#edit: oh and *also* there's something weird going on in my brain at the intersection of karow and henry shaw and drugs and lock picking

[daughterofhecata]

Good: my writing inspiration seems to be coming after, after having been pretty dead for weeks because of too much work and college stuff going on

Bad: I still don't really have time to write

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Winding London Roads

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 2955

Summary: Baz wants to ask Simon to move in with him. But he can never make things easy for himself. Based on "obstacle course" request.

Read on AO3

AN: I wasn't sure what "obastacle course" would mean fic wise. I considered doing Simon and Baz in a sort of Indiana Jones-esque scenario, but that ended up getting too long to write considering my school workload and still editing/posting my big bang. I may write it in the future but who tf knows with me. So enjoy this fluff :)

———————————————-

Baz

After all these years, I’ve realised Simon Snow isn’t going to die kissing me. He’s going to die while driving me.

“Aleister Crowley, Snow, watch out!” I yell. Simon just stops before we get hit by a lorry coming in the round about. It lets out a low, long honk at us. Simon glares at me across his shoulder.

“What the fuck Baz?” he snaps. “Don’t scare me like that!”

I glare right back. “Don’t get us hit by a lorry, then I won’t scare you.”

“I wasn’t going to hit it.” I don’t bother to argue. He’s obviously not going to budge.

This is a terrible idea. Absolutely horrendous. Snow has no business being behind the wheel, especially with me in the passenger seat. But he insisted on it. He’s got his learner’s permit and wants to drive as much as possible to learn. Which means he’s stubbornly decided to drive us to Crowley knows where for some sort of date. If we don’t die before then.

Simon pulls into the roundabout (without crashing us into anything, thank Merlin). He goes far too slow though, and we get many angry honks. It sounds like bloody New York City. But we make our way around eventually, Simon almost misses the exit of course.

“Why couldn't you practice driving some other time?” I ask. “Why must you practice in the middle of bloody London?”

“Because I’m taking you somewhere. And it’s a surprise.”

“You could’ve taken me on the tube.”

“Yeah, but I also need to practice driving in London. It’s where I’ll be driving when I have my full license.”

“No one drives in London, love.”

He turns onto a main street, packed to the bloody gills with regular cars and cabbies alike. Simon makes a grand, sweeping gesture over the windshield. “Then what are those, hm?”

He’s looking all smug and shit, and I just roll my eyes. “Idiots who are driving in London, and shall be for another twenty years at the rate we’re moving.”

Simon glares and sticks his tongue out at me, because he is truly a child at heart. I roll my eyes again and cross my arms.

Like I predict, we sit in traffic for quite awhile. I lean back on the headrest with my eyes closed. Simon probably assumes I’m just tired, which I am, but I’m also thinking. Thinking about something that’s been on my mind for quite awhile. But I’m not sure how to bring it up. Well, I know what I want to say. “Hey Snow, I know Bunce is leaving for America soon, and I know we also agreed we needed to have different roommates for awhile, but it’s been five years. So maybe, we could find our own flat.”

But every time I try to do it I lose my nerve. What if he doesn’t really want to stay in London? What if he still doesn’t feel ready to live with me again? What if he simply doesn’t want to? No reason, no explanation, he just doesn’t want to live with me again. All those possibilities fill my brain like a fog and the words die in my throat. I’m still such a coward sometimes.

Finally, we reach an intersection. “I know I don’t know where we’re going, but you should turn here, Snow. Get off the main drag.”

Simon snorts as he turns. “That sounds so American.”

“Blame Bunce’s boyfriend. His Americanisms are infecting me.”

“His name is Micah, and it’s not just you. I caught myself saying ‘fries’ yesterday instead of chips. Soon I’ll be wearing cargo shorts and an American flag tank top.”

“I will break up with you if you do that.”

We get to another intersection, and Simon turns so he can flash an absolutely shit eating grin at me. “I love you, too, Basilton.”

He says it so casually, because it is casual now. I used to keep track of every ‘I love you’ that came from Simon’s mouth, but after a year or so I lost count. Somehow, it became a simple truth that Simon Snow, former Chosen One and current insane motorist, loves me. I know this well. So why was it so damn hard to just ask the wonderful git to move in with me?

“How are the wonder couple?” I ask. “They’ve been so lovey dovey at your place it makes me want to sick up.”

“Like we’re ones to talk,” Snow chuckles, carefully driving down the narrow cobblestone road. “Pen says she’s getting payback for years of accidentally walking in on us.”

“For Crowley’s sake, that was one time.”

“Three times.”

“In five years!”

“She caught us snogging a lot.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. “Hardly a traumatizing event.”

“Yeah, but I bet she’ll be glad to not have to worry about that at all in America.”

He says it easily, just as easily he tells me he loves me. It’s another simple truth; Penelope Bunce is moving to America with her boyfriend, and Simon and I are staying here. There will be an ocean between Simon and his best friend. It was true, but it wasn’t easy.

I reach over and put a hand on his knee, squeezing it lightly. He doesn’t look down, but I don’t mind. We’ve spent lots of quiet tete a tetes talking about his feelings over this. If it’s easier for him not to acknowledge it now, while he’s trying to get onto a particularly busy London street, that’s fine.

“You know, funny thing,” Simon chuckles, still looking for an opening to turn, “Pen actually told me she’s going to miss you.”

My eyes get impossibly wide. We’ve faced down dragons and supervillain clones, but somehow that is the most improbable thing I’ve ever heard. “Seriously? Miss me? She bickers with me constantly.”

“Yeah, because you’re the only one who can keep up with her. She told me she’s going to miss all your smarty pants book talks. But don’t tell her I told you that. She doesn’t want to blow up your ego.”

I snort, but only to cover up my embarrassment. Bunce and I are friends, sure, but the fact that she’s actually going to miss me hits somewhere deep in my gut. Because, well, I will admit, I like our “smarty pants book talk” too. And I’m going to miss having them too.

“Oh Crowley,” I say quietly, the revelation washing over me, “I’m going to miss her too.”

Simon chuckles, sounding unusually smug. “Uh, yeah. You just figured that out?”

I would flick his smug, gorgeous face if he wasn’t driving. So I just roll my eyes. “Fuck off. I’m not good with feelings, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just rare that I know something that you don’t. Let me bask in that for moment.”

“Arsehole.”

“And you love me.”

I squeeze his knee again, holding for a tad longer. I’m still not superb at physical affection but this seems right. “I do, a lot.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” he teases. I love that we can tease each other about it. Because it’s so well established. I love him I want to spend my entire life with him. And first step would be living together. I wish I could just ask him. Maybe if I lead into it...

“So,” I say slowly, “Fiona has met someone.”

Simon perked up, partly from what I said and partly because the light suddenly turns red. The car jerks forward slightly. I knock my knees against the front, but it’s honestly better than getting into a fender bender.

“Oh really? Uh, drummer or travel blogger?” Simon asks, voice still a bit strained probably from our near accident.

I chuckle. “Actually, no. She’s a fellow vampire hunter, the first mage she’s dated in ages. And they’re very serious, I think.”

Simon makes a weird noise as drove ahead. What is going on in that beautiful head of his? “Well, that’s good. I sorta like Fiona by now. She deserves to be happy and all that shite. After all the stuff she went through.”

He’s talking weirdly. It’s not bad or good, just...weird. Like he’s holding himself back maybe. But he also sounds on edge. For someone usually so obvious he was being very closed off right now. “Uh, yeah. They’re good. You’ll probably meet her at the next horrible Grimm-Pitch Christmas dinner.”

“Looking forward to it,” he chirps.

I snort. “Sure you are.” I rub my hand up and down his rough denim. I find the feeling comforting. Well, I find everything involving Simon comforting, really. But this is particularly nice. “But yes, Fiona is very happy. She’s very in love. However, her girlfriend lives far up north.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. And she’s pretty attached to the north. So, she’s thinking about...relocating.”

Simon made a sharp turn on to another side street. I’m forced closer to the window, letting me look around at the buildings. Huh, I don’t think I’m familiar with this part of London. Where is he taking me? “Oh, really?”

“Mhm. I know Fiona must really love her to get her to consider moving out of London. But it’s becoming a real possibility. She’s actually thinking of selling her flat.”

He makes another turn so sudden my head nearly bashed into the side. Is he going faster? “That’s really neat,” he says, voice strained.

What’s going on with him? Why is he going so fast? Why is he so nervous? Does it have something to do with Bunce? I hope not. He’s already stressing about that enough, I didn’t think it could get worse. I hold his leg tight. “Simon, love, are you-”

“We’re here!”

The car comes to a sudden, screeching halt. I nearly bash my head into the dashboard and my nails dig into Simon’s thigh. Once I’ve collected myself, I’m concerned about my suspension and tired.

“Snow,” I hiss, “what the fuck? Are you trying to kill me? Are you alright?”

“Sorry, love, sorry. Just almost missed it.”

“Missed what?”

Simon grins, teeth reflecting the light so he really is the sun. “Come out and see.”

Okay, that’s ominous. But he’s smiling so genuinely, and I love him, and I trust him. So despite my natural caution, I step out of my car with him.

“Ta-da!” Simon shouts, arms spread wide like a grand TV presenter. And I’m...confused.

“What is it?” I ask with genuine bewilderment.

Simon frowns almost pathetically. “What do you think it is, arsehole?”

“Uh...” I look around. We’re standing in front of a boxy World War Two era apartment building. It’s alright though. The grey cement isn’t too ugly, and it looks clean. The garden is lovely though. It’s lush with a veritable rainbow of lovely flowers. I know Simon has been getting into gardening. (His therapist told him to find something that made him happy. That turned out to be getting his hands dirty and pretty flowers.)

“The garden?” I say. “It’s very lovely. Yours is nicer though, love.”

Simon rolls his eyes and groans. “No, not the garden.” He shook his arms. “The building, Baz. I’m talking about the building.”

I look it over again. Has Simon taken a new interest in post 1945 architecture? “It’s a nice building, but I think I need some more context.”

“Right, right, sorry.” He steps forward and takes one of my hands in his. I have to stop myself from getting distracted by his warm, calloused fingers. “We’re here at this building because there’s an open flat here, and I think we should look at it. As somewhere we could live. Together.”

My eyes got incredibly, impossibly wide. My dead heart is roaring in my ears. He’s not joking. He’s smiling softly, holding my hand, absolutely nothing but genuine caring. I’m dumbstruck, just standing there looking at him. I can’t believe it.

“You...” I say softly, “you want to move in with me?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, like it’s obvious.

“But, I thought we wanted different roommates...”

Simon looks surprised for a moment, eyes going wide. Then he bursts out in raucous laughter. He throws his head back, curls falling down his neck. I turn beat red and look at the ground.

“Fuck off,” I grumble.

Simon’s hand travels up my arm, stepping closer. I’m immediately comforted by his scent; brown and sweet, mixed with his shea butter shampoo. I would happily die with that smell in my nose.

“I’m sorry,” he cooed. “But Baz, that was five years ago. We were both freshly traumatized and still trying to figure out our relationship. But we’re better now, right?” I nod, because he’s right. We’re not perfect but we’re absolutely better. “Exactly. So since Penny is...going away soon, maybe we can try living together again. If you want to, that is. We don’t have to.”

I start nodding immediately. I don’t need to hesitate anymore, because he absolutely wants this as much as me. “No, I absolutely want to. I’ve, uh, actually been agonizing for ages over how to ask you, but I kept coming up with reasons not to.”

Simon giggles and takes my other hand. “You gotta get out of your own big head sometimes, love. It’s a fucking maze up there.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “I know. But you seem to be able to navigate it. Or at least blow it to bits.”

“That’s my specialty,” he chirps. He tugs me towards the building, ascending one step. The sunlight makes his hair sparkle just like his smile. All my anxieties dull under that grin. Merlin, he’s incredible. “C’mon, let’s go.”

I follow him up the steps, squeezing his hand. “Absolutely.”

We go in, and the building manager takes up to the flat. It’s a nice place. There’s some furnishings, a queen sized bed, and a nice bathroom. Simon runs around looking at every room. He’s mumbling about how we could arrange furniture and where Bunce and Micah could stay when they visit. I ask the manager about money related things like rent and utilities and security deposit. It all seems reasonable enough. Though Simon did say there were other places. We should probably check them out first.

“Baz!” Simon yells. “There’s a balcony!”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Excuse me,” I say to the building manager. He gives me a nod and a smile, a very gracious man.

I walk towards Simon’s voice. Just off the living room, he’s standing on a small balcony, hands holding the railing as he leans out. I would be more worried but his wings are still there even if they’re invisible. (He can’t really fly but he can certainly glide.) I stand next to him, putting an arm across his waist.

“Look at this view!” he says. “You can see half of London from here. Imagine it at night.”

He’s right, it’s gorgeous. The buildings both old and new are spread out before us. I can see Canary Wharf and a few of London’s castles too. There’s a lush green park with a dazzling fountain only a few blocks away. Even the Thames looks pretty from here. I smile and lean against him.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “Though we’re going to look at other places too, love.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve got a list on my phone. And just to be clear, we’re not looking at Fiona’s place.”

What? I look at him with resounding bewilderment. “Why would we look at Fiona’s place?”

Simon looks at me with just as much confusion. “Isn’t that what you were about to say before? Fiona’s moving, so you want us to take her place.” He frowns in some sort of determined annoyance. “But I don’t like it there. It’s too richy rich for me, and I, uh,” his cheeks go a bit red and he looks down at his feet, “sorta want us to get a new flat just for us, y’know? Something new that’s only our’s. I-It’s stupid, I know, I-”

“No no,” I say, pulling him closer, “it’s not stupid. I want somewhere for us too. And for the record, I wasn’t saying we should take Fiona’s place. The rent is insane, it is too richy rich, and the marijuana and nicotine smell have permeated the walls.”

“Yeah, exactly. I wanted to get here to show you to this place before you said something.”

“Hence why you drove like a madman?”

“...yes.”

I chuckle and lean my cheek on his soft hair. “Well, I was actually talking about Fiona to not so subtly bring up that I was going to be without a flat soon, so we should find one for ourselves. Though I did thoroughly enjoy fearing for my life.”

He kicks my ankle. “Fuck off.”

I press a kiss to his temple. “Never. You’d miss me too much.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and presses closer. His warmth is almost infectious. “I’m looking forward to it though. Having our own place. That’s not a dorm room and we don’t avoid each other because we’re y’know, magical mortal enemies and shit.”

Crowley, who allowed this man to be so adorable? It’s criminal. I tilt his head up and kiss him softly. It’s slow, simple, filled with truths; I love Simon Snow, Simon Snow loves me, we both need new places to live, we want to live together again, and it’s going to be fantastic. Part of me is kicking myself for ever being worried. But a bigger part of me wants to keep kissing him. So I do just that, like I want to for the rest of our goddamn lives.

I can’t wait to start this new chapter.

———————————————-

AN: So what was the real obstacle course? London's insane fucking roads, the conversation, or Baz's anxieties? Oooooo so many questions, I'm such a deep writer, ooooo. Jk jk, it's whatever you think it is. This fic is not that deep lol. After writing Black Swan, it was nice to write some simple fluff. It's a bit meandering and weird sure but was fun to write. Hope y'all enjoyed reading it. And thanks to the person who requested :)

I've got like three requests still sitting in my inbox and I'm gonna try to get those done as quickly as possible. Also, reminder, I'm not taking anymore fic requests rn but will most likely open them again in May after exams. School sucks ugh.

If you guys like this, feel free to check out my ongoing Swan Lake AU fic The Black Swan. Thanks for reading, see you guys again soon!

[themyskira]

Wonder Woman: Earth One, Vol 2 - Part 1

I’m going to break this into a few parts, because it turned out I had a bit to say. I’ll start with my overall impressions, then dive into the spoilery recap.

General thoughts: Next verse, same as the first.

Grant Morrison purports to want to explore Marston’s ideas, but he’s more interested in the kooky, kinky trappings than the sentiment behind them.

Marston was radical and progressive in his time. Writing in the 1940s, he told his readers that women were men’s equals — and even superiors! — in every way. He told young girls there was no limit to what they could do. His stories promoted love over hatred, peace over violence, rehabilitation over retribution.

If Morrison had taken that bold sentiment and reimagined it through a lens of modern society and feminism in 2018, he might have had a compelling story to tell. Instead, he takes Marston’s ideas as he understands them and transplants them wholesale into a time in which they’re no longer radical and progressive, but rather backward and out-of-step with modern intersectional feminism, and then proceeds to ask such deep, incisive questions as “yes but realistically could we actually replace all world governments with a matriarchy?????”

He never truly deconstructs any of Marston’s ideas, just parrots phrases like “submission to loving authority” a lot and raises questions without ever making a decent attempt at answering them. To be fair, part of the problem is that he’s simply trying to do too much at once: juggling parallel stories in Themyscira and Man’s World, an interrogation of the Amazons’ philosophies and the introduction of three new antagonists and the tensions they cause, all within a limited page count, Morrison is unable to devote the necessary time to properly developing any of them. It’s no wonder the result is so half-baked.

But hey, just throw in a bunch of vagina planes and a dusting of kink and watch as everyone crows over how subversive he is.

Yannick Paquette’s artwork is still beautiful. His page layouts are still dynamic and expressive, and his character designs are still lovely. Diana in particular gets a variety of very cool outfits, including a beautiful modest costume for a trip to the Middle East.

But he still can’t shake his tendency towards drawing women’s bodies in weirdly-contorted poses with bizarre pornfaces. Wonder Woman shouldn’t look like she’s orgasming as she’s leaping into battle, ffs.

Oh, and the series is still being edited by noted serial sexual harasser Eddie Berganza. HASHTAG FEMINISM!

Let’s get into the recap.

Content warning for some skeevy mind control content and general discussion of the gender essentialist, body-shaming, TERFy attitudes of Morrison’s Amazons.

The story opens with a flashback to 1942, with Paula von Gunther leading a Nazi invasion of Themyscira, and god I’m already so tired.

idk, I mean, I get that Nazis were a major Golden Age antagonist, and Morrison is harking back to that. But there’s a broader historical and cultural context to consider. Cartoonish Nazi villains in patriotic WWII-era American comics carried very different associations than they do in 2018, in the midst of a presidency steeped in white supremacy and hate speech, on the eve of a midterm election in which a record number of neo-Nazis are standing for office, at a time when hate groups are surging, when migrant children are being separated from their families and held in detention camps— just. Not a time when I want to be reading about cartoonish super-Nazis, personally.

And I don’t really see why they necessarily need to be this story? The battle serves to illustrate how Amazons combat and… “rehabilitate”… their adversaries. Paula ultimately serves as a plot device. Couldn’t that maybe have been achieved without Nazis?

Anyway, Paula announces that she is claiming the island for the Third Reich, and Hippolyta is like “lol no”.

Okay, that part I like. Evil army storms the island, backed by guns and warships, surround a half-dozen barely-armed women… who all but roll their eyes. ‘Pfft, children. Fine, if you want to play this game…’ And the evil army can only gape in bewilderment as the women proceed to take them apart in minutes.

But this is where it gets weird.

The Amazons fire a purple ray at all of the Nazis, which… makes them all drop their weapons and start screaming “YES!” orgasmically?

Hippolyta tells Paula that the soldiers “will be taken to the Space Transformer. They will be transported to Aphrodite’s world where Queen Desira and her butterfly-winged Venus Girls wait to purge them of their need for conflict. They will be taught to submit to loving authority. They will learn to embrace peace and obedience. They will be as happy as men can be.”

Paula attacks Hippolyta, rips off her magic girdle and heaves a great boulder over her head— wait, were we supposed to know that Paula had superpowers? That seems like something that should have been flagged.

She effortlessly takes down the Amazons who rush to the queen’s defence and takes a moment to cackle villainously. “Behold the pride of Germany! The ultimate daughter of the thousand-year-empire of Adolf Hitler!” To which Hippolyta— okay, I like this part, too.

Hippolyta calmly gets to her feet and puts Paula in a stranglehold. “We are the Amazons of myth, my dear! I am Queen Hippolyta eternal.” She swiftly and efficiently brings Paula to her knees.

But, welp, never mind, it’s about to get fucking creepy again.

Hippolyta forces Paula into “the Venus Girdle”, a device that “charges every body cell with vitalising currents and harmonises the brain, encouraging obedience.”

Paula: Let me go! What is that? What are you doing? Hippolyta: The Venus Girdle? It charges every body cell with vitalising currents and harmonises the brain, encouraging obedience. A dainty thing, is it not? Paula: I won’t— I won’t— You can’t control me— you can’t— can’t make me— make me... oh… make me…

Paula: nmmuhhh… What’s happening? My Nazi ideals— slipping away— they— they don’t make any sense now… I— I thought— I thought— I was strong. What’s wrong with me? I’m so weak— I must be weak to wish to serve weak, cruel men— like— like Herr Hitler— I— I— Hippolyta: If you truly long to be a slave to the ideas of others, well… we can find a loving mistress to help you explore your desires in a healthier context. Paula: Yes. Yes! My queen— [sob] —how can you ever forgive me? How wise of you to know— to know this is all I ever wanted! Hippolyta: Devote yourself to me by following the Amazon Code. Go with out sweet Mala to Improvement Island. There you will come to know yourself until the Venus Girdle is no longer required.

Paula: But all I want is to serve you, my queen! I love you! Please don’t turn your back on me!

Basically, Hippolyta forcibly uses a mind-altering device on Paula that alters her brain chemistry to make her placid, compliant and suggestible, then immediately washes her hands of her.

So… let’s talk about this, because I think it strikes at the heart of the problems with Wonder Woman: Earth One.

Queen Desira, the Venus Girls, magnetic golden Venus Girdles that “harmonise the brain” — all these things are drawn from Golden Age Wondy comics cowritten by Marston and his collaborator Joye Kelly. Marston played with mind control a lot in his stories, and not all of it came from the bad guys.

Morrison’s bold, subversive approach to these story elements is to export them wholesale into the present day and force us to feel uncomfortable about them.

In other words, he’s taking some of the weirder and more fucked up story elements from a collection of comics that are widely agreed to be very weird, and then plonking it before your readers and asking, ‘hey guys, have you ever considered… that this might be weird and fucked up???’

There’s nothing clever or insightful about that. And there’s certainly nothing groundbreaking about a cis white male writer imagining a fictitious feminist dystopia where women strip away men’s free will.

Like, if you really want to be subversive with Marston’s Wonder Woman, how about you start by hiring a woman to write it? Why not see what this iconic feminist hero conceived by a cis white man in the 1940s and written almost exclusively by cis white men for over 75 years might look like if she were reimagined and reinterpreted by LGBTI women, by women of colour? By the women left out of those original comics?

That would be subversive. Morrison is just being a smartarse.

So yeah, Hippolyta turns her back on the helpless, brainwashed, lovesick Paula and walks over to Diana, who’s defied her mother’s orders and run down from the palace to get a glimpse of the action. She’s full of questions; Hippolyta brushes them off with the usual (for Morrison’s Amazons) ‘men are shit’ line.

There’s a moment where Paula and Diana meet eyes from across the beach, and each asks, “who is she?” Diana is simply curious; Paula is instantly lovestruck.

Paula: That girl… the image of my queen.

This looks like foreshadowing, but spoilers: it goes absolutely nowhere.

Sidenote: If the Amazons deal with invaders by brainwashing them, why did they want to kill Steve Trevor in Volume One?

Cut to present-day America, where a room of faceless men discuss the threat posed by the Amazons and their superior technology, which they assume extends to deadly weaponry. The only in they have with the Amazons is Wonder Woman, and to get through her defences they’ve called in “an expert in female psychology”, aka a misogynistic monster.

Doctor Psycho: Gentlemen. She may be strong and tough and smart and beautiful… but she’s just a woman. I never met one I couldn’t break.

Oh, goody.

Cut to a cute splash page of Diana playing baseball. She gets a lot of great outfits in this book.

She’s also clearly making an impact in Man’s World; her face is plastered across every magazine, and people flock to hear her speak.

A Q&A sessions serves as a thinly-veiled opportunity for Morrison to answer some of the criticisms of the first book. His response leaves something to be desired.

“Amazon training can make any of you into a Wonder Woman,” says Diana. We teach a system of physical and psychological health and vitality. The grace and beauty of Aphrodite, the skill and wisdom of Athena.”

Woman: What about Wonder trans women? Is there room for people like me in your utopia? Diana: There’s room for everyone. The Amazon Code was evolved by women over thousands of years and outlines a progressive, pacifist way of living and thinking that anyone can follow.

I’m sorry, but that’s a fucking bullshit answer. It’s a weak, superficial gesture towards inclusiveness that conspicuously fails to express any real support or solidarity.

And depressingly, this is 100% in-character for Earth One Diana, because Morrison’s Amazons? are absolutely TERFs. As with the mind control content, Morrison has exported Marston’s 1940s binaristic gender essentialism unchanged into the 21st century in order to ask searing questions like ‘hey but what if??? the idea that women are genetically more suited to ruling??? is simplistic and flawed?????’ But the most he’ll engage with the genuinely insidious implications around the exclusion of trans and nonbinary people is a smiling noncommittal, ‘Are trans people welcome? My friend, everyone is welcome! No further questions!’

Morrison’s Wonder Woman displays a profound disregard of context. He ignores not only the cultural, historical and individual contexts that shaped the original 1940s Wonder Woman, but also the contexts of the time in which he’s currently writing and the cultural space that Wondy has come to inhabit today as a feminist and LGBT icon.

Removed from context, Morrison is simply taking a hero who traditionally hails from an advanced utopian society, taking another look at the views that society actually espouses, and reframing her as a well-meaning but naive hero from an advanced but deeply flawed and unsettling society.

In context, he’s doing exactly what Brian Azzarello did in turning the Amazons into murderous man-hating monsters, just with more kink and vagina planes.

Woman 2: Umm, there’s a lot of stuff on social media about how you dress provocatively and promote an unrealistic body type, which is basically setting a bad example for women. I mean, the stuff you do is amazing and all, it’s just… does any of the criticism bother you? Diana: I don’t think there’s any such thing as an ‘unrealistic’ body shape. My own body is the result of diet, exercise and… um… sophisticated genetic engineering. Otherwise, I dress as I please.

Volume One made it clear that all Amazons have the physique of supermodels, and when they encounter the diverse body types of the women in our world, they are disgusted and respond with body-shaming insults. Here, Diana again avoids voicing any actual support (she doesn’t say that all women’s bodies are beautiful and valid, she suggests that her body type is not unrealistic), while also throwing out eugenics as a reason for the lack of body diversity among the Amazons. Oh good, I was hoping we’d get more Nazi parallels!

Finally, a militant white feminist stands up and observes that if the Amazons are capable of half of what Diana says they are, then they could dismantle the patriarchy overnight — so why is Diana wasting time giving philosophy lectures? “You can control people’s minds with that lasso of yours. Like you did with that dude on TV— so why can’t you put a lasso ‘round the whole world?”

Afterwards, talking to Beth Candy, Diana’s like, ‘gosh, Beth, I’ve never seriously thought about world domination before, but maybe it is time to consider stripping all mortals of their free will, dismantling all nations and compelling everybody on the planet to bow down before Amazonia.’

Then Diana gets on her mental radio and calls her mother, confessing her doubts about her mission.

It was around this point in the book that the Amazons’ dialogue began to grate on me. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was at first. Every line read like a ceremonious pronouncement. They used antiquated syntax and words, like “whole systems … must o’erturned be” and “she did, without due caution, this, her island home, depart!”. Even Diana would become infected with it whenever she was speaking to them. It felt like they weren’t so much conversing as they were reciting… 

...verse… 

oh my god, that motherfucker.

Surely he hadn’t.

I scanned the dialogue again. I double-checked it.

He had.

Grant Morrison, that obscenely pretentious wanker, wrote all of the Amazons’ dialogue in dactylic hexameter.

For fuck’s sake.

After finishing her call with Diana, Hippolyta learns that somebody has vandalised one of the temples with the symbol of “a backward-turning sun”, i.e. a swastika. Unseen by everybody, Paula breaks into Hippolyta’s palace.

[queerherowriter-blog]

1.03 - My Friends (RETIRED)

(last edited March 31, 2014)

Cameron stands up next to the bed and then digs in his jean pockets for a second. He pulls out a phone and clicks a button. I can see the screen light on his face. He clicks another button and the phone light dies out, he says, “We only have about two hours left.”

        “Until what?” I ask.

        “Until your brain isn’t exactly pliable anymore. It’s pretty late already. Uh, wait here for a second.”

        “Wait! What?” I yell after him, but he darts around the corner and out of the room again. I can’t believe he left me again.

        Fortunately he is back within seconds. He is pushing a black wheel chair in front of him. He brings it into the room and towards the bed. He pushes his chair away from the bed with his foot and brings the wheel chair next to the bed. He gives me a curt, “c’mon,” and motions for me to get into the chair. He comes in around the chair and assists me into it as my legs feel weak still and my brain begins to get fuzzy.

        As I sit into the chair he goes around the chair again and spins me around until I’m facing the door. I grab onto the arms rests of the wheelchair to steady myself. “So, where are you taking me exactly?” I say as he pushes me through the doorframe and out into the hallway, which is also white.

        He sounds distracted, but says, “You and I are going on a little journey and I am going to try and break that memory hold in the next two hours. We are going to go a little harder than before, but don’t worry, I’m still going to tread lightly. I happen to know a lot about your past since we are such good friends and I know which memories to avoid.” He never looks at me while speaking, the entire time he is focusing on maneuvering the chair through the narrow hallway, which has other doors and a few ajar that looks similar to mine. I must be in the hospital. He pushes me through the hallway that opens up into a large room with a few rows of chairs and a reception desk. There is no one in the room. He sighs, “is everyone gone? Okay whatever, let’s just keep going. Now, Charlie, I’m just going to start talking about what life is like here for you and you let me know if you feel anything come back to you okay?”

        “Okay.”

        Cameron pushes me through the room to the other end where there are two doors. “Your name is Charlie. I told you that. You live in the Underground under the rule of the Providence. You know that.” Once we get to the door Cameron swings me around so I get a view of the way we came and uses his back to push open the doors as he pulls me with him. Then once outside he swings me around in front again. The entire scheme has changed. We are now in a wider hallway than before. The entire hallway is line with bricks. There are old lamps that hang from the walls to illuminate the hallway. The lamps only appear to be dim but the hallway is quite well lit with yellow light.

        “The Underground is our community and it gets its name because it is completely under Central Park in New York City. Of course our dimension extends towards the entire periphery of Central Park so what’s above ground is also ours as well. The Underground one of the communities exclusively for gifted people. Some call us, gifted, some call us freaks, some call us channelers, some call us wizards, you take your pick, we usually go with gifted, though. Once you came to the Underground you discovered that you had gifts that were very special, even more special than the average gifts you see around here.”

        What kind of gifts? I think to myself as Cameron wheels me to a four-way intersection in the hallways. I can see that there are now wooden doors in the walls. I wonder what’s behind them. I see two girls at the end of the hallway walking towards us. It’s weird to think about them, I can add them to the very small list of faces that I know. I know Cameron’s face, and my own, now I can add two others to the list. They must be in their early twenties, one is black and one is white. They are both in summer apparel. The black girl is wearing a pink summer dress and the white girl is wearing a tank top with short jean shorts. Unfortunately Cameron does not stop to talk to them, and takes a different fork in the intersection. I guess I don’t know them personally.

        “Benjamin, your friend who was kidnapped, had the ability to read magical powers. He could tell that you had not just one power, but four, which is ridiculous. You can channel the energy throughout your body, which isn’t that special around here, most folks can do that. We call those The Basics because just about everyone can do them. You can teleport, which is a little less common, but still really cool. However, those aren’t the really cool ones. You have what we call a rooted power. A gift that is so strong that it’s actually completely stuck in your DNA. You don’t need to use a wand or even move your body at all to use it. It’s quite remarkable really.” Cameron says it very proudly. I don’t know how to feel about all of this information, I’m taking it in, but I must say I don’t feel quite “remarkable,” as he put it. I can’t even believe I have powers. I feel so useless right now. I’m being pushed in a wheelchair.

Cameron wheels me around another corner and down a shorter hallway. The hallway opens up into a large circular room. It’s giant really. It’s not exactly circular though. There isn’t much wall; it’s one giant fork. Every direction there is a different hallway, some that go down and some go straight. I can’t even count how many there different halls you can choose. I can see that one of the halls goes up and there seems to be a light coming from above. That must be the exit.

Cameron spins the chair right and we cross in front of three hallway openings. “We have a few people here with rooted power. Ben, himself, had a rooted power. What makes you so incredibly special is that you have two rooted powers. They’re both amazing. You can heal yourself as well as others. In fact your healing abilities are quite incredible, you can–“ Cameron yanks the wheelchair back and I almost fall out of the chair. A man running with a little girl, on his back, darts out of the third hallway. They are both in swimwear. Both the man and Cameron apologize for our almost-collision.

Cameron continues as he turns the wheelchair down a hallway that descends deeper into the ground. The bricked walls continue here. “Anyway, you can heal a minor cut in seconds without doing anything. And the last one, this is the greatest thing, ever. It’s the coolest power I’ve ever seen to be honest. You have an extra life.”

“An extra life?” I repeat wildly. “What does that even mean?”

“It means what it sounds like,” Cameron exclaims, almost excited, “you have an extra life. You can die once and get up and die all over again! I mean your not immortal or anything, you can still be murdered, it’s just that the killer would have to wait for you to get back up and kill you again.”

I get a little giddy. Is that true? Do I have an extra life? What would that be like? To die? And then get up and walk away? Would I be like a zombie, like a ghost, or just completely normal? Now, I begin to feel a bit powerful. Then the thought strikes me.

“Wait, how do we know that I didn’t use this extra life when I was attacked? I mean, I might’ve been killed and then used it or something? Maybe that’s why my memory is gone, because this is my second life.”

“No,” Cameron says simply. He wheels me down a more narrow set of hallways now, these are more windy and curved, but they are still completely bricked. “That couldn’t of happened because your extra life was locked, you haven’t actually unlocked it yet, plus we think all of your other unlocked powers relocked themselves. That’s why you are healing as quick.”

“My powers have locked themselves?” I repeat, curious as to what that means.

“Yep, you see you can’t just use a power willy-nilly. You have to unlock it first. Some are super easy to unlock, like to unlock the basics you just have to calm your body down. It commonly happens when people are asleep, actually. However, rooted powers and more rare powers tend to be trickier to unlock. We know that Ben’s power was unlocked when his father was killed in a car accident with him when he was like seven,” Cameron says.

“Oh,” I say quietly. I have so many questions. This is very interesting to me. I can’t believe this is true. A part of me wants to try and unlock all of these powers right now and start playing with them. That healing power might be nice right now because my head still hurts. The other part of me just wants to sit Cameron down and ask him every question that comes to mind. I wonder what it will be like to unlock my powers. Will it hurt? What will I have to do?

Cameron halts me in front of a wooden door identical to all of the rest I have seen so far. “We’re here.” He says. He pulls out a small set of keys and finds a small one. He fiddles with the two locks on the door, turning the key the left way first and then the right way and then trying the other lock. I can see this may take some time so I ask him another question.

“Hey, if my memory is gone then how do I know how everything works? Like I know how to talk and I know that those keys open that door and I know that I’m sitting in a wheelchair,” I ask.

“Well, y’see Charlie.” He grunts trying to push open the still locked door. “Well, that’s all knowledge. You store that in a different part of your brain, so most of that is unharmed, however, so of it may be gone because that knowledge is attached to memories. That’s why you aren’t more psyched to be gifted, because you’ve been told all of that stuff before and your brain is accustomed to it. Ah there we go.”

I hear a click and Cameron pushes open the door. Cameron spins me and pushes me into the room. It’s a bedroom. The room is rectangular and the walls are made up of bricks painted lime green. The floors are no longer bricks but old, dull hardwood. There is a small twin-sized bed in the corner shoved into a little den in the wall, perfect for the size of the bed. I can see a signature near the bed that says in big, loopy, cursive handwriting, “Fiona Mulloy.” There is a small living room setting in the opposite corner of the room. It has a brown couch, a small TV, and a coffee table covered in water rings. Next to the couch there is an orange chair in the shape of a bird’s nest. It looks very comfortable. To our right there is also a desk that is piled on with books and has absolutely no system of organization.

On the side of the room opposite to Cameron and I, there are two doors, one that is narrow and lockless and another that is identical to the door we just entered in through, except I can see the internal side of the locks. The lockless door has a full-length mirror hanging on it. To our left there is a brown dresser, and a pile of fresh laundry on top, waiting to be put into the drawers.

I can see that Cameron is staring at me. As I look up at him he looks at me with that hopeful look on his face. Oh no. This is my room. Yep, that look on his face tells me he is definitely expecting me to have some reaction. I take another look around the room. Nothing. I don’t think I have the heart to tell him that I feel no connection to this room. I mean, it’s nice and all, but I don’t remember it.

“This is my room?” I ask him quietly.

“Yep,” he says, his voice a little giddy.

“I don’t feel anything here.”

He sighs, a little dramatically if you ask me. “I thought this would do it. One second, I’ve got another idea.”

He pulls out the same phone I saw before, but this time he pushes a few more buttons and puts the phone to his ear. He holds it there for a few seconds, looking around the room, trying to find a place on the wall to rest his eyes. I think his eyes settle on the bed. Then the person on the other end of the line picks up and I hear Cameron’s half of the conversation. “Yeah, it’s Cameron.” “He’s alright, he’s awake, but they were right, his memory is gone.” “Yeah.” “Hey could you come down here? Maybe one of you can trigger something.” “Yeah, bring them all.” “Yeah, fine.” “No, we’re in his room, this memory hold seems to be pretty strong.” “Yeah, just hurry.”

He hangs up the phone and slips it back into his pocket. Then looks at me and says, “while your friends are on their way, let’s see if we can get you into your bed. Maybe we can trigger something by putting you where you dream.”

He wheels me towards the bed and runs in front of me to pull the light blue covers away. I feel anxious. I have to meet new people and I’m just automatically supposed to be friends with them. I don’t even know who to expect should be coming.

As we reach the bed, Cameron helps me up and then turns me around slowly. I plop myself down on the bed and lift my own feet in. He pulls the covers over me and steps away. I shuffle around a little and then find a spot that matches the form of my body perfectly. I can feel my butt slip into a small indentation in the bed. It’s comfortable. I fumble with the blanket and discover there are actually two. One that is thin and white, it looks like it was knitted together with a nice, simple, square pattern on it. One on top is a thicker and seems like it is used for warmth. The blanket is a baby blue on top and the inside is also light green. I stare up at the lower ceiling over the bed as I enjoy the coolness under the sheets. This doesn’t bring up any memories either.

However, it does help me step in the direction of trusting Cameron more, since I do believe that this is my actual bed. I look over at him and say, “nothing.”

He pulls one side of his lip back in a half-frown. He sits me up on the edge of the bed and I place both of my hands on either side of me for balance. Then I hear a knock. I look up and see a small, thick girl with an acne-ridden face knocking on the doorframe since Cameron left the door open. Next to her is a thin black guy, probably the same age as me. His hair is cut almost flat on the top of his head. I can also see one girl peeking her head in between the two of them and a few other head bobbing up and down behind them. All of them staring at me. “Hey,” Cameron says, “c’mon in.”

The pimply girl in front comes in staring directly at me as she enters. She is wearing a light yellow summer dress. “Hey,” she says softly. Then she looks to Cameron and says, “What should we do?” I watch as others follow her in. The black boy, then a short girl with her light hair cropped short, she is very short and chubby, for lack of a better word. Then a drop-dead gorgeous girl follows her. Her hair is dark and put up in a high ponytail. She is in a tank top and short jeans. Behind her is a blonde girl who is in a outfit similar to the pretty girl, but obviously just not quite as pretty.

“You should just…” Cameron thinks for a moment, “uh, maybe just introduce yourself and then your relationship to him and then I don’t know, maybe a memory that the two of you shared that you know he might remember. But nothing too heavy for him, we’re trying to ease this thing, not break it, remember.” Cameron adds in quickly.

The girl smiles at him and then looks back at me. She comes closer and gets on the same level as me while grabbing one of my hands in her own. Her hair is nice, pretty. She has it down except for two locks on either side that come around and meets on the backside of her head.

“Well, Charlie, my name is Robin Sornoa.” She puts special emphasis on the “a.” “You and I are really good friends. And, uh, hmm, a memory, um, oh, you actually taught me how to play Marco Polo.” The girl named Robin says with a smile on her face. I hear a snicker from behind her, the pretty girl has her hand over her mouth. Robin ignores it and stares into my eyes. “Anything?”

“No.” I say.

She sighs a bit and then gets up and says, “Joe you want to try?” She gestures to the guy behind her.

The man named Joe takes her place as she steps back towards Cameron. He begins speaking a bit nervously, “Hey uh, Charlie. Uhm well my name is Joe, obviously, uh, Joe Bennett, to be more specific. Me and you are ten times better friends than you and Robin will ever be.” He begins to smile and chuckles a bit as some of the other people begin to laugh and Robin nudges Joe from behind. I let out a little laugh. “And, for a memory, uh, I can’t think of anything right now, uhm I don’t know, I’ll think of something.”

He steps back and the pretty girl moves in. I get nervous as she comes in closer to me. “Sup Charlie, well my name is Fiona Mulloy, I wrote it over there so you don’t forget.” She says pointing to the signature I had noticed on the wall before. “And our relationship, hmm,” she says while stroking an invisible beard on her hairless chin. “Well, you’re basically my bitch.” The people burst out into laughter. I do too. It was so unexpected, it was funny though and it relieves some of the tension I can feel in the room. The laughter dies out when Cameron gives a little, “Robin,” with the tone of a light warning in his voice.

“Alright, alright, I was just joking,” she says through some dying chuckles. “I guess we’re friends and–“

“Oh! I got my memory!” Joe interrupts her. “Like two week ago, I crashed in here on your couch and you fell asleep in the nest chair and the next morning I pour water on you and you got me back by egging me on the lawn.” He smiles at me.

I feel normal. That’s the only thing that that memory does for me, but it’s so much. For the first time since I woke up I feel normal. Thanks to Joe. I must make a mental note to get back to that area with him, that sounds like a fun friendship.

“Great memory you idiot, now if you wouldn’t mind shutting up for a few seconds. Thanks.” Fiona snaps at him. I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. I think she is because she’s smiling and chuckling lightly when she turns back to me. “Uh, for a memory between the two of us. I actually stood on your chest when I was signing my name on the wall. That was about a year ago I’d say.” She says it lightly though, like she actually cherishes that memory. Her face is soft and caring now. It’s amazing how much of a 180 she just made.

She stands up and joins Robin, and Joe. I need to remember these names. Robin, Joe, Fiona, Robin, Joe, Fiona, Robin, Joe, Fiona. And Cameron.

There’s an awkward moment as the two remaining girls look at each other and decide who should go next. Eventually, the blonde girl comes towards me, smiling about their awkwardness. I can see that she is wearing dark eye makeup. It brings out the green in her eyes.

“Charlie, I’m Claire Kollman. I’m your friend. And last December, we were supposed to meet these guys in the Tree house, but it was so cold in there, so you and I lit a fire and ended up coughing in the thick smoke while trying to put out the fire, because we’re idiots.” I’m pretty sure she says it all in one breath. She spoke so quickly that I’m not sure if I actually heard that right, but I guess we have a tree house at our disposal. I have to admit that sounds really cool.

Then Claire leans in and gives me an unexpected hug. I put one of my hands on her back in an effort to give her something to show my appreciation. She breaks the hug, grabs me by the shoulders and says, “I’m so glad you’re okay.” Then she gets up and takes her old place since everyone is crowded on the other side of Cameron.

Robin, Joe, Fiona, Claire, Robin, Joe, Fiona, Claire, Robin, Joe, Fiona, Claire. And Cameron.

The short, chubby girl takes her time walking over to me. She seems nervous as well. “Hi, Charlie.” She says with a small wave of her hand, even though I am just feet away from her. She stares at me for a few moments. “Hi,” I say. She stares at me like an abandoned child. She makes me feel helpless. I don’t like that.

She stares at me until Cameron says, “Tessa, time is kinda of the essence here.”

She shakes her head a bit. “Right, sorry. Okay. Name: Tessa Terns-Garden. Relationship: good friends. And memory: Uh, one time you and I were on the same team during the water gun fight at The Crash, and we worked together and shot down,” she chuckles a little to herself, “we took down Fiona and she got mad at us cause we ruined her hair.” She laughs. Joe starts to laugh. I look at Fiona, she is rolling her eyes a bit, but wears a smirk. I chuckle a bit.

Robin, Joe, Fiona, Claire, Tessa, Robin, Joe, Fiona, Claire, Tessa, Robin, Joe, Fiona, Claire, Tessa. And Cameron.

Cameron moves in front of Tessa and says, “anything?”

“Uh,” I look around at all of them, they are staring at me. I don’t like them staring at me. I want to remember them because some of these memories sound so fun, but I just don’t. I’m starting to feel pressure to feel these memories, especially from Cameron.

I want to say more than just “no” again, but before I can think of the words Fiona interrupts me. “Nothing. He doesn’t remember any of that. I can see it in his eyes.” They all turn from me to Fiona. I’m glad to have their eyes off of me. However, Fiona’s eyes are still trained on me, and she makes me just as nervous as I would be if they were all still staring at me. She’s too pretty. Her eyes are squinted and they intimidate me, but then they soften and she says, “it’s fine Charlie. We’ll just have to make new memories and make sure they’re even better.”

“Fiona.” Cameron uses the same type of warning as before. Fiona won’t hear it though, she looks at Cameron and says, “Look, Cam, I know you’re disappointed, but I don’t think you want to force it anymore, we should just try to bring him back to reality as much as possible now.”

Cameron looks back at me, he seems disappointed and tired.

Robin moves in and puts a hand on Cameron’s shoulder. He doesn’t look at her but keeps his eyes on me. “Cam,” she says softly, “Listen, you heard the healers from the Providence. They said that after twenty-four hours are up these things are nearly impossible to fix without doing something catastrophic, and I know you don’t want that.”

“I think we still have time.” Cameron says simply.

“It’s been twenty-nine hours” Fiona says, her arms folded.

Cameron’s eyes close. I guess we didn’t actually have two hours left. My mind is stuck like this. Forever. I’ll never remember any of those memories, not without something bad happening first.

“Twenty-nine hours?” I say.

“Cameron has been trying all night to get you to respond.” Fiona says, “Your mind was still all crazy at the time so you won’t remember those. You kept falling asleep and forgetting everything all over again, so Cameron was unsuccessful at getting you to remember anything, and now the time is up.”

“Fiona!” Tessa exclaims wildly.

“No she’s right.” Cameron says softly. His head is down now. “I guess the memory hold is just too strong.”

Cameron stands up. He looks over at all of them. He takes about four or five steps toward the door and then halts and spins around to look back at me. “Wait!” He yells out. “I have an idea. What if we unlock one of the powers?”

        They all look at him wildly.

“How?” Joe asks.

“With Robin!” Cameron says. He turns around to Robin and says, using his hands for emphasis, “Robin! You can use your gifts to calm Charlie down and slow his heart rate until we unlock the basics.”

They all look at him for a second.

“Oh c’mon, I know it’s a little unorthodox, but we could definitely do it. And the minor shock to his body and mind might be just enough to shake the memory hold loose a bit!” Cameron says using his hands for emphasis.

“I don’t know Cameron,” Robin says quietly, “I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable doing that.”

“Oh c’mon, this might be our last shot. Charlie’s a tough kid, we’ve done stuff like this before!” Cameron exclaims, getting visibly excited about his idea.

I’m thinking about it. A part of me has no idea what they are talking about, but I can’t help but feel very interested in this idea that they have. Plus, I’d really like to see what these “gifts” that I have are.

“I’ll do it.” I say loudly. I want this to happen. Not for the possibility of getting my memory back, but because I think I should try. For all I know, one day I may really want my memory back and to know that I didn’t do all that I could, might stick with me. Also, I really want to see what being gifted is like.

They look at me. Some, like Tessa and Claire, have pity on their faces. Robin just looks scared. I’m not sure if she’s confident in herself, but I’d like to try. What’s the worst that could happen?

Robin looks at all of them. I think we all know that she is the only one who is still against this plan. “Fine.” She says quietly, looking at the floor. “Uh, not here though, let’s get some space.”

“The Lounge?” Joe asks.

“Yeah, that should do. Put him in one of the chairs.” Robin responds.

Before I can even react Cameron and Joe move in on me. They take either side of me, each putting one hand under a knee and the other behind my back and they hoist me into the air.

Tessa is at the back door of the room and undoes the locks on the door. She swings it open and they carry me through. We come out into a narrow hallway in between two walls. It is just wide enough for Cameron and Joe to squeeze through with myself in between them. I feel like a child. I don’t like them carrying me.

This is another oddly shaped room. I can’t decide if it’s a hexagon or an octagon because I can’t count how many sides but there are walls that form a shape surrounding the open room. Each wall has a door with it. I assume they are other bedrooms since they look similar to mine.

The room is open and seems to be exactly what Joe called it, a lounge. It’s painted brick, like my room except, the paint is a pale brown color. It’s like one awesome living room. I can see there is a set of blue couches and chairs that match in the center, all of them facing a nicely sized flat screen television near one of the walls. There a few small tables strewn among the living room set.

In another section of the room I see a kitchen area. There is a corner with a laundry machine and a dryer. I can also make out a large table set that looks quiet messy. They carry me over to the living room section. Then they set me down gently in one of the blue chairs. Everyone assembles around me. Fiona and Claire sit down with their legs folded underneath them on the couch across from me, ready for a show. Cameron lifts up another one of the blue seats identical to mine and plops it down right in front of me. Robin moves in to take that seat.

“Now,” she says. I feel a chill run through me, this is happening quite fast, but I guess it has to. “All you have to do is look me in the eyes and focus on my pupils. I will invade you mind and slow your heart rate. After a few seconds you basics should unlock. You will feel a sort of shudder through your body, hopefully that will loosen the memory hold. Tell me immediately if your body begins to feel too cold.”

I nod. I didn’t expect to be this nervous. I think it’s because of all of the eyes on me and I’m now expected to do something amazing.

I look around at all of them and then at Robin who is already intensely focused on me. I realize that I need to be staring into her eyes. I look into them, they are almost full of life. They are a muddy brown, but something about them conveys a strong passion for love. I look for the details in the brownness of her eyes, but there isn’t any. I can feel the warmth and invitation in her eyes. After a few seconds I can feel myself beginning to get sleepy. She must be “invading my body” as she put it. That must be why I saw no life in her eyes.

I feel like I’m swaying. I watch as her pupils grow and shrink, over and over again. I try to listen for my heart beat. I can feel it in my chest. It beats at the same time as her eyes are dilating. It is slow. I feel uncomfortable but I try to control my breathing. I don’t think I can. I think she has control of me. I don’t like that. I feel uneasy. I feel cold. I need to tell her. She told me to tell her if I feel cold. I can feel the cold creeping up my extremities and toward the center of my body. Then, all at once the spreading stops and begins to recede. I can feel the warmth pushing the cold out of my body. It’s sweet relief. Warmth has never felt so good. I like it. I think if I was looking at my limbs I may actually see a blueness of cold fading away in them, because that’s what it feels like. The fading is slower now. It’s slowing down and I can feel the cold lying dormant in my fingertips and toes. Robin’s pupils are small now. Nearly invisible, leaving just that ugly brown color behind. I watch them for a second, they stay like that. I’m not sure if my heart is beating at all. Then, all at once, her pupils rapidly widen, almost completely diminishing the brown and the cold erupts from the tips of my toes and fingers and shudders throughout my body. It fights its way through my arms and legs and envelops my torso and then my heart in its icy grip. Freezing me to my core.

I slump in my chair.

“Are you okay?” Cameron shouts out a bit. “How do you feel?” He asks as he helps me sit up and lean back in my chair. “Anything?” He asks for what feels like the thousandth time today.

I think for a second. I know that was it. I just unlock my basic gifts. I felt that “shudder” that Robin was talking about. I wonder if it felt familiar to me. I think about what happened before I woke up. I try to remember Fiona writing her name on my wall while standing on my chest. I try to remember egging Joe. I try to remember almost burning down a tree house with Claire. I try to remember shooting water guns with Tessa. I try to remember teaching Robin how to play Marco Polo. I try to remember being attacked.

I shake my head.

I don’t remember anything. I won’t ever get my memory back.

[twdmusicboxmystery]

Carl/Beth Entanglement Details: S4 Vs. S8

Okay, so here’s what I want to talk about today. In the past few days, I’ve posted both of these memes, and I’ve been promising a Carl/Beth post. (Btw, the Carl one has already gotten more than double the likes on IG that my pics usually get. I know that’s because of Carl’s bite, but still. People are obviously connecting with this.

I was actually going to do this post before the MSF aired, and I just didn’t get around to it. Now I’m kind of glad I didn’t. Now with confirmation of Carl’s bite, it’ll just be a little more concrete. I want to remind everyone of some early intersections between Carl and Beth symbolism, so it’s a little more obvious that Gimple always planned it that way, and that Beth has to come on the heels of Carl’s death. Here we go:

I originally wanted to talk about the parallels between the train tracks sites from the second edit. I’m going to change it a bit and talk more about Carl than Daryl. By the way, if you haven’t read my “Beth Greene was Never Gimple’s Sheriff” post, I’d advise you to do so. This will make a lot more sense if you have that as background.

So let’s talk about the structure of S4. I’ve already talked a lot about how the structure of various episodes in S4 foreshadowed future events but I’m going to talk about the overall structure of episodes. In 4x08, the prison went down, right? Remember that there were a ton of callbacks in 8x08 to the loss of the prison in 4x08. So if the two seasons are being paralleled, the two MSFs line up pretty well. S4 = loss of prison. It’s burned down. S5 = loss of Alexandria. It’s burnt down/blown up.

Then everyone was separated into small groups. Rick and Carl, later joined by Michonne were one. Beth and Daryl another. Tyreese and the girls, which Carl joins fairly quickly. And then Maggie/Sasha/Tyreese. Things are a little different here, but I would like to point out that that is the start of @thegloriouscollectorlady’s 4 Arcs for 4 Communities theory. She theorized that the groups would = living situations/leadership in the future, and she was right. (Mostly. Not all of it, especially Daryl’s, has been confirmed yet, but I believe it will be.) So Rick/Carl/Michonne = Alexandria. Carol = Kingdom. Maggie = Hilltop. We had a forth group in Glenn/Tara who were joined by Abe/Rosita and Eugene. We have a 4th group now in Aaron and Eugene, though neither of them were in S4 to be paralleled with. The odd one out is really Beth and Daryl, who obviously aren’t running a community on their own, but may at one point.

So then we have episode 4x09, from which the top picture, this one, 

was taken. (Ignore the arrows; they’re from a different meta and I was too lazy to retake the screenshot. ;D) Now, the reason I’m bringing this up is that the bottom picture was something they focused on in 8x06. In fact, Daryl rode past it on his bike, and I felt like it was a callback to S4.

So Rick and Carl leave the prison, and there is some interesting symbolism in the first place they go (pickles) but I want to focus on the house they stay in, because we have two major sequences that both foreshadow Beth’s arc.

The first is Rick. He lies down to sleep and falls into a semi-comatose state. Really, his body is just exhausted from the fight with the Gov, and he sleeps for more than 24 hours. But it’s kinda like he’s in a coma for a time, and Carl really can’t wake him up. Then we even have a scene at night where Carl things Rick has died and turned because his breathing is so ragged. Carl tries to shoot him, but doesn’t. (And thank goodness, because Rick isn’t really dead.) But the point is that Rick is in a coma and no one can wake him. At one point, TF (just Carl in this case) thinks he’s turned, even though he hasn’t. And specifically does NOT shoot him. All things we believe happened with Beth.

Oh, and Rick has a Beth-ish wound:

Then there’s Carl himself. He goes out on his own and leads walkers away from the house. This is where we get the visual parallel above to where he was bitten. So that sequence where he falls down and the walkers pile on him in S4 was a foreshadow of that happening in S8, only then he was actually bitten, where in S4 he obviously was not.

Then he goes into the pudding house. The first room he goes into, he sees a bird cage, much like the ones we saw in Beth’s cell in 4x01. It’s open, though, and there’s a dead bird on the floor beside it. 

I have no doubt at all that that represents Beth, the song bird, being “killed” when she tries to escape her cage (Grady). And that by itself doesn’t suggest resurrection so much as just death.

However, as we go along, some interesting things start to happen. Carl opens a door and walker lunges at him. Carl falls onto his back but gets his gun and shoots the walker in the head. He shoots it in the EXACT same place Beth is shot: left side of the forehead. The walker face plants in front of him. For about a second and a half. Then it jumps back up again. Carl looks shocked that it didn’t die.

I mean, that alone should tell everyone that Beth’s wound wasn’t fatal. Or at the very least that it didn’t transect her brain stem to keep her from turning. If it was possible for that particular wound to do so, this walker wouldn’t have jumped back up. So it’s both proof that her injury was survivable AND a foreshadow of her living. Because right after Carl sees the dead bird and the cage, he sees a walker jump back up after sustaining the exact injury that Beth did.

Then he goes into the nautical-themed bedroom. This is where we get all kinds of crazy S7/S8 symbolism. Carl uses a lamp from the front yard to fight the walker (Lamp Theory). The nautical theme is ALL over the bedroom (Oceanside). There’s a yellow bat in the background (Negan). And of course in fighting the walker, he loses a shoe. (Lost shoes/feet theory). Oh, and after he gets out, we see a pair of yellow-handled scissors by his foot. (Yellow = escape/Beth’s yellow polo/opening credits flash; scissors = what she stabbed Dawn with.)

So all these crazy symbols come together in this scene. Then Carl eats his pudding and returns to Rick. The next day, Rick wakes up from his coma alive and well and everything is okay.

So here’s what I’m taking away from all this symbolism. First off, Carl could = Beth here, because he heads out on his own and has to save himself/take care of himself, which he does.

But as far as Carl’s arc is concerned, I feel like this represents him being the sheriff, being an adult, and making his own decisions. Remember they said twice that this was “his show.” This sequence in S4 represented his show. And only after the sequence that foreshadowed him being bitten did we see the dead song bird coupled with resurrection. (Meanwhile in 8x08, we saw a burning phoenix.)

On top of that, it wasn’t until after he escaped from the walker in the nautical room that Rick (also a parallel of Beth) awakened. (Of course in terms of the plot, we think she awakened a long time ago, but TF and the GA don’t know that. So I guess maybe it’s better to say that she’ll appear.)

So this foreshadows that sometime after Carl was bitten, at a time in the story when both Oceanside and Negan are in play, Beth will appear. And even more than that… remember yesterday I talked about the last stand at Hilltop, and most of us have thought for several weeks that Aaron and Enid will run into her at Oceanside. So I said maybe she would come with the Oceansiders to save TF’s bacon from Negan during the last stand. I almost feel like we have that foreshadowed here. The details, of course, could be very different than I’m thinking (they usually are) but think of it this way.

Carl (Beth proxy) defeats the walker inside the nautical/Oceanside room, suggesting victory will come from Oceanside. The bat in the room (Negan) is yellow, as are the scissors outside the door. Beth used scissors to stab Dawn, which ultimately led to her defeat, and Negan has lots of parallels to Dawn. At the very least, Negan is Daryl’s Dawn. (Is everyone following? I know this is a lot. Sorrynotsorry.) So I feel like the message here is that help will come from Oceanside specifically to defeat Negan, in the same way Dawn was defeated.

In fact, since Beth was kind of sacrificed to defeat Dawn and the system at Grady, and since Carl is the one in this scene, I think it shows that Carl in a way was sacrificed to defeat Negan. Gimple was super weird about what will happen next, but he keeps saying that Carl’s death will play into the story in 8b and people will understand why it was necessary. 

So maybe it’s something about Siddiq? Such that if Carl hadn’t made that sacrifice and brought him into Alexandria, TF wouldn’t have won against Negan? (And keep in mind that in the books, Siddiq has ties to Oceanside, so it really could all work together.) I don’t know. Just spit balling here.

But are we all seeing how this was foreshadowed in S4? And this sequence was many episodes before 4x16 where the hat was actually placed on Beth’s head. As I said many weeks ago now, Carl was never Gimple’s sheriff. Beth was always going to be the future.

Another thing I wanted to mention is that the shot in 5x16 of Carl and Judith looking at the music box in front of the Morse Code poster makes a lot more sense now. We always just thought that was about Beth and the music box, but it was more than that. They could have shown anyone with the music box. Someone closer to Beth, like Maggie or Daryl, might have made more sense anyway. But they went with Carl, and that was obviously purposeful.

In the season where Beth disappeared, and TF found a new home, they showed the music box singing, I think, to symbolize that she was still out there. But once the “new home,” including the Morse Code poster, which we saw being destroyed as Rick and Negan fought, was gone, then Carl would die. He’s even wearing his hat in this scene. And the new sheriff (symbolized by the music box) would appear.

In a way, it makes more sense than ever that the music box disappeared after S5. The last time we saw it was during the last season Beth appeared in. That’s because this arc that’s been running ever since wasn’t about her and wasn’t something she would ever be a part of. This was TF at Alexandria. We probably won’t see the music box again until she reappears, and her time as sheriff begins.

So what does that mean for 8b? I’ll give you a few possibilities I’ve thought of. Keep in mind, this is all just conjecture and could very well turn out to be wrong.

Aside from the Oceansiders showing up with Beth to save the day, which I think may not happen until the season finale, I’m still hoping that we, the audience, will see her earlier than that.

I think 8x09 is a possibility, but I’m really on the fence over whether they’d have her return in the same episode in which Carl actually dies. That might get some hate from the audience if they feel like one character is being exchanged for another and Carl’s death isn’t getting the respect it deserves. So on the one hand, I would think they’d stay away from that. But on the other hand, some of the stuff Gimple has said suggests that maybe something about Carl’s death might actually usher in the change in the story in a way that the audience will like and connect with. So maybe we will see her in 8x09? I can see it going either way and honestly don’t know which is more likely.

Returning to what I said at the beginning about 4x08 and 8x08 lining up, the parallels with Carl and Rick happened right after, in 4x09, so that suggests maybe we will see her very soon. But on the other hand, predicting things like that has never worked out especially well for us. I don’t think Gimple always lines up episodes exactly. I think he purposely shies away from that so things aren’t predictable. 4x10 was Inmates, where we had Beth’s diary voice over, and a backward progression that definitely foreshadowed some things. (Details here)And then Bethyl happened in 4x12/13. So you see what I mean? It really could fall anywhere and almost every episode is a possibility.

One scenario that occurred to me is that perhaps they’ll parallel season 5. I would actually really love it if this scenario happened, but again, it’s just conjecture on my part. So in 5x08, Beth seemed to have died, but actually didn’t, right? So in that MSF, much like this one, we didn’t have any major character deaths. The death came in 509, with Tyreese. Similarly, Carl will die in 8x09. The thing about 5x09 is that Beth was in that episode as a part of Tyreese’s death hallucination. And that episode was so bizarre and abstract, with a ridiculous amount of foreshadowing and Beth symbolism in it. (Details here.)

So I was thinking that maybe in a similar fashion, all of 8x09 will be Carl in the throes of death, just as 5x09 was for Tyreese. But maybe instead of a hallucination, we’ll see flashbacks from the missing 17 days after Grady, and Beth will be in them? It would be an awesome parallel. And again, no idea if it will be this way. It might work out completely different, but I’m kind of hoping. If that WERE the case, Beth would be there, but we might not necessarily find out she’s alive. They would just be flashbacks.

(And I did draw a parallel between the slide show in 5x09 and Michonne’s line about it being Carl’s show. Just saying.)

So that made me consider that in 5x10, the music box woke up. If they were to parallel S5, maybe we’ll finally see her in ep 10. I’d never seriously considered ep 10 as a possibility. A finale or MSF just seemed more likely. But that would be super-interesting as far as the music box is concerned, wouldn’t it?

In short, I have no idea when she’ll appear, but I wanted to point out/reiterate some of these entanglements. As I’ve said many times now, these are things we noticed years ago, but just didn’t understand the full extent of what they meant. As the seasons pass and the foreshadowing is fulfilled, we can see that it was planned and foreshadowed this way from the beginning. Now all we have to do is sit back and wait.

[djgwritings]

(A Serious Man - Joel & Ethan Coen, 2009)

Seeing Spots

Trying to find parking last night (even with a free garage pass now per membership) emitted a near-epic meltdown and story. I did well spinning Wilco Schmilco tunes at the start. Perfect "windows down" weather music if there ever was. I had excitement mixed with additive anxiety called "going out." Wicked dichotomy cocktail at work. And I was solo. So, that had me feeling funny. I mostly don't mind being alone. 

I went my normal route and everything was good for a few a couple minutes. Then, I went to turn left out of our neighborhood (on a main thoroughfare), an easy left at a well known light for years now ... but, the street was blocked with construction orange and heavy machinery. Huge signs said, “NO LEFT.” What? There had always been a left here prior. I panicked and went straight. Scared straight! Even though going straight took me away from the direction I needed and there were no lefts (dead ends per residential streets) for many, many blocks. And I knew this the moment I took it. However, going right would have had me backtracking and circling the wagons. Clock was ticking, along with my heart, and I was already a tad late. So, I did a suspicious "turn-around" below the belt of a fancy-pants street (where I assume they call the authorities on guys who don't look their part - guys like me performing a “turn-around”) and backtracked to square one of the construction intersection. I had no clue what they were doing, but the street was gutted and made a car feel guilty to navigate. Always something. Thankfully, I could take a wonky right around all the construction machinery, cones and barriers. OK. Back at it. Minor set-back and breezy tunes back on.

I got half a mile down the road and traffic was bonkers, to say the least. The car in front of me was going slow, like 15 under the speed limit slow, and doing that "Should I turn? Should I not turn?" thing folks are real into of late per following digitized commands and screen coordinates. Everyone else was speeding around us at 15 miles (and some) over the limit, and I couldn't get an opening to do the same. I'm not a flashy driver, so I just stayed behind as I have a distaste for lane juggling and I didn't have too far to go. I'm a stay-put journeyman at best. It turned out a much slower car was in front of the slow car in front of me. That makes three of us. Another half mile and there is a stop light coming up that I knew to anticipate. However, the slow car I'm behind (not tailgating by any means) slams on its brakes far sooner than it should have. The slow car that was in front of it had turned off and there were now no cars leading the slow pack to warrant such a panic-brake. It was weird and a mega-hard slam too, like, "About to hit a car!" kind of slam. I've seen this before and applied a mega-hard slam in response or I'd, "About to hit a car!" Phew. I was inches from them. What the heck? I looked in the mirror to find a giant truck is inches behind me, and so on ... a vehicular centipede. I did not hear any crunches, just my teeth chattering. 

Come to find out, apparently, a carload of kids was taking a ridiculous Harry Houdini left out of a bank onto the packed four lanes of traffic. There was no way I could even see them until they came around the other lane of vehicles, all giant trucks and SUVs, etc. Either someone allowed the kids to inch out and/or they all also had to mega-hard slam brakes in alarm of the kids pulling out into full-on traffic. I'm guessing they got an "in" from the other lane, but didn't think to consult the second lane (mine), not to mention the other direction of traffic.The kids barely made it through and were grinning like, "Holy heck! We almost wrecked! Grab yer goods and hit the deck!" Stupid kids. Stupid adults. Stupid cars. We're all so stupid. Having just got back from New York City, I stare down-blared my tiny horn as they smiled past me and let 'em have what for. Naturally, the slow car that was in front of me thought I was doing this to them. Oops. Sorry, guy! They appeared frazzled and quickly made a left turn themselves. OK, then. Good! Got 'em out of the way and regrouped at the stop light. 

The road I was on dumps into another road that either dumps into a big and busy area or goes around to my destination. It's always tricky and pre-meditation lane choosing is a must if you know it well. Especially since you seem to be dumped into a NASCAR race track. I hate it, but it's the best route from my house. However, the traffic hiccups prior didn't have my brain and bearings aligned. I was in the wrong lane. So, I played Frogger: Dale Earnhardt, Jr. Edition and got where I needed to be. Or, so I thought. I got to another light and panicked. I needed over in the next lane now in order to turn left another block down on the correct street. And there was a lot of traffic. Always. Like I said, I have free garage parking, but prefer street parking if I happen to see it. Nothing beats ol' reliable and I'm not a fan of getting into tight garages with one way in and one way out. But, I couldn't get over as traffic was sledge hammering. I saw a giant pack of bicyclists, like 50 of 'em (that would make a giant enough pack, right?), looking to head down the very street I hoped to maybe park on. I was like, "Okay. So glad I missed that! Maybe this lane mess-up is in my favor?" I also realized when reading the event invite they said there would be overflow parking, as well as shuttle service, from another venue nearby. This is several blocks away, but the altered route I was taking just might work. A fail-safe, then.

After waiting forever to, uh, take a left. I inched toward the aforementioned overflow parking. However, I noticed there were only a handful of cars, so I assumed that meant it wasn't quite overflow time just yet. I also figured it would be either a long wait for a shuttle or a long walk. At this point walking sounded incredible. Still, the clock was ticking and I gambled to find a spot near the event. Though, passing further by the overflow entrance I soon noticed a shuttle idling, just waiting for crickets. I could have easily parked right by it, hopped on and been taken to the back door of the event, on time, in minutes! Ah well. For now, I'd just have to take a left at the end of the street, drive in front of the event space, then take a right to potentially find street parking.

Well, uh, that's a nope. There was zilch lefts on this busy street where huge signs aggressively blurt, "Buses ONLY." I always forget the situation at this intersection. What in the world? So, I grumbled and went straight and decided to just go the back way around the event space. Which, would completely cancel any street parking tries as I'd be approaching it all backwards. Therefore, I'd have to gamble with the parking garage now, surely packed by this point. Further assessment of this thought had me finding a way to U-Turn, something I never do, near the event space's delivery entrance. I went for it and survived. I was now realigned to follow through with trying to procure street parking. I drove by a giant face in front of the space, heading towards a (hopeful) safe right turn slide into home. Another NOPE! Now, the giant pack of 50 bicyclists I'd seen minutes earlier were herding through the intersection. Had I been 10 seconds sooner I would have been ahead of them. I turned after the last bicycle, the real slowpoke of the pack. It was annoying being stuck behind them, but a bit in my advantage as I was okay to go slow and be granted keener senses to spot potential street parking. However, going slow from the get-go ensured I'd have a slow chain of irritated cars behind me. I quickly spied ahead through bicycles a couple spots I knew I could fit in and patiently gripped the wheel with cars chomping bumper behind me.

Oh, but wait. A serious outfitted bicyclist SPOKEsperson urgently-aggressively waved me to go around them. What!? Nooo! I wanted to park. Just move and I'll pull in a little ways ahead. I can wait! He kept waving and seemed agitated at my apparent lack of respect for his two-wheeled kind. I was all, "I just want to park and attend this thing I've been trying to get to!" Also, going around this herd of 50 bicycles would have me driving in the other lane. This lane was receiving cars opposite. Like the non-confrontational and compliant person I am, I soon found an opening and drove around the bulk of the bicycles. However, per my go-around lane opening quickly closing, cars the other direction flowed towards me and I didn't know what to do. I hate stuff like this - the stuff of quick driving decisions. I panicked and got back over, now in-between the herd of super slow bicycles! I was puttering along to not mow them down, staring at their spandex and bottle squirts. There were no longer any open street spots now as they had been passed up, too small or a fire hydrant. To the garage gamble it was now. I finally got another opening and drove around the slow bicycle gang, nearly plowing into smiling event-attending folks crossing the road who had found a spot elsewhere to park. And I could tell the bicyclists wanted to tread on me.

I pulled into the garage, praying to the giant face for a spot. Anything? The gate was up, so a good sign in my favor. Then, an attendant waved me to the right with bright-flashy things in a "follow the cones to parking" motion. I waved back and grinned. However, there was no parking actually open. I cursed. I rarely curse. Cars will do that to a supposed good boy. I could also see many cars that had entered before me creeping around like vultures for open spots. I exclaimed to the dash, "Where to now?!" Then, unbeknownst to my prior ten years of remodeled garage knowledge, at the end of a last-ditch effort looking a full row over, I discovered a second underground parking level entrance! (not even my wife knew about this) Better yet, I had beat the other cars to it! I creeped down the ramp only to, uh, find more car vultures and a lot of parked cars! Instead of following the leader of cars without a space, I somehow got smart and skirted an outside open lane. It also gave me a better parking lot perspective. Man, like a Thanksgiving afternoon it was beyond full. Though, I surprisingly spied a spot on the next row over ... how had it been overlooked!? Paydirt! Pavementdirt! Though, I noticed other vultures going towards it. I even noticed some that had passed it. Hmmm. Okay? Maybe they didn't see it? 

After I rev'd around into the next aisle of cars to pounce the open spot, and with several more sets of headlights coming towards me (others who had discovered the second level) and making telepathic/pathetic motions to the on-coming cars that I HAD SEEN IT FIRST, I noticed a car next to the only open spot had a wheel a good two feet into the supposedly empty spot. There was no room for another car. I was so mad, shaking my head and hands. I never get this mad. Come on! Something that irks me majorly is terrible parking. I'm not grate at much in this life, but will park the most perfect I can in an empty lot. An on-coming car of elders looked at me, pointed at the spot, and shook heads too. Haha! This bought me a bit of time. I did a shrug and floored it. I passed several more cars and got back to the exit of the underground. I was ready to just leave and park blocks away and walk it in, all panting and sweaty on this unseasonably warm fall evening. However, more cars kept descending into the underground and I could not get out! I could not leave. There was nowhere but runaround for all these cars. Who's going to tell the guy with the bright-flashy things? Would it be me? That's if I could ever escape. There were too many cars coming in for me to exit out, so I panicked again, I floored it again, and drove to the outside aisle I initially started at to regroup. I noticed there was a pile-up near the lop-sided parking spot. Weird. Was someone really trying to park there? There was seriously no room for my slim Honda Fit (not living up to its name in this situation), and all the cars I'd seen were tanks. But, there was one hopeful elder tank trying to back into the spot. They kept trying and readjusting. Ha! Go for it! I didn't wait to see the results, rather I realized all the cars that had just come down had played follow the leader and were jammed behind the old man trying to get into the spot that was not a spot.

I squealed tires, passing yet another gaze of the giant face at the bottom level entrance. Don't fail me now! I passed every aisle, staring them down into an abyss of cars upon cars and watched vulture cars slowly shrugging along waiting to pounce. I made it to the far opposite end aisle of the garage, passed more full spots and gaggles of elders shuffling excitedly - they had somehow just found parking spots - nearly plowing them down as they would not get out of the middle of the aisle. I then passed event official space vehicles and golf carts. We were getting near the end of civilization. I thought I had a spot, but it was not. In its place was a weird, tiny service machine that could not be seen until nearly pulling in. But, then ... THEN, I whipped around the end of the aisle to the start of the next. There was an unusual service elevator to my right. And right in front of it was a spot. It was shining. I looked it over intently. There was no sign. There were no markings to keep me from parking. There were no small service vehicles crouching in its corner. To the left of the spot was an obvious no parking area of huge yellow diagonals. But, the spot itself was spotless! I pulled in. I sighed. I got out and further inspected the spot. I even bent down and looked under my car just in case the pavement beneath was marked in a kind of camo paint to trick me. It was not. had found a spot! And it was seriously the last spot! I guess it had been overlooked per positioned directly in front of an elevator door.

I walked all the way down the aisle to the other end. I was almost at the door, as well as staring into giant eyes of the giant face again, and it me like it always does, "Shoot! Did I turn my lights off? I better walk back and check my lights. Pretty sure I got them. But, after all that I just want to play it safe." I walked back and it was good. I then triple checked my spot just to be clear it was valid. It still appeared so. More cars were driving around looking for spots and they thought I was going to my car to leave. Haha! Not a chance! 

[acehotel]

INTERVIEW: Martine Syms

Martine Syms, an artist, publisher and writer from Los Angeles, spent a few nights at Ace Hotel New York for Ace AIR . While she was here, she produced a compilation film of canonical vines. 

It would be fair to assume that Martine Syms wears a lot of hats — she co-founded and ran the project space Golden Age in Chicago, founded Dominica Press in Los Angeles, and has extensively exhibited and published work in video, photography, writing, editing, design and performance. As a multi-disciplinary artist, Syms conceives and creates language as form, color as signifier, essay as performance — her mind is radically observant and her spirit mischievous and wise. And so funny. 

Hi Martine, are you in New York right now?

I am, I’ll be going to upstate New York soon which will be my last summer there. It’s a weird place. I like the forced pause. It’s such a different time, the relationship with time there is like desert time — you know when you’re in the desert and you’re gone for two days and it feels like you’ve been there for a week? A single day is endless.

Yes! Desert time is its own time. So the summer program [at Bard College] must feel like an entire academic year. Tell me about your current solo MoMA exhibition.

I would want to call the show after the film, Incense Sweater & Ice, which is a record through the area of Los Angeles that I grew up in. I was thinking about the idea of the production of identity, about image production, and that relationship to mass production. I was manufacturing in Altadena so I was looking at what other goods have been manufactured there.

I watched the trailer for Incense Sweater & Ice and it made me laugh out loud at the same time that it made me think and feel deeply. Your use of humor has an uncanny ability to slip critical thinking in as a kind of participation — like a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down — do you approach humor as a method to inject truth?

Definitely. What I like about humor is its ability to contain opposites — the tragic and the joyous. It can have such tonal shifts because contrast is so much a part of what makes something funny: something not fitting, being out of place, being the wrong size — any kind of contrast is a big driver. But, usually, you have both at the same time and that’s what I like about it. It’s a much more complicated feeling than just pure sadness or pure happiness.

Myself, I’m a deeply ambivalent person. I’m always trying to ask in my work, “what does ambivalence look like formally?” No one likes to cop to being ambivalent, even though, obviously, people are. I don’t want to be wishy washy; I think ambivalence can obscure power and can obscure your place, but I think you can be very specific about that ambivalence. What does it look like, what does it sound like? If you were to aestheticize it, what is that? Humor, for me, is one way of doing that because it can be more complicated. You can love something that you also hate or are repulsed by. The voice of Queen White [in the trailer] is taken from a few different people but it’s a voice always inside my great aunt, my aunts, my grandma, always telling me how I should behave or be.

Obviously, I have a lot of feelings about it but many times I was irritated by it. But I also find that there’s another story there that I can understand now, especially as I’ve gotten older, but there’s also a side of them that I think is really funny. I enjoy playing with that voice because I knew it so well. You do an impression of someone in your family, like a parent, and you really know that voice. And when they do an impression of me, they really know me too.

It just lands so seamlessly. And what you were saying about your ambivalence, you’re often somewhere in the middle of abstraction and representation. When I’m engaging with your work, there is a sense that you are playing, opening up a space for mischief and your own secret desire, how you’re playing in between how you’re representing and what you’re representing. And always on its own terms.

The work that I make is just a form of thinking. Thinking through ideas, thinking through objects and images, but it’s all being processed in my brain. A lot of it is the language — the verbal and visual language that’s created in my shows — is having jokes with myself. Some things just make me laugh a lot but I don’t know if anyone else is going to appreciate these little jokes that I put in there. But the one person that does is really going to appreciate it and believe it.

I love what you just said, that your work is a form of thinking. You’re an artist, you make video work, you’re a writer, you’re a designer, a publisher, an editor, you used to run an art space/bookstore. Working in so many mediums all at once makes sense if you’re operating from a place where “work is a form of thinking” — we never think singularly, in one dimension, we think in words, forms, colors, emotion, history. While this interdisciplinary work can be seen as a practice, it seems closer to autobiography, in a sense. Do you feel like that there are intersections? How do all the things you do pull and play across mediums or inform each other? The way things look and read and the objectness of things versus the implication of meaning or sentimentality — your work encompasses it so well on all levels.

I like to do things that I haven’t done before and for a while that led me toward trying different approaches. I grew up in a very autonomous, independent culture starting with music and then art classes. When I was 17, I worked at three places. One was at Ooga Booga, a bookstore and art gallery; second was at Echo Park Film Center, which is a microcinema film co-op and classes (and I did everything, I programmed screenings, I taught classes, I took classes, and I was part of the administration and later became a board member). Ooga Booga same thing: I worked at the shop, but I also bought things for the shop and organized shows there. And then the last place was The Smell, an all ages music venue in downtown LA. I worked the door, booked shows and played in a band that played shows there. And that way of operating, being involved in so many different things and knowing so many people who had labels and published just made it the natural way to be. I got into graphic design through music, making flyers, making zines. This kind of all encompassing way of working was really natural and immediate to me.

It was only when I left Los Angeles that I understood that I was part of a really unique upbringing. I found these places when I was really young and it was happenstance in a way, it was a particular time and place. It’s what prompted me to open Golden Age because, when I moved to Chicago, I couldn’t get in anywhere because there wasn’t an all-ages scene! All the shows were 18+ — I mean, I had a fake ID, but I never used it in LA. In Chicago, suddenly, I couldn't get in any shows. Oh wait! I thought everywhere was like how I’d grown up! That’s what made me immediately want to open a space like the ones I grew up in. I created that multidisciplinary life for myself because I was around so many people that were already doing that. So that’s just how I learned to do things and it’s very natural to me. It doesn’t feel like I’m switching modes. 

But as I’ve gotten older, a friend of mine told me about the artist Lawrence Halprin who had these artist rsvp cycles. I did a talk at the Walker a couple years ago about my work being cyclical, moving between these different spaces, disciplines, and modes of activity and that they could go in any order. Something could start as a performance and end as a film, or begin as an essay and end as an exhibition. A friend of mine, after a performance I did in Miami which I thought went really badly, told me about the rsvp cycles where “r” is resources, “s” is score, “v” is valuation, “p” is performance...basically you can move in any direction between these things and it’s more like scoring. More recently, I’ve been thinking about the way I make films as scored rather than scripted. There’s a situation I want to make happen and I’m interested in what happens in that and it’s how I’m thinking about exhibitions too.

I was a huge fan of Golden Age when I found out about it because I was really invested in a space making a public out of a publication. Was it an organic move from opening that space to making your own publications?

Yes. When Golden Age ended I was ready to be done with that project. It was a lot of work but, as you know, it takes a lot out of you. I also wanted more time to focus on my own work — I was also working other jobs, so I wasn’t making a lot of my own work. I wondered what I liked most about Golden Age, what I would miss. I had started our publishing program there and a big part of my role was doing books with artists and artist commissions, so I felt like “I’m good at getting things done.” For a while, that was why people thought of me as kind of an administrator because I’m good at production. But I realized that that’s the only part I really want to keep. I don’t care about having a store. I really liked helping people realize their own projects so I decided to keep the publishing and get rid of everything else — I started that right away.

I moved back to Los Angeles after closing Golden Age and I just started publishing. The first books were with Lauren Anderson, Diamond Stingily, David Hartt (which had been a book I had been working on with Golden Age), and then it went from there. And it’s really casual, which is something I wanted. With Golden Age, I was really concerned with being “professional,” I think it had to do with how young I was, it was really important for me to be taken seriously. I wanted everything to be so by-the-book and top notch. And that was insanely exhausting for a young person, I was 19 when I started Golden Age and was only 24 when it ended. I was kinda like, “I just want this to be fun. No deadlines.” 

I was designing everything, editing it with the artists — in some cases printing it. It was more fun when there was no schedule we were adhering to. I approached people whose work I was interested in...I didn’t even know those people, like Hannah Black. I didn’t know her. I just loved her voice and I wanted to hear more from her. I was working full time as a designer until just recently, so I had disposable income and I wanted to support people. This is from growing up in an independent culture — you have to support your peers for them to do the work they want to do. That’s always been another key factor for me. I just started publishing people’s work; it’s slowed down a little bit when I quit my job, but it’s still happening.

I love it. The reverence for others’ work and your “no deadline” attitude comes off on the website as well, I love the language there. And looking through your catalog online, you’re doing books, zines, newsprint editions, and it seems like the material and form is beholden to the content, which I really appreciate.

I think everyone has that fantasy when they start publishing, that everything is going to look the same. That was also my plan. I get why you do it for economic reasons, but at the end of the day, it’s always about the collaboration. So when someone starts talking to me about their book idea, I know that I start thinking material, how we can make it feel like an entire idea. We’ll see, I might have to start streamlining.

Hannah Black’s Dark Pool Party is a stunning book, so tactile and well designed. How did you come up with the choices made in that book, and how did it even become a book — it started as a performance, right?

Her text is. I knew her work from Rhizome and I was into it, I followed her on twitter and I thought shee was just so brilliant. I read her essays on New Inquiry and reached out to her to do a bigger book because she had just tweeted about wanting to do a book. That’s how we started working together. I told her what I tell everybody, “Just give it to me!” Hah, “just give me what you’re thinking about and we can take it from there.” I worked with designer Erica Beck, we had worked together before and Erica is very precise and responsive, so we were looking at the text and wanted the text and the ideas of body and intimacy. I always think about the book as an intimate space. I worked with an editor who I worked with a couple times and I was working with Hannah to choose the selection and flow. It was very organic and easy. I like things to feel that way.

Can you talk about how text is involved in your own work? It’s a huge part of your visual work and it makes language material. It almost seems like your language becomes conscious of itself when it’s presented as artwork, it makes language into object and vice versa.

I’m really interested in the relationship between image and language. Images can be read, and language is formal and is an image. They have forms and color, and you can manipulate them in the same way that you could other material. A lot of times, with sculptural objects, I’m thinking of producing a phrase. People often ask me why I use the color purple and a lot of that is just to produce the effect of people saying the color purple.

Oh my god.

There’s more to it than that, but that was my initial intention as far as what I wanted the viewer to do. I like the text that incorporates into the work, especially the super graphics I’ve been working with over the last year or two, how it becomes part of the space, how it becomes architectural. Involving the viewer’s body, there’s a kind of phenomenological experience of reading it in your head, reading it out loud. How this letter is the same size as you or smaller than you, the relationship to the body, those are all a part of what I want in an exhibition.

[drewkatchen]

I once had a Gold Honda Accord like this; it was stolen

I’m horrible at telling stories out loud, like at a party or in a loud bar. I’m just not good at it. Some people relish the attention and curiosity a good story affords, but I generally want no part in it.

Something happens in the nanoseconds between when people are riffing and I recall a moment worth sharing and then I tee it up to a group of listeners, willing or otherwise. It just goes south...and fast. I lose all sense of pacing and delivery, and I get nervous and my hands start moving continuously and my eyes get big and I just want to disappear. And then I don’t know where to look and then I start seeing that I’m losing people and I get flustered and weird. What a mess, right? 

I think it stems from just never really feeling comfortable talking about myself or my experiences. I never got that. Somehow the moments in my life and what I’ve witnessed seem inauthentic compared with someone else and their life. In my family, at least on my mom’s side, to talk about ourselves in any way was near criminal, an act of arrogance that made you look selfish or something, bringing you undeserved attention. So I never did it. Does my mother have a favorite food or film? I couldn’t tell you. I think that’s mostly from why I’m abysmal at talking in groups. It’s not that I haven’t experienced anything important or impactful, obviously, but for me to convey it and share it with another takes a form of ego I never learned to have.

Yes, I know I’m not a child anymore and it’s time to be an adult. I get it.

But I have learned over the years to navigate around that roadblock: I just write things down. Writing suits me better. Sitting alone is easy and mulling things over and pulling out of my brain whatever I want without having to consider an immediate audience and their needs is a piece of cake. And I can edit and revise and get up for coffee and come back and keep plugging away. Simple.

The story I’m about to recount for you is actually one that I have broken character for in the past and have told out loud to close friends over the years. I’m not contradicting myself; if anything this story is the exception that proves the rule. I’m firmly aware that it’s the one time in life I’ve drawn a real winner, and it always seems to bring the house down whenever I trot it out or am coaxed by someone who knows it. It’s one that even my most hardened of friends -- the ones who would rather spare a limb than laugh with exuberance at anything -- can’t deny in the moment. What makes it so good? Its universality, that’s what. It’s something that could have happened to anyone, or at least a part of it is relatable, I believe.

But the one thing I’ve never done is actually write this down, and before all of the particulars escape me, I probably should. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, mostly because it’s also the one story I have that cracks me up every time I think of it.

---

I often think about how I would share the moment were I a stand-up comic and I wanted to immediately win over disenchanted audience members.

It would start something like this: Good evening, everyone! Good evening. So....How many of you have ever had your car stolen? 

I know, I know...it happens.

(Pause for some mild laughter, applause and hoots from the crowd)

Ok, ok...well, how many of you have had your car stolen and then...how many of you stole the car back from the people that stole it from you?

(Pause for maybe louder laughter or people yelling at me to get off stage)

-----

It was the winter of 2003. Shifting into my mid twenties after college meant a lot of ego bruising and mostly failing at life in a new city. I was no longer a big fish on a college campus (but was I ever?). Everything had come to a standstill. I had either lost a decent editing job or I was about to lose it (can’t remember), and my roommate and I had a falling out over nothing significant but it was still cataclysmic at the time. Then she moved into her own place, and then I was on the precipice of leaving Somerville, Mass. and Boston for good and retreating to my grandmother’s home and finally accepting that maybe my misguided attempt at just being cool wasn’t really a solid strategy for living. I needed to grow up and fast; money was running out. I teetered on the brink of having enough cash for a burrito and gas every day, and any major expense could shut me down completely. Great days, for sure.

In the midst of all that personal tumult, a party in Providence drew me out one frigid evening. I had to maintain some type of contact with the outside world in order to keep from melting down completely, and some friends had established a crew outpost down there, and they invited me over. Some records, some drinks to pass some hours. I was in.

The short of it is that it was a nice time, and then I made the drive home in the early hours of the morning. Unlike some stories, the party isn’t where the action of this story goes down.

Parking in my area was something you prayed for on a good day, but parking there at four in the morning on a weekend, well you could basically forget about it. I could be circling for hours, but then again, I guess I wasn’t on much of a schedule so it didn’t much matter. But...but...but....what was this I saw? Was it a mirage in a parking desert? How the hell was I getting lucky now? Who moved at this hour and why hadn’t someone else scooped this up? Just steps from my apartment and just close enough to a forbidden yellow intersection corner that could get you towed (but still just enough space to squeeze in my 1994 Champagne Honda Accord) was a glorious spot just waiting on me. It practically had my name on it in neon. I was tired and the thought of an hour-long hunt for parking at that hour was horrifying. So I squeezed in and thought that even if I got a ticket for being too close to the intersection, then it was worth it for snatching the trophy of actual parking on my block.

I locked up, got inside, brushed my teeth and called it a damn night.

Beautiful.

---

Before I proceed, there’s something I should come clean about. In my family, we may have not talked much, but my folks always made sure I had a car. I have to give them props for it. It was always a Honda Accord and it always worked, barring a few exceptions (there was a time my stepdad pushed my broken-down car with his car on the side of I-26, but that’s a story for another time). I have vivid memories of my mom sourly telling me how coveted and how easy to steal the “Champagne” (her words) Honda Accord was, and it looks like that is somewhat true. I guess my thought on that is why don’t they get another kind of car, but since my mom bought her very first Accord in 1984 with her own money (God, I remember how excited and happy she was at the time. I can still see it.) she has been devoted to the brand. So in college and after, my car was the Gold Accord and that is what I was driving that fateful night in Somerville, Massachusetts. That is the car that was parked on the street.

---

Sometimes you wake up early even when you’re bone tired. Whether it’s for a bathroom break, a bad dream or an invasive car alarm goes off, it can happen. That morning, I remember jumping up about halfway into my sleep, around 8:30 A.M., just to make sure I hadn’t been ticketed for parking near the yellow part of the curb. By that point, alternate side parking would have kicked in, and I likely could have just moved it with some ease.

Walk to the window while rubbing my eyes. The wood floor cold on my bare feet.

CAR...IS...DEFINITELY...NOT...THERE...OH...GOD...WHERE...IS...MY...CAR.

I am now awake.

Reacting to my first thought that the car had been towed, I called the number for the city’s tow lot to check in on my precious Accord. At the time, I was basically living off quarters from my couch, so I wasn’t certain I could pay to get my car back, but I had some time to figure it out if that meant calling either of my folks and begging a bit.

“Listen, your car isn’t here yet,” a really bored voice responded on the other end of the phone. I’m sure I was panting, knowing me. “But the tow trucks are all on their way back from nightly runs, so give it an hour an call back. Nothing else for me to tell ya.” It was definitely a ‘ya’ and not a ‘you.’

It’s cool, just wait an hour to hear if you have a car or not! Don’t stress or anything. No big deal. Sheesh.

I can’t help the predictability of the story so far. Stick with me, stuff starts happening.

Yes, I call back the tow lot an hour later. Probably the worst hour of my life: exhausted and horrified. You can guess what happened: The car didn’t come back on the trucks, because why would it, which means it had been stolen, a fact that now maybe seems less surprising if I heeded my mom’s multiple warnings and given that a year ago the guy my roommate was dating at the time had his car stolen off our block. But that was the only time I ever heard about that happening in our neighborhood; it wasn’t a common occurrence. I was used to parking tickets, but not this.

“Didn’t I put the damn club on the car before going upstairs? Did they break through it?”

I’m on just a few hours sleep; I was really looking forward to just wasting this cold winter day doing not much more than sleeping, eating the scraps in the fridge and maybe some more sleeping. Instead, I bundled up and headed out to the area police department to file a stolen car report, a trip so certain to turn up nothing that I couldn’t even tell why I was doing it. If my car wasn’t already turned inside out for its parts or sold off entirely and was on its way elsewhere, then I would have been massively surprised. I pictured a guy, a guy with bad skin and gloves -- yes an ‘80s movie villain -- and a leather jacket dropping it off somewhere to the big boss in a fancy suit. I think I’m picturing the auto garage in Adventures in Babysitting, aren’t I?

If you’ve stuck with me so far, here’s where it kicks in: I’m out in the cold and in the snow, I’ve been walking for a minute and I roll up to this curb in Somerville’s Union Square. Do you know it? Back in 2003, it wasn’t much. It had a random cafe or two, PA’s Lounge (where I saw Floor and Converge play to virtually no one) and maybe some laundromats and bodegas and taco joints. I don’t know what it is now because I haven’t been there in years, but back then it still was pretty anonymous.

Union Square in Somerville, Mass.

I hit the corner of Walnut and Bow Streets, and this is when it gets real.

My car. My precious Gold Honda Accord that survived a drive from Goose Creek, South Carolina all the way to Massachusetts in order to be my sturdy companion was just sitting there on the corner. ON THE CORNER! It was mine; it had the Carolina plates. No mistaking it. And it was running. The car was running...and...it was unlocked. My stolen car, in front of my face, running on the side of the road, looking so sad and alone, discarded as if it had no owner or a purpose. But the owner was me! What the? Why the? Is this candid camera? Or, perhaps it was left running while the crummy thieves went into a bodega to get some snacks before heading out of town? Who knows. This was before I had a cell phone, so I couldn’t notify police and stay with the car until they arrived. It was so insane and unbelievable that I would be walking down any street, to the police department no less, and see my stolen car running. I did a 360, spinning around to make sure I wasn’t being watched and there was no one running back to it. And I just drove away. I legit drove with my eyes going in a million different places at once, half expecting someone to start shooting at me on this damn semi-suburban street. People were walking to get milk or head to the bus, and I was taking my car back from jerks. It was such an insane experience and sensation to have in essence stolen my car back from whoever took it from me. It was the weirdest, dumbest, most bewildering feeling. But I was happy, of course, to have it back.

So what do I do? What does this guy do?

I go home of course because where else can I go? Neither of my parents lived in the state and what could my friends do? We were all broke at the time of our lives, so they weren’t gonna be much help. To get the car started, the thieves had to gut the ignition, so I couldn’t even turn off the Honda. I drove it home. Yes, there was parking at that hour, so I’m in my car and in front of my house. Life is so dumb. I have the key, but I can’t turn off the car, but I can lock it. I have a locked, running car on my hands. So I run up and I call my mother. Of course, she is dumbfounded.

“You what? You found what? You found it where? Huh? Go to the police department with it and tell them.” She’s literally screaming into the phone, which was cordless, so I’m keeping one eye on the street and my car while she’s talking. It was all so bizarre.

It was probably close to ten in the morning at this time.

Going to the Somerville police made the most sense, I suppose, but what to say and how to say it? While driving there, I noticed whoever stole the car dug a knife or a key into the front interior, slicing it up in places because maybe they were bored or something? The radio was still there, but they stole the knob to control the AC and heat? Who were these dummies?

The parking lot for the Somerville station isn’t big; I pull up and I still can’t turn off the car. It’s just chilling and running, doing it’s sad thing. I’m not smooth or particularly persuasive or forceful, so I just go in and tell the police at the front desk what happened. They looked me like I was a jerk as I was explaining this idiot caper to them. Maybe I’m lucky they didn’t cuff me? 

Officer Bennett in Home Alone 2. This is basically the look I got from police, which I understand.

And in the “you can’t make this stuff up” department, the officers told me the answer to my problems was an auto body shop right behind their building and they could fix me up.

I guess I let out a sigh of relief and was on my way again. What a morning.

The final drive of this journey was to the auto shop. A guy turned it off, the engine whimpering to a stop.

This madcap journey was done. I could come get the car in a day or two, but for now there was nothing else to do.

I walked home and went back to bed and slept the hardest I ever have. And this time, when I woke up later, I didn’t go to the window and check for my car.

---

According to the National Insurance Crime Bureau, the Honda Accord was stolen close to 60,000 times in 2012. 

"Year after year, the Honda Accord continues to be a top seller at car dealerships throughout the United States for a variety of reasons, including their reliability," said Patrick Clancy, the vice president of law enforcement for LoJack Corporation, in this story. "That means year after year there are more Accords on the road, getting into car accidents or needing parts for repair."

I don’t know how many of those Accords that were stolen eventually found their way back to their owner. I don’t know if I’m the only person ever to steal back their Accord; I’m sure I’m not, but it’s nice to think I’m the lone automotive cowboy who performed a stunning act of righteousness.

I managed to keep that car for at least two more years before returning back to my family in South Carolina. In the end, my parents helped me get a new ignition in the car and return it to form. When I moved near New York, it no longer became necessary to have a car all that much, and I said goodbye once and for all. I believe after years and years, my family donated it to a charity or sold it off for parts, but I’m not entirely sure.

But that car was a trooper and the two of us bonded in a way I never have with a piece of machinery. I’ll think of it forever and ever. I never found out who stole it, of course, but I guess I should thank them now because I get to tell this tale.

Thanks folks.

Godspeed 1994 Gold Honda Accord, wherever you are. I hope you are resting easy. Thanks for the memories.