peggy substitute. If I want to get all technical, I might say on Nussbaum’s Inventory of Objectification, it smacks of fungibility, when a person is treated as functionally interchangeable with another.

I have BEEN creeped on because of my resemblance to my mother in her youth. THAT NEVER COMES FROM ANYPLACE HEALTHY OR GOOD. Why would they want Steve to be in a relationship that has any hint of that?

And finally, there’s the issue of youth, where a once beloved and vibrant older woman is replaced by someone who’s supposed to be similar to her, except she’s still young and beautiful. Like that lack of youth and beauty makes the relationship impossible, because a man, especially a man as beautiful as that, couldn’t love someone who didn’t have those things.

If I’m being honest, there’s something about the whole situation that’s not just objectively gross, but that tweaks my issues personally. Probably my greatest fear is aging. I’m terrified of the physical ravages of growing older, becoming weak and useless and losing my looks. It’s so hard for a woman to be respected for so many reasons, but it’s particularly hard for women who are older or not good looking. While I do believe in my true inner qualities, I feel like often people don’t notice those qualities in me until after my looks have caught their attention. Not being pretty any more scares me.

Maybe I shouldn’t care what men think of me. But the idea of becoming ignored and tossed aside because I’m old and ugly freaks me out. I’m not sure why I feel that particular terror so acutely. I’ve been lucky enough to have plenty of counter examples in my life and growing up, of men who stuck with the women they loved through the declines of time and mortality. It’s not like I worry about that with Bernie. But I am obsessed with it, not just with a romantic partner but with everyone, which drives pretty much all my neuroses.

My discomfort with this relationship stems from that. Beautiful men in particular are even scarier in that respect. Men don’t have to be beautiful, so the good-looking ones with their greater drawing power have it even more options with which to replace you when you’re no longer ideal. So there’s something very uncomfortable about watching a gorgeous man move on from his supposed one true love onto a pale replacement who just happens to still be young and beautiful.

I have talked about my mother’s death here before. But today, on the one-year anniversary of her passing, I want to talk about the night she died. I don’t have much point to make. This is a very disjointed, stream-of-consciousness entry. But I’m ready to talk about it, and I want to have a record of what it was like.

Casey, Sarah, and I drove down together. We came home into a very clean house—partially, I think, for all the people who would be coming in, and partially as way for my dad to feel in control. He’s a strong man— believe me when I say almost impossibly so —but he channels stress into things like that. He had food waiting for us. And he took us upstairs to see Mom.

They had put a hospital bed next to the big bed in their bedroom. That was good, she hadn’t wanted to die in the hospital. She wasn’t conscious; she was on a sort of liquid morphine that basically knocked her out. They put her on oxygen, but it wasn’t doing much good, and she kept gasping, trying to breathe. She couldn’t, really, but her body would try to anyway.

Dad was so in tune with her condition, with everything he’d done to take care of her. He’d called the previous day and said it would happen very soon. And we went home the next day, because he was right.

He asked if we remembered the part in Harry Potter with the thestrals, which are only visible to you after you’ve seen someone die. “I think we’re going to see thestrals soon.” He’s not usually one to talk in literary references, so that one struck me.

A hospice nurse came and spoke to us. We were kind of normal and together, which I think surprised them a little. But we don’t act out in front of strangers. I was proud, though, when the nurse took a moment to tell my dad how impressed they all were with how my dad took care of her. She actually said she’d never seen anything like it. He is strong, and he loves her.

It was very surreal. How normal it was, while Mom was right there dying. Mostly it was waiting. We’d sit with her for a while, holding her hand, talking to her. My dad and my brother had a lot to say. How much they loved her, but how it was okay for her to go, that she didn’t need to hurt anymore. Neither of them have ever been afraid of or uncomfortable with their emotions, but their frankness and their verbosity impressed me. This process made my brother a lot softer. And my dad, well, he’s perceived by some to be a hard, intense man. But he loved my mother utterly. Reordered his whole life to be there for her in her illness. And damn certain he was going to tell her everything as she died.

Dad told us stories of how they met, when they were young. How they were friends for years before they ever dated. How after graduation they traveled cross country to Yellowstone National Park in a van with three other friends and a German Shepherd. How they were camping in the park, smoked some weed, and went swimming at the same time there happened to be an earthquake, but because they were high, they weren’t sure if they imagined it or not. How my mom said to my dad, “If you grow up a bit, you might be worth keeping.” It made me smile to hear all that. Funny to think of my straight laced parents being cooler and more adventurous than me.

I just cried a little, quietly. Weirdly, I found I didn’t know what to say, and felt too embarrassed to try. Words are supposed to be my thing, and I didn’t have any for my dying mother.

It’s okay. She knew how I felt, and she couldn’t hear anything anyway. But it was weird.

So we sat with her, listening to her try to breathe. Then we’d get hungry, or have something to do, so we’d wander off and do it. Dad had a little camera set up in the room, so we could watch her from the kitchen. In case it happened, we could rush up and be there.

She looked like a scary troll. I feel awful about thinking that, but she did. Not like my mother at all. Her hair was gone, her face and body were bloated and stressed. She had tubes coming out of her all over. Horrifying. The picture of death.

We took a picture of her. Not sure why. I guess because it was real, it happened, and there’s no pretending that it didn’t. I have it and Casey has it, but my dad asked us not to show it to anyone. It’s private. It’s the last picture of my mother on this earth.

Casey’s girlfriend Sarah was with us. My family is private, intensely so, so it was a question as to whether or not she would come for this part of things. Bernie was working, so in deference to both of those things I had chosen not to bug him until there was actually a funeral. Dad probably would have been okay if Bernie came. Though in fairness he hasn’t known Bernie as long. Casey and Sarah had been together for like six years then, and he wanted her there, and Dad was fine with that.

Sarah was so good. The whole time I couldn’t imagine how awkward everything had to be for her. Being in the middle of other people’s uncomfortable, private, tragic moment. But she was perfect, being present and quietly, lovingly supporting my brother. I have so much respect for how she conducted herself in what had to be a deeply difficult situation. I already liked Sarah, but that was when she became family.

It was late when it happened. When the life finally slipped out of her. Her breath, already choppy, became more and more infrequent. She twitched for a while. Then she was still.

I posted on Livejournal when it happened. And Twitter, I think. That’s probably kind of sick that I even thought of it. But I wanted to mark the moment.

Dad called the hospice. They would send the right people. So we waited, there in the bedroom with the remains of Mom. I had been laying on my parents’ bed, right beside her hospital bed. I stayed there, staring at her as she went cold. Her skin became so gray, that weird troll that replaced my mother.

Nobody came for a long time. Everyone curled up someplace and slept. I don’t know where everyone ended up. I think Casey was on the floor. I slept there beside her. It didn’t seem strange. She was either a sack of dead disease, or she was my mother. I’m not afraid of either.

The hospice nurse came. I dragged myself up, sat in a chair and was polite. Same as I was with the nurse the previous day, be nice to the stranger, have good manners, even if you just lost the most important person. She asked for all mom’s medications and destroyed them. She was decent and said nice things, but I don't really remember what they were.

Two men in suits came from the funeral home. My dad remarked how weird it seemed to come ready to move a body dressed in a suit, but I guess it was supposed to be gesture of respect. They were very careful gathering her up, zipping her into the body bag. I watched them do it, which likely made them take extra pains, but honestly I didn’t care. In that gray shell there was more remaining of the cancer that killed her than there was of my mother. What did I care what happened to a dead sack of tumors, when the person who bore me, raised me, loved me, made me who I am, was already gone forever?

I went to my own room and slept. The next day, I stripped the hospital bed, washed the clothes, made up the guest bed. They were the only sheets we had that fit it. Bernie and I slept that night on the sheets my mother died on.

I mention all this because it feels like it should have been weird or creepy. But none of it was. At least not to me. I just love her, and miss her, and I still don’t quite believe she’s gone.

Bernie is back in town this week, visiting me and meeting with his professors. Just having him here is so nice. I am very good at being alone for long periods, so I settled into a fairly comfortable routine with him out of town, but now that he's with me again it's almost shocking how much happier I am.

I should probably stop being surprised at how nice things are with him. We've been together for a year and a half now. But I never stop marveling at what a contribution he makes to my life. We spent today just running errands and fulfilling responsibilities, and just because he was here it made it fun. We've been talking about various things for the creative projects we're working on together, and I don't think anything makes me happier than working on that stuff with him and making wonderful things.

I haven't really been sweating it that he's been gone. We talk so much, and he makes clear his love and devotion in so many ways, that I don't feel one bit less close to him even when he's physically removed. But I think that comfort and security made me forget just how much nicer it is when we can be together. This has been a pleasant reminder.

Bernie is now on his way back to Maryland. Hopefully it will only be for a few months while he edits his thesis for his final defense, but I am sad to see him go in the meantime. This week was full of helping him to pack up all his stuff, and this weekend to move it all to the storage unit where it will live until his return. We had lots of wonderful friends come to help us with that part-- thanks so much to all those of you who lent your backs and hands --and I impressed myself with the sheer volume of boxes and furniture I was able to carry. It took all weekend, and I'm very proud of the work we did, but now I can do other things.

I tried to think of what to get done that might be easier without another person around. Maybe getting my finances in order, something that's gotten away from me in the last few months. But other than that, I can't think of anything. Bernie doesn't get in my way at all when he's around, and I'm not used to a relationship like that. That's a very good thing, of course, but it means there's no upside to him going away for a while.

Today I am going to rest, but also catch up on the stuff that didn't happen because of the move this week. I am now three days behind on 31 Plays in 31 Days, and today is the last day to finish that, so I'd better make sure I crack those out. Also the house needs cleaning. It'll be good to stay busy. I think I'll be okay even with Bernie far away, but I'd prefer to stave off mopiness if possible. 

Nerds have embraced the concept of “drift compatibility” from Pacific Rim. It reflects a sort of total mind-meld one can achieve with a person with whom you are in perfect sync with. It’s become a convenient expression to describe levels of particular kinship and closeness that isn’t limited to a particular type of relationship—could be romance, could be familiar, could be friendship. A kind of closeness where you could share the totality of your being with them.

It strikes me that I don’t believe I am drift compatible with anyone. It’s not for lack of bond. I have wonderful friends that I love and trust and know I can count on. I have wonderful family that I am close to and have been so good to me. I have Bernie, who I love, and who loves me more and judges me less than anyone else. But the idea of anyone in my head, in my thoughts? Could never do it. Could never stand it. Never with anyone. I think I’d rather be dead.

I just can’t bear the idea of anyone seeing all my thoughts. Before I even was familiar with the concept, I would imagine what if someone around me was psychic, and it made me want to puke. Is that unusual? Are there people for whom the idea of being able to share ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING in your head with another person is desirable? I have issues with shame, and perhaps as a result, a nature that is naturally inclined to a certain level of artifice. But I’m also private; not sure how much that’s related. I couldn’t even share everything about myself with Bernie. I don’t think I could ever do it with anyone.