So did tonight's ep feel like it belonged in a first season to anyone else? And not even the first season of Criminal Minds.

I mean, it was cute and fun and I enjoyed the hell out of Gavin Rossdale. And even the goff stuff was far, far better than I expected it to be.

But man, talk about having your characters ring wrong. I was prattling on at melliyna the other day about how CM always does nice things where characters embody things that often get treated as mutually exclusive in fiction (the strongest characters fall down most often, the ones who would normally read as head-in-the-clouds usually have the best grip on reality, etc.)

This was pretty much the opposite of that. Clueless pretty lady gets surprised in an obvious situation and the genius doesn't read popular fiction.

Dudes, this isn't CSI.

That being said, I totally squealed when they used Love Will Tear Us Apart (which turned out to be nicely resonant and not totally anvilicious). And Prentiss, at least, was pretty darn rad.

Meh. Either way, I've learned that I really can't trust those CBS show previews. Because man, those make every episode look like Horatio Caine writing self-insert fanfiction about the Saw movies.

...

Oh god, I really didn't want that train of thought.

Tags: criminal minds, fandomsquee

What woman would not have kindled to see what Orlando saw then burning in the snow — for all about the looking glass were snowy lawns, and she was like a fire, a burning bush, and the candle flames about her head were silver leaves; or again, the glass was green water, and she a mermaid, slung with pearls, a siren in a cave, singing so that oarsmen leant from their boats and fell down, down to embrace her; so dark, so bright, so hard, so soft, was she, so astonishingly seductive that it was a thousand pities that there was no one there to put it in plain English, and say outright "Damn it Madam, you are loveliness incarnate," which was the truth.

Tags: author surname: woolf

Hello all!

Saw this in the LJ Spotlight and joined immediately!

Just a quick bio I guess of me. I've been into photography and music for as long as I could remember. The first show I shot was 2008 Warped, then followed by Slipknot back in February. Ever since then I was hooked and knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

I was going to post some photos of my work, but I don't know which ones to post! So maybe you can all check out my website.

www.markvphotos.com

Thanks and I hope to look forward to all of your work!

After doing a few pieces from Hot Fuzz, I am back with another Eddie piece. :) This is from his friend's twitter, and is of him running recently. I just thought he looked a bit like an action hero.



Eddie Post Run by ~illgetmerope on deviantART

His hour came with the shells,
with the notched iron splinters,
in the smoke and flame,
in the shaking and terror of the battlefield.

Word came to him in the bullet shower
that he should be a hero briskly,
and he was that while he lasted,
but it wasn't much time he got.

He kept his guns to the tanks,
bucking with tearing crashing screech,
until he himself got, about the stomach,
that biff that put him to the ground,
mouth down in sand and gravel,
without a chirp from his ugly high-pitched voice.

No cross or medal was put to his
chest or to his name or to his family;
there were not many of his troop alive,
and if there were their word would not be strong.
And at any rate, if a battle post stands,
many are knocked down because of him,
not expecting fame, not wanting a medal
or any froth from the mouth of the field of slaughter.

I saw a great warrior of England,
a poor manikin on whom no eye would rest;
no Alasdair of Glen Garry;
and he took a little weeping to my eyes.


( Thainig uair-sin lis na sligean )

Tags: author surname: ma

" Memory is the sense of loss, and loss pulls us after it. God Himself was pulled after us into the vortex we made when we fell, or so the story goes. And while He was on earth He mended families. He gave Lazarus back to his mother, and to the centurion he gave his daughter again. He even restored the severed ear of the soldier who came to arrest Him - a fact that allows us to hope the resurrection will reflect a considerable attention to detail. Yet this was no more than tinkering. Being man He felt the pull of death, and being God He must have wondered more than we do what it would be like. He is known to have walked upon water, but He was not born to drown. And when He did die it was sad - such a young man, so full of promise, and His mother wept and His friends could not believe the loss, and the story spread everywhere and the mourning would not be comforted, until He was so sharply lacked and so powerfully remember that his friends felt Him beside them as they walked along the road, and saw someone cooking fish on the shore and knew it to be Him, and sat down to supper with Him, all wounded as He was.There is so little to remember of anyone - an anecdote, a conversation at table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long."


Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping.

Out of my mouth is coming, at some
distance from me, a thin gnawing sound
which you could confuse with prayer except that
praying is not constrained.

Or is it, Lord?
Maybe it's more like being strangled
than I once thought. Maybe it's
a gasp for air, prayer.
Did those men at Pentecost
want flames to shoot out of their heads?
Did they ask to be tossed
on the ground, gabbling like holy poultry,
eyeballs bulging?

As mine are, as mine are.
There is only one prayer; it is not
the knees in the clean nightgown
on the hooked rug.
I want this, I want that.
Oh far beyond.
Call it Please. Call it Mercy.
Call it Not yet, not yet,
as Heaven threatens to explode
inwards in fire and shredded flesh, and the angels caw.

--Margaret Atwood, "Half-Hanged Mary"

When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring stright ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.

Я возвращался домой пустыми переулками станицы; месяц, полный и красный, как зарево пожара, начинал показываться из-за зубчатого горизонта домов; звезды спокойно сияли на темно-голубом своде, и мне стало смешно, когда я вспомнил, что были некогда люди премудрые, думавшие, что светила небесные принимают участие в наших ничтожных спорах за клочок земли или за какие-нибудь вымышленные права!.. И что ж? эти лампады, зажженные, по их мнению, только для того, чтобы освещать их битвы и торжества, горят с прежним блеском, а их страсти и надежды давно угасли вместе с ними, как огонек, зажженный на краю леса беспечным странником! Но зато какую силу воли придавала им уверенность, что целое небо со своими бесчисленными жителями на них смотрит с участием, хотя немым, но неизменным!.. А мы, их жалкие потомки, скитающиеся по земле без убеждений и гордости, без наслаждения и страха, кроме той невольной боязни, сжимающей сердце при мысли о неизбежном конце, мы не способны более к великим жертвам ни для блага человечества, ни даже для собственного счастия, потому знаем его невозможность и равнодушно переходим от сомнения к сомнению, как наши предки бросались от одного заблуждения к другому, не имея, как они, ни надежды, ни даже того неопределенного, хотя и истинного наслаждения, которое встречает душа во всякой борьбе с людьми или судьбою...

I returned home through the deserted side streets of the village. The full moon, red as the lurid glow of a fire, was just coming up over the jagged skyline of the housetops. The stars shone placidly in the dark-blue firmament, and I was amused at the thought that there once were sages who believed the heavenly bodies have a share in our wretched squabbles over a tiny territory or some other imaginary rights. Yet these lamps, which they thought had been lighted only to illuminate their battles and triumphs, still burn with undiminished brilliance, while their passions and hopes have long since died out together with them like a campfire left burning on the fringe of a forest by a careless wayfarer. But what strength of will they drew from the certainty that all the heavens with their numberless inhabitants looked down on them with constant though mute sympathy! Yet we, their pitiful descendants, who roam the earth without convictions or pride, without joys or fear other than the nameless dread that constricts the heart at the thought of the inevitable end, we are no longer capable of great sacrifices either for the good of mankind or even for our personal happiness, since we know that happiness is impossible; and we pass indifferently from one doubt to another just as our forebears floundered from one delusion to another, without the hopes they had and without even that vague but potent sense of joy the soul derives from any struggle with man or destiny . . .

"Now I will walk, as if I had an end in view, across the room, to the balcony under the awning. I see the sky, softly feathered with its sudden effulgence of moon. I also see the railings of the square, and two people without faces, leaning like statues against the sky. There is then a world immune from change. When I have passed through this drawing-room flickering with tongues that cut me like knives, making me stammer, making me lie, I find faces rid of features, robed in beauty. The lovers crouch under the plane tree. The policeman stands sentinel at the corner. A man passes. There is then a world immune from change. But I am not composed enough, standing tiptoe on the verge of fire, still scorched by the hot breath, afraid of the door opening and the leap of the tiger, to make even one sentence. What I say is perpetually contradicted. Each time the door opens I am interrupted. I am not yet twenty-one. I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens. The waves breaks. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness;  I am also a girl, here in this room."

Virginia Woolf, The Waves

It's brilliant, being depressed; you can behave as badly as you like.

- High Fidelity, Nick Hornby

"She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men say more, swear more, but indeed our shows are more than will; for still we prove much in our vows but little in our love."

shameless plug in time for the palladium show, i spent ages on this so check it out on saturday

So I recently ran into this saucy little number on the audacity of fans, specifically at Brand New shows, to constantly heckle the band about playing older material/asking idiotic questions. I found it interesting, as well as agree wholeheartedly, and thought others would appreciate it. Here is an excerpt...

Heckling for songs wasn't the only horror I witnessed regarding Brand New, and this one might even be worse. During the in-store acoustic set yesterday afternoon, Jesse took the time to see if the crowd had any questions (as he often does). He made sure to request that the questions be pertinent, as we all know how ridiculous questions asked of Brand New can get. If only he had known. After what I assume was a highly sarcastic and satirical quip from someone (which I couldn't hear, but got a laugh out of the crowd and even Jesse), someone shouted out a question that absolutely horrified me. I'm pretty sure it even caught Jesse off-guard too, by the look on his face, but in a very classy and respectable move he took about 5 minutes to answer the person's question: "Jesse, why do you hate yourself?" In the words of Jon Stewart... Are you f***ing kidding me?! After pausing a few seconds in which I'm sure he was trying to figure out if the question was asked seriously or not, Jesse realized that the fan was serious and that due to the crowd's silence after the question... he was going to have to answer it. I was horrified. Shocked. Appalled. I can't even begin to address the countless things wrong with this question, nor can I understand why someone felt important enough to imply something they more-than-likely have absolutely no clue or business publicly asking questions about. I don't know what I would have done had I been in Jesse's shoes, but kudos to him for handling the situation with exquisite poise and dignity, though.

Full rant HERE

You know — we've had to imagine the war here, and we have imagined that it was being fought by aging men like ourselves. We had forgotten that wars were fought by babies. When I saw those freshly shaved faces, it was a shock. "'My God, my God — ' I said to myself, 'It's the Children's Crusade.'"

Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

on a list of top 10 things my zodiac sign hates was "stand up comedians, and wasting time on facebook"
maybe astrology isn't so wrong after all.

'Absolutely.' Penrose pointed approvingly at me, the alert student in the front row of the lecture hall. 'We're on the same side, Paul. I want people to come together, not divide themselves into separate enclaves. The ultimate gated community is a human being with a closed mind. We're breeding a new race of deracinated people, internal exiles without human ties but with enormous power. It's this new class that runs out planet. To be successful enough to work at Eden-Olympia calls for rare qualities of self-restraint and intelligence. These are people who won't admit to any weakness and won't allow themselves to fail. When they arrive their health is at a peak, they rarely touch drugs and the glass of wine they have with dinner is a social fossil, like the christening mug and the family silver.'

-J.G. Ballard, Super-Cannes

Current Music: Leonard Cohen, Live in London, "The Future"

http://www2.kerrang.com/2009/11/my_chemical_romance_new_album.html

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong
Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”

But could a dream send up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms

So I'm taking what may be the best class ever at UCF, Survey of Rock Music. We have to listen to and be familiar with specific songs, and one of them is "A Day in the Life" by the Beatles.
I was going over it today, and near the end, about 5:12, there are overlapping voices and weird as shit noises, and the voice sounds like it's saying the same thing that Jesse says at the end of "Play Crack the Sky (5:18)." Maybe I'm hearing it wrong....
Link to "A Day in the Life" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=di7fKh3Vbj8
and you should already know "Play Crack the Sky" ;)
Not exactly significant, just thought it was an interesting connection to make. My apologies if this has been previously noted. Discuss? :)

Current Mood: happy