Jan. 4th, 2013

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I'm a little behind the times, but I just tonight got around to watching A Knight's Tale.

:: Moment of silence for Heath Ledger. ::

I've only watched a few movies over the last couple of years.  I can't say exactly why, because I've no real idea.  Just sort of the same disinclination as I had for reading when I finished college.  Something nearly as important as breathing, and I couldn't get close enough to it to find pleasure in it - until I was able to again.  Not for any particular reason.  Just because it was time.

What's best about getting to the other side of a drought is how good it feels to be drenched again.

Seeing The Hobbit the other night was grand, and Snow White and the Huntsman last night, too. 

And the best part of all three - besides yay costumes and make-up and CGI, oh my -

the best of each of these -

The performances
and oh the words.

The motherfucking words.

Yes, I use profanity here all the time, the way a cement mixer uses gravel, and yes, profanity is regarded as the hammer of a person with no chisels -

I don't care.

I know what words mean to me, and that's enough.


We have rested long enough.
Frost to fire and fire to frost.
Iron will melt. But it will writhe inside of itself!
All these years, all I've known is darkness.
But I have never seen a brighter light than when my eyes just opened.

And I know that light burns in all of you!
Those embers must turn to flame. Iron into sword.
I will become your weapon! Forged by the fierce fire that I know is in your hearts!
For I have seen what she sees. I know what she knows. I can kill her.
And I'd rather die today than live another day of this death!

Who will ride with me?
Who will be my brother?


Saruman believes it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found.
I found it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay.
Small acts of kindness and love.
Why Bilbo Baggins?
Perhaps because I am afraid, and he gives me courage.


All human activity lies within the artist's scope.


Words, with the brush and color of another voice.

If I have nothing else, these are enough.
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“...they come to us, these restless dead,
Shrouds woven from the words of men,
With trumpets sounding overhead
(The walls of hope have grown so thin
And all our vaunted innocence
Has withered in this endless frost)
That promise little recompense
For all we risk, for all we've lost...”

Mira Grant, Feed


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