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I spent all of yesterday curled in my freshly-cleaned bathrobe just watching TV. Watching the new Doctor Who on Netflix, to be precise. As a geek it's almost compulsory that I watch this show, but I'd been avoiding it because I tend to avoid everything which is still running, because I had wanted to start with the original/older series (although, upon Googling, it seems it's a bit easier to start with the new series and then go back to select older arcs, given that not all of the show has aged well and some parts weren't that fun to begin with), and because the young-and-shiny ethos of the remake did not appeal. But to my pleasant surprise, I'm enjoying it. There's a dozen reasons why, and enumerating them all would be redundant given the show's popularity and discussion, but I find that what I'm loving most, what keeps me watching, is the attitudes.
For both Rose and the Doctor, exploring space and time is one big adventure. It's thrilling and beautiful and fun, and they approach it with a smile. It's not that way for everyone: there are characters who don't understand the appeal, characters who reject the opportunity. It's also not without difficulty and drawbacks, and it can mean loss and culture shock, endangerment and possible suffering. But it's a choice they make, a willful and increasingly educated choice. And that's awesome. Just like I wish for more portal fantasies where the transported actually enjoy and want to stay in the new, wondrous, beautiful, dangerous world they've found instead of dreaming of ruby slippers, I wish for more attitudes of "yes—despite its difficulties, absolutely, positively, yes." It needs both halves, the glee and the drawbacks, without angsting too much over the later. It's empowering and enjoyable, and it makes me love Rose oh so very much.
The long day of rest did me some good.
Some, but perhaps not enough. Today I went to Starbucks, found out I had grabbed the wrong card and so was without funds, had a delay before I could get in touch with of Devon, discovered I hadn't brought my Moleskine, and in short found myself isolated and panicking at Starbucks. Starbucks, of all places—what the hell kind of person can't go out to coffee without having a minor breakdown? Devon did end up getting online and did come back to pick me up, we went out to dinner so I could decompress, and now I'm back again in my robe set to curl up and try to calm down and not remember how it feels to be taking up their space and internet without buying a drink because I have no money and no way to reach out. That is the very definition of "hell," as my agoraphobia would have it: to feel conspicuous, wish to be invisible, and have no means of escape.
This weekend is the last Ashland trip of the season, and I'll be spending three solid days in the company of my parents. I really need to get my head screwed on right before then. These days, though, it seems permanently misthreaded.
For both Rose and the Doctor, exploring space and time is one big adventure. It's thrilling and beautiful and fun, and they approach it with a smile. It's not that way for everyone: there are characters who don't understand the appeal, characters who reject the opportunity. It's also not without difficulty and drawbacks, and it can mean loss and culture shock, endangerment and possible suffering. But it's a choice they make, a willful and increasingly educated choice. And that's awesome. Just like I wish for more portal fantasies where the transported actually enjoy and want to stay in the new, wondrous, beautiful, dangerous world they've found instead of dreaming of ruby slippers, I wish for more attitudes of "yes—despite its difficulties, absolutely, positively, yes." It needs both halves, the glee and the drawbacks, without angsting too much over the later. It's empowering and enjoyable, and it makes me love Rose oh so very much.
The long day of rest did me some good.
Some, but perhaps not enough. Today I went to Starbucks, found out I had grabbed the wrong card and so was without funds, had a delay before I could get in touch with of Devon, discovered I hadn't brought my Moleskine, and in short found myself isolated and panicking at Starbucks. Starbucks, of all places—what the hell kind of person can't go out to coffee without having a minor breakdown? Devon did end up getting online and did come back to pick me up, we went out to dinner so I could decompress, and now I'm back again in my robe set to curl up and try to calm down and not remember how it feels to be taking up their space and internet without buying a drink because I have no money and no way to reach out. That is the very definition of "hell," as my agoraphobia would have it: to feel conspicuous, wish to be invisible, and have no means of escape.
This weekend is the last Ashland trip of the season, and I'll be spending three solid days in the company of my parents. I really need to get my head screwed on right before then. These days, though, it seems permanently misthreaded.
