juushika

I start my return trip tonight, and it's not that I don't want to leave—I have so much to go back for, and Dee sent me a picture of my ridiculous cat and so now of course I miss her—it's that ... I wish I didn't have to. I have loved ones in my city and in my other city, in the state up and the state down, on the opposite coast and five thousand miles away, and I'm fine with that. It's magic, that we can build friendships in the ether, over distance and time zones, sustain intimate connection for years and never meet face to face. On the train down to San Francisco I sat with a woman many years my senior (she must have mentioned her grandbabies a dozen times) who laughed it away in the best sense: Oh, you kids these days, bless you, and I think you'll have an amazing trip. And I have. There's too much to write about now (as we enter the headless chicken stage of packing and eking out every last shared minute before I leave), but I have. It is as natural to live here for a week as it is to live in any of my other homes, and Express and I together can be as stupid and as poignant in person as we are online.

I want my homes, my Portland, my visits to Corvallis, my ever-ready suitcase. I want VoIP calls and silly IMs. I want to spend a whole day on the train and arrive exhausted, and I even want to leave. I want friends in the wrong time zones, and random people in weird corners of the internet who become friends. I want to live with them, and to never meet them in person.

I do, all the time but right now. Right now, I want to pull all of you in a circle around me, wherever that lands us and whatever it means, and have you close, and make you stay.

I also feel compelled to say—on a halfway clerical note which makes this all seem even more surreal but ah, let's not kid ourselves, my emotions are beyond fucked up right now anyway and so my entries can be too—that:

Except for being dead, Alfie was in pretty much the best shape I've ever seen him: silky smooth, pleasantly plump, eyes and nose junk-free, and according to Devon and his family he was lively and engaged the morning of his death and his breathing was clear even after they began to notice problems. He was five years old when he died. (Guinea pig life expectancy is about 4-8 years.) So what this was is anyone's guess, but at least it was fast.

I am thankful for everyone's support. I want you all to know that—I just don't have the energy for individual replies, and anyway it would just be the same thing, over and over: Thank you. Thank you. Really, thank you.

I am exceptionally lucky with my support structure right now. That Devon was willing to come up during the week means a lot to me and helped immensely. He'll be here this weekend, too. Dee has been an absolute angel and for one I'm not being passive-affectionate because I have thanked her multiple times—but anyone that allow for an open-casket(/carboard box) viewing on her dining room floor and is totally cool with keeping the corpse in her freezer until we bury it in Corvallis deserves an absolute internet shout out, even if this is not necessarily how they want to be commemorated. Seriously, though: the love of others has made this so much more managable.

Seeing this meme on my flist has tempted me to do it—so I will, why not. I don't promise consecutive days, because I'm lazy and because I have that cruise upcoming and all, but to begin...


Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.

That these normally get written to anonymous recipients annoys me—it lends itself too well to passive aggression, and makes for a guessing game on the reader's end: Is that about me? Of course it's not—she doesn't care about me enough to write that. Of course it is! there's plenty of reasons for people to think bad things about me. You know, that sort of thing. So I'll be more explicit.

Amy: I have various types of online relationships. I have passing acquaintances—we share online space and some interests, but we aren't friends. I have casual friends who I care about and learn from, but we aren't bosom buddies—and that's fine. Intimate relationships are effortful, and not every friendship need become one. And I have intimate friends, heart-friends, people I love even if I mostly met, know, and keep in touch with them online. In my eyes you've gone from fellow fangirl to a startlingly intelligent, thoughtful, beautiful person, and it makes me glad to have met you. It also makes me want to know you a little better. I don't mean that in a creepy, demanding way! I value the relationship we have now, as friends but not best friends, and if it stays that way I'd be happy. But if you want to talk more (I exchange letters and emails with a few people, and sometimes use IM), I would welcome it.

Dee: I can't wait to see you. I want to talk Persona! I just started reading one of the books that I brought back from your place. There's plenty of little things that I could say to you—but on Wednesday, I'll have the chance to tell them to you in person. I'm thankful for that. But always, every day, I send my love.

Devon: I tell you that I love you a dozen times a day, but I don't tell you how thankful I am near often enough. But I am. I am so thankful.

Express: I am so proud of you. I don't want to keep saying that, because I don't want to blow things out of proportion or burden them them with praise and expectation or be at all condescending—but I am so proud of you, and so happy for you.

Grandpa: I say it in the most respectful way that I can, but: I really do not want to go on this cruise.

Janet and Doug: There is a bit of a story behind the pendant that you gave me for Christmas. I haven't told it to you because it's a little froofy, if you know what I mean; it has its gaze set somewhere between my navel and the stars, and I doubt that's quite your style. But that's why the gift moved me the way it did. Thank you.

Lyz: I had wanted to tell you that I was nervous about how our meeting went, and hoping that you didn't mind quiet little me—but we've talked since then, and now I'm not worried anymore! It does take a couple of meetings for me to relax, but I look forward to having those meetings with you. Instead, all I have to say now is that I promise to send a holiday gift your way before I head out for the cruise. When you get an unexpected package, chances are it will be from me.

Margeaux: I finally picked up The Secret History. I'm not sure when I'll read it—but it'll happen, sometime. I'll think of you.

Twila: I don't know how quite to communicate with you. You're the only person I know who has hearing problems, and I have such a quiet voice—I have no practice or experience speaking up and speaking clearly. I'm not very good at reaching out, and I probably will never come over on my own. But that you have invited me means the world to me. I do feel "always welcome" in your home. You make me feel loved and wanted. You are delightful. I'm hardly the ideal grandchild-(not)-in-law, but I am blessed to have you as family. Thank you.


Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart.
Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.
Day Five: Six things you wish you’d never done.
Day Six: Five people who mean a lot (in no order whatsoever)
Day Seven: Four turn offs.
Day Eight: Three turn ons.
Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now, and why.
Day Ten: One confession.

I'll just put The Crow on the background while I go about my business and entertain myself this evening...

Or I could watch the whole thing through with my complete attention. That works too.

But I will pause it to blather for a bit.

Autumn for me—or rather, this general time of year—is more than a season or an event. From the first rains (which usually come when it's still rightly summer) through the dark dead of winter marks a time when the world is cooler, blazing out and dying, darker, wetter, quieter—and I am more alive. I come alive under with the lowered sun, the falling rain, the colder air. As there are places which are home to me, there is this time of year: I can live elsewhere and elswhen, but it's here that I thrive.

This dying and dead time of year comes, for me, with many things: brighter colors, better clothing, more beauty and comfort in and out, but it also marks a change in my media consumption. I'm oddly sensitive and must match my media to the seasons, probably because when I consume something I do it not in bites but by gorging. I read dozens of books, I watch a movie dozens of times. If what chosen media doesn't fit my mood and the world around me, then it is distinctly out of place.

I started this year with Sleepy Hollow. Ironically when the film first came out I didn't see it—the whole thing (action-y film about classic literature? hah!) seemed vaguely daft to me. But at some point Devon and I bought it on a whim because it's Tim Burton, and when is Tim Burton ever bad? (Well, rarely, at least.) Now I watch it constantly through autumn, but it's the beginning of the film that I really come to see. The plot is interesting, the casting is delightful, but it's the setting, mood, and scenery which I love—honestly, it's the opening credits which get me each time:



( Let's keep going while we're going: +6 more screenshots. )

This is not quite my autumn—the world around me is paved, for one; trees here are denser, younger, and, in the autumn, redder, and our mist is never quite Hollywood perfect. But we create media (as artists, as viewers) and media creates us: this is autumn in my mind, the tones and atmosphere, the onset, the color, the wet, the beauty. So much beauty.

I pulled out The Nightmare Before Christmas when seeing Halloween candy on shelves no longer made me rage about painfully premature advertising. I once burned out a DVD player by watching Nightmare on repeat for, approximately, a solid week. Now I have the soundtrack and revisited soundtrack to add to the rotation and so spare Devon's DVD player, but still: Nightmare is not something I take lightly. I can watch it with completely attention, or just have it as background noise; I can delight in the Halloween aspects, or the Christmas themes; I can, and do, keep it on all the time. It, for me, encapsulates the season.

But today, Devon dug out a box from the garage, one that I packed for easy access storage but then got buried: these are things I wanted nearby, but didn't need on hand—and then I didn't see them for a fair few years. This afternoon, with Devon and his dust-allergies off visiting a friend, I organized the closet to celebrate. Our media—games, movies, and CDs (remember those?) are now in polite, neat stacks. But what matters most in all of this (at the moment at least) is that, found and freshly organized, I now have my boxset for The Crow.

My best friend in England was the one that introduced me to the film. I remember her with great fondness, but that movie night (The Crow, The Matrix, and some random episodes of Buffy) is perhaps my favorite memory of us—for a variety of reasons, but this film is one of them. My father gave me James O'Barr's original comic a year or two later—he had to track it down used and at a not-insignificant cost, because it was at the time out of print, and it is one of the most wonderful gifts I've ever received. It was one of the first comics, also, to make me cry. I say all of this because my love for The Crow as both book and film (and my fondness for the sequels, even the silly Salvation) is very personal. It's a goth classic I'm sure, it's melodramatic and gritty and wonderful, and I am not the only one that's seen the film hundreds of times.

But my love for it is intense, and intensely personal, and I have been away from it for so long—and so tonight, as I go to start it up again, I watch it with my complete attention. It is a dark and rainy Devil's Night.

Yesterday, I met century_eyes in person for the first time. We've been friends now for ... half a year? a little more? something like that.

century_eyes and I became friends through the Sims—admiring one another's pretty boys lead to encouraging one another to post Sims stories; we became involved in each other's Sims-fic, lapsing into thoughtful discussion and great enthusiasm, which is where we really bonded. When I disappeared from LJ for a while, as I am wont to do, she poked me in email and we began sending each other long emails as a more reliable, universally intimate, way to keep in touch.

I have a few friends like this—hopefully you know who you are! We met in some arbitrary, potentially silly way online, we fell into enthusiastic conversation, and somehow we ended up with a strong friendship forged on emails, letters, and comment tag—but we've never met face to face. (If sometimes not for lack of desire and intent.)

I rely on online communication because people intimidate me and most social expectations confuse me. I'm convinced that everyone is judging me and the fact that I would prefer to skip the smalltalk and jump straight to honest conversation doesn't help convince me that I'm being judged well. Online, in the right format, people are different. You aren't stuck hoping that a friend of a friend will share you interests—you can seek out interesting people from a bigger pool, using better tools. Journal entries, emails, and letters encourage thoughtful content and provide just enough distance and anonymity that they also encourage remarkable honesty. It's almost surreal—you're stripped of the intimacy and instinct of appearance, of body language, of voice, but you're granted blessing that's tenuous and almost indescribable: potential interest, freedom of conversation, the basis of a strong friendship—sometimes before you know one another's real names.

century_eyes and I used that strange blessing of the internet to forge one of the closest friendships I've known.

It's because of her that we were able to meet. She has family not far from here, so detouring to visit me wasn't much a burden; moreover she's the type to take the lead in social situations and bless her for it—on my own I will exhaust myself with worry before plans are even made, and so nothing comes of it. She, however, told me when she'd be able to come to town and we built a plan from that—which was much easier for me and, a minor miracle, allowed something to come from it.

We met at Starbucks, walked around downtown, got lunch—nothing big or special because the point was less to do things and more just to have the simple time to talk in person. I don't know what I expected exactly. The days before were concurrently so surreal and nerve-wracking that I don't think I had any coherent expectations. What I got was indeed surreal. It was not as profound or as mundane as I expected it might be.

It was friendship.

Text-based relationships work for me in part because it's a different mode of communication (one less time-sensitive, one more thoughtful, in short one that better soothes my neuroses and fits my personality) and in part because people are different, online. Freedom and honestly is the joy of much online communication but it is also the caveat: it is so valuable and surprising because it is not how people usually act, face to face. As a result, the person you know online may not be the person you meet in the flesh—or at least they may not act like it, which is close enough to the same thing.

But what I found was friendship. We didn't perfectly mimic our emails but if I bemoaned that, well then what the would be the point of meeting outside of email? We talked about little things, day to day things, personal history things—living arrangements and work/school histories and pets, the sort of thing that one wants to know about a friend but never merits the time or interest of typing up for an email. Where topics overlapped the deeper stuff, the heart-beating stuff, the soul-needing stuff, we knew what was there. We knew the depth behind one another's details. It was surreal—even when I got home afterward, the whole day still felt surreal—but it was surprisingly simple without growing shallow.

It's an inverted way to go about it, perhaps: to reveal to someone your heart, and some time later discuss the minutiae of your life. But the result is the same, and the result is what I'm privileged to find: a friendship. Perhaps a friendship better-formed, from my point of view, because it's honest and intimate despite its youth and because it's one I was able to stumble upon, backwards and introverted and paranoid as I am.

I came back yesterday, took a three hour nap, and then needed about eleven hours more sleep before I felt rested. It was all very odd and surreal, and exhausting—in no small part because it was sunny out. And it was worth it.

We're looking at opportunities for other, longer meetings, and I look forward to them all. And she liked me too! And thought it went well! And thank goodness that I've been reassured of as much, because I could worry myself to death about it.

As I was getting ready to leave, all my clothing, all the things I needed to bring along just jumped to hand as if the universe was smiling upon my outing.

She had the most startling, beautiful pale eyes.

Yesterday was a good day.

Last year for my birthday, because she is a wonder, notsuchastrangr sent me a slim little Moleskine (a ruled cahier). It's too small for lengthy writing but the perfect size for notes and for carrying everywhere, so it immediately became my permanent to be read hardcopy list. It's a dream to use, the perfect size and durability, more than long enough for its purpose, and there's even a pocket to store my library card. It's such a small thing, yet I couldn't have hoped for a better gift.

I have something of a fetish for my TBR list. When I'm in heavy reading mode—as I am now—I live by it. I'm constantly scribbling in titles and notations, and there are few pleasures like crossing off items I've discarded or read.

Most of my listings appear as BOOK TITLE, AUTHOR, listing only the author's surname (to save space). A few appear as Author: AUTHOR, listing the author's full name (to make it easier to find them). I'm usually drawn to works, not artists—it's an exception to the rule when an author's entire oeuvre catches my eye. On a similar note, when listing authors I'll often add a sublisting for one or two of their books.

I then annotate each listing with a number of markers: ( In geeky detail, they are... )

Books end up on my TBR list for all sorts of reasons. Reviews and mentions online are the most common source, I take some personal recommendations from friends and acquaintances, and I browse bookstores and library stacks for titles and covers which catch my eye. The rare exemplary author, and more often the treasured subgenre, will lead me to seek out books with a purpose. There are books which have been on my TBR list for years, and books which I write down just for the pleasure of crossing them off. There's a lot of joy in the notation—the same sort of joy found in writing reviews or collecting books. Books are primarily the words themselves, but they are also an act, a culture, a physical object. This is one of the reasons that I keep a TBR list in hardcopy and wouldn't own a e-reader if I could: I enjoy the physicality, the interactiveness, of books to handle and hold.

Speaking of: I own hundreds, probably thousands of books, but most of them are in boxes while I live as an unofficial houseguest. A small chunk of my collection lives with me in the bedroom, but for that reason and because it's cheaper most of the books I read these days come from the library. Even when they don't belong to me, thought, I still love the books I can have, for a little while, and hold.

( My current would-be bookshelf. )

Why post all this? Because it interests me, and because it would interest me if others did the same. I'd love to know how the rest of you interact with books, if you do: how you view them and how you chose them, what your TBR list and stacks look like, what your bookshelves and book piles look like.

And if books aren't your thing, ( have a picture of Dude scratching to get out of the room. )
If he stare at it long enough, it does indeed open.

Happy Valentine's Day!
Taking a break from leaving my sprinkling of candy hearts and overlong Valentine's messages across LiveJournal and email (for I am many things, but none of them are succinct) to say it publicly:

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. If you're on my friends list, you're probably there for a reason. Granted, those reasons differ, but for the vast majority of you I hold a great deal of care and respect. Beyond cuddling the boyfriend, V-Day is for me a day of outward, blatant appreciation of all sorts. It's the sort of thing that we don't say often or don't say so blatantly, but on Valentine's Day the reservations are removed and we can shout it, as loud and as tacky as we want to.

So thank you all for being patient readers, caring friends, letter writing buddies, vibrant individuals, sources of joy, brilliantly intelligent, thoughtful, funny, friendly, creative, or whatever combination of the above it is that makes me read and care about you and your life. I am glad to have you around and to know you, in person or in letter or just across the internet. I wish you all the very best.

I hope that everyone has a great day on this often superficial, commercial, excessive holiday. Whether you celebrate it or not, whether you're celebrating it today or not, sharing love is, I think, never a bad thing.

Also pimping my Valentinr box for last minute Valentines—but, of course, those are welcome in comments, or in real mail, or in email, or in silent thought, or however else you feel like sharing them.

♥ ♥ ♥
(As for me and the boy, well, he's working from home today so that we can spend more time together—lately, he's been busy and the house has been full, so this time is much needed. He's buying me the world's best chocolates soon, and we're going to sit down and plan a BPAL order together. I might be able to rope him into playing more DOFUS with me. But all in all it will be a low-key day, which is how we like it. We spent so many years living so far apart that simple days full of each other's company and not much else is—well, more than enough, it is the best possible gift. I love him dearly, endlessly, and somehow more each day. And all of that is horrendously boring to read and trite to write, so I haven't been posting about it. But rest assured it is there, and it makes my heart pound deep and heavy until I can feel my pulse rush to my fingertips, and it makes his heartbeat push back against my palm and into the source of me—and no matter how spoiled and selfish I am, when it comes down to it I can ask for nothing more.)

I recently came back into contact with an old friend—Lizzie, from England. She was one of the closest friends I've ever had, and on of the greatest forces in perhaps one of the most formative of my life, although she may not know it. We've been out of touch for some years now, but at the urging of aep (after he heard me talk about England), I sent an email to the last address I had for her—and, luckily, heard back. We've been trading emails back and forth since then, reintroducing ourselves, catching up on lost time. It's been wonderful, of course, though there always seems to be more that I want to tell her—but I'm wordy and overly-analytical and intense by default, and so I feel like I'm cramming my letters with heady information and heavy honesty. With is fine, but, well, I don't want to overdo it.

The amount of catching up that there is to do has made me wonder, once again, about writing up a brief summary of myself and of my life. A single space with all the important background information, easily accessible, cleanly written, useful and organized. I've written introductions of me before, which is one thing—but there's still a lot that doesn't get included in there. Things I'm curious about in other people, but seem almost inappropriate to communicate about myself.

I watch a few journals of people with lupus/fibro/seizures, histories rape trauma/drug use/abuse, mental health issues, and the various combinations of such. Why these people interest me so much is probably a discussion issue in and of itself (although, in part, I find it puts my own history in context, and moreso, I admire them and appreciate what they have in-depth background info, chronicling their lives, ailments, who they are and how they got there. It puts their daily posts into a greater context, but it's interesting in its own right as well. These hidden diseases, mental and physical both, as well as past traumas, they all a particular impact on the sufferer, they are personally and socially trying, and I identify and I want to understand. I appreciate the open, clear communication.

But do I have the right to write such things about myself? Would it be healthy for me to do so—would it be educational and cathartic, or would it keep me constrained to a limited identity, defined largely by all the things that are wrong with me?

( This above all: to thine own self be true )

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be
—The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock 111, T.S. Eliot
But the truth is that I often am—I am so caught up in knowing myself that I am limited by myself.

For the record, the issues I'm talking about writing about are my mental health issues, my back problems, and the merry little downward spiral that I've traveled as I've gone from school to school to no school.

I mentioned this, almost just as obtusely, in my last letter to Lizzie: the labels I have gained and use are hugely important to me because they make me definable and categorizable to myself, because they validate what I feel, how I act, who I am; however, I am so attached to these labels that I am limited by them, constrained by what they say about me, reluctant to deviate from them. On one hand, yes, I do not want to be and am not ashamed of who I am and how I (dis)function; on the other hand, I know that this desperate self-definition is a form of enabling, allowing me to remain motionless because I am consumed in contemplation, allowing me to remain unchanged because I am limited by the labels that I've been assigned and have adopted.

All that, coupled with that is the very real consideration that, as a self-concerned twenty-two year old with almost no life experience, my life just ain't worth writing about. In many ways, nor are my problems. I'm depressed, sure. I have problems with anxiety, or better, agoraphobia. I'm largely housebound, and largely by choice. I have chronic back pain. But no matter how greatly these issues, these labels, define me—and they do—they are not that interesting, not that big, not that bad. I have no past trauma beyond rocky moments in my relationship with my mother, no physical diseases greater than a moderately fucked spine, no mental issues greater than your run of the mill stuff. There are a few stories, the progression of my depression into anxiety, of my agoraphobia into being housebound, of how the back pain started and why it continues, of why I've transfered away from and dropped out of some wonderful schools, but yanno, there's no biography to write here, not one that would matter. I don't think so, anyhow.

I'm having the distinct impression that I've had these same thoughts, wrote this same sort of post, sometime before.

So for a change of pace, why not open up the issue a bit. Would you, flist, friends, readers, be interested in that sort of selfish, self-important backstory? Would it interest you, or be useful to you? Have you wondered what that backstory would be like, condensed and coalesced? I can deal with these doubts and these self-referential episodes of circular reasoning (and literary illusions). But if the information might benefit another, well then it means more than if it's just me, considering, defining, contemplating me. And if you want to tell me that you think this sort of contemplation of my own backstory is or isn't healthy, hell, do have at. But I certainly don't expect anyone to resolve my concerns for me.

Thanks to Devon, I have finally developed a little bit of Christmas spirit. What with it being Christmas Eve, we're getting right down to the wire, so it is about time.

I haven't been feeling well these last few days. I'm spending all my time at Devon's house, sleeping infrequently and not well, and both my depression and my back pain have kicked up to fucking annoying and awful levels. Nothing new, but not exactly ideal for celebrating Christmas. The changes of the season and the family aspect have definitely lead me to it, which is predictable. I'm behind on Christmas shopping, as my parent's gift is nowhere in stores (either here or up in Portland/Wilsonville) so we'll have to order it, and spending money on gifts of course makes me uncomfortable about money. In short, I've been hiding and panicking and not doing well, which surprises no one but is still annoying.

Dev, however, went out yesterday to buy me a present (after discovering I was going to receive two copies of the gift he had bought, and as such needed to find something else), and it's finally driven me to curiosity and interest. I know it's a Square RPG for my PlayStation, I know that the three sales people at Fry's all thought it was "sweet" and that I'd spend "a thousand hours playing it," but I don't know what game it is and Wikipedia hasn't turned it up. So I'm curious, and while Devon is answering yes/no questions, he won't tell me what it is.

And it's made me excited. It also proves that I am shockingly materialistic, but we already knew that. Plus, it's not just materialism—it's also that I just enjoy gifts, enjoy joy, enjoy simple pleasures, and I use them to distract me from everything else in my life that makes me depressed. And this, well, it's providing that distraction.

All plans followed, I'll open it today anyway, so I haven't that long to wait. But I'm very thankful to him—he's been worried about me lately, and he's done so much to make sure I don't get worse, and to make sure that I am happy whenever I can be. I love him.

In other news of things to make me happy: I saw Sweeney Todd last night, and I hugely enjoyed it and absolutely recommend it. I do agree with the common consensus that neither Johnny Depp nor Helena Bonham Carter have very strong singing voices, which is even more apparent when contrasted to the Anthony and Joanna characters, who have lovely and strong voices. But once you get passed that, it's a wonderful film. Alan Rickman is both evil and a bit vulnerable as the villain, and is also flagrantly erotic (that's the "you gandered at my ward" video, and yes, you should watch it, and yes, on repeat). Johnny Depp carries the look and attitude of Sweeney Todd with the same panache and natural "charm" that he plays other characters, and the closeups make up for his singing voice, making the character intense and almost gleefully vengeful. Helena Bonham Carter is entirely perfect as Mrs. Lovett—her costumes are exquisite, she nails the characterization, and her chemistry with Depp, especially in the songs, is wonderful. She brings the film to life, staring with The Worst Pies in London, which is a squeamishly hilarious song. The black and white and red scheme is wonderfully exaggerated, as much like a drawing brought to life as Nightmare Before Christmas was. Tim Burton is the best possible director for this film—his absurd gothic style keeps the violence at once both squeamish and humorous, and never too much of the other (the film is much like Sleepy Hollow in that regard), and he works so well with Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter, making this a great combination of cast, director, and style.

So while, yes, parts of it were predictable, while the voices weren't always perfect, while some of the songs were awkward, the film is enjoyable, engrossing, exaggerated, and just an awful lot of fun. It was everything I expected, worth the hype, and I'm glad I had the chance to see it. I recommend it to others, wholeheartedly.

On a side note, the absurd contrast of goth with the seaside in By the Sea was perhaps the best part of the film. Fucking hilarious.

I have just two more films to see now: Atonement, for the love of Keira Knightly, and National Treasure: Book of Secrets, for the love of the first National Treasure movie. I already saw The Golden Compass, and though I enjoyed it, I don't entirely appreciate it. I like that the film is so faithful to the book. I think that shows a lot of respect, and the book is after all incredible, and no changes were necessary. Those that were made are small or necessary enough that I have no quarrel with them, with one exception: by cutting off the last few chapters, they take away the bittersweet end to Lyra's story, creating a different, artificially, equally annoying cliffhanger that only feels more positive. I think that was a horrible call. The casting, however, is exceptional and entirely spot on, which is the true joy of the film. The daemons are perfect, and I love to see an example of current film technology used to its best possible purpose: like Narnia's Aslan, the daemon are real and entirely convincing despite being CGed. If they had looked fake it would have ruined the film; the realism brings the film to life.

But for all of that, the film feels a bit pointless. It can't possibly incorporate all the aspects of the book, so it feels like the same story, only more shallow. It makes no changes, no commentary. Some of the effects are wonderful and lifelike, but some (like the Dust) are far from, so in terms of bringing the story to life, it's mostly a wash. It's an enjoyable movie, but since it is based on an incredible book, the movie falls flat. I'm glad I saw it, I recommend it, and I love it for showing me Lee Scoresby, Lyra, Pan, Seriphina, Iorek Byrnison, and many of the other characters, but it is, for me, much like the Harry Potter films—decent in their own right, but no comparison to the book, and so go back to the books instead.

And, indeed, I am currently rereading The Golden Compass.

In other good news, I just sent a long email off to Lizzie. If you've heard me talk about her, you probably know why this is so wonderful—she was a good friend from England, and I have missed her immensely. We fell out of contact (entirely my fault), so I sent out an email to get back in touch with her. And she's still out there. ^_^ Getting her little email this morning has already made this a wonderful day.

BPAL-centric post coming up very shortly, but I shall end this here. Goodness knows it's long enough. Except to say:

Merry Christmas, everyone! To those that celebrate, of course, and Happy Holidays to all of us. I know everyone is at different points in their celebrations and whatnot, but I hope you all have a wonderful time. Enjoy.

'Tis the season of letters and packages.

delicatetruth and lupanotte, I received both letter and card. I shall write back to the letter shortly. The card is adorable, and I must find somewhere to put the miniature sitting horse. Top of my monitor, maybe?

vaga42bond, I got the package. The veggies look quite scary wrapped in bubblewrap—like little alien egg pods, really. Either that, or I have an overactive imagination.

I'm also starting to receive my BPAL orders, most of which were purchased with the boyfriends BPAL Christmas cash. He's giving me a much smaller gifty on the day itself as well, which is a good thing, as these will arrive very spread out. I ordered—with my own cash—Ivanushka decants from a Long Night Moon decant circle (plus a decant of Wezwanie / Hold retail only salon)(by habiliments which arrived today, I won a pack of various imps, sent for free, from nyxluna (what a nice holiday idea!), which arrived today. I ordered—with the BPAL gift funds—a few LEs and GCs from voyeurwithwings which arrived yesterday. I'm still waiting on three LE decants—ordered with gift funds—from whiskeryluxury, three Poe decants—ordered with my own cash—from a decant circle by syrenemyst, and a set of six GC imps—ordered with gift funds— from the Lab itself, which I expect will arrive last, probably in early January, but I may be surprised.

*Takes a deep breath.*

So I'm in the middle of wading through a huge row of new BPAL smellies that need to be tried, tested, sorted, and fully enjoyed. This also means that my pile of imps is swiftly outgrowing the tiny box that I store them in—a shipping container from a lab order.

Photographic evidence? Well, it just so happens that I did take pictures in celebration...

( Two pictures of my stash. )

That makes 46 unique scents and one sniffy. Not bad, for a newbie. It is oddly exciting to watch the collection grow, and even more wonderful as I do actively use these. Some collections—like My Little Ponies, like stuffed bears—are decorative, and since I'm no longer six, are rarely interactive. BPAL is at once a collectible and a commodity. They get used. It's a joy to sort out all my favorites and to make orders and to receive packages, but it's also a joy to lean in close to myself and sniff deep, or to have the boy tell me that I smell good.

If all of this talk of BPAL interests you at all: I do have those few reject imps to pass off, and I bet there will be more as I start to test the ones I've recently acquired. I'm thinking primarily of circle_of_ashes and delicatetruth, as I exchange mail with both of you already, and lupanotte since I know you own some. kaimetso, I believe you were interested in maybe sampling one or two? Since I only have a few, and as I am both unreliable and scared of strangers, I would rather make these imps free samples to friends rather than sell them.

( The list of imps I'm looking to pass off, with descriptions. )

If any of them sound tempting, please do let me know. I make no promises, but if I send out a few holiday letters or packages, I'd love to get rid of these in the process. They don't work for me, but they may work for you. I'd love to get them in the hands of people that would enjoy them. (I will add to, revise, and repost this list every now and then, when I test and sort out new rejects.)