#well i wrote 90% of it in traffic the last couple paragraphs i just did

[apoptoses]

A Matter of Taste 2.9k Lestat/Armand (a hint of Lestat/Armand/Daniel at the end) domesticity/blood sharing/discussions of home/Benji and Daniel’s awful taste in furniture

Also on Ao3

(Wrote this sitting in traffic with nothing to do, enjoy ♥)

“So that’s it?” Lestat asked.

Armand nodded. “Yes. Monstrous, isn’t it?”

The sofa was massive, all gray fabric and enormous pillows, closer to a bed than a settee. Surrounded by priceless antiques and a hand painted ceiling imported from some crumbling chateau, it dominated the entire room. Lestat took a step back and cocked his head. Had this been Night Island it would have fit in; Night Island had been crafted to blend the best parts of 80s design and old world aesthetics. But in Trinity Gate it stood out terribly, Lestat had to agree.

Ironic, really, that Armand had invited him over to discuss home decor when he’d been thinking about what a pleasure it would be if they finally acquired a home of their own. He just hadn’t had the courage or the opportunity to bring it up yet.

“And you ended up with this sofa how, exactly?” Lestat asked.

“Benji and Daniel were adamant we have at least one thing upstairs to sit on that isn’t an antique. I asked Louis, assuming he would be on my side, but unfortunately he agreed with them and I found myself outnumbered,” Armand said with a sigh.

“So? Don’t they have their little game room for unsightly furniture such as this?” Lestat asked. “I remember that god awful leather thing with the cup holders they found on the street and demanded we drag home- I still haven’t gotten over the indignity of that, by the way. Taking home actual trash off the street as if I were Louis in that old hovel of his I burned down.”

“Not enough, apparently. They’d like to be ‘comfortable’ in my presence and as I spend most of my time upstairs…” Armand trailed off, waving his hand dismissively. “Regardless, it is done. It lives in my sitting room, where it will stay until some misfortune befalls it.”

“The fire gift, perhaps?”

“Too great a risk, the smoke would damage the ceiling.”

“True. Well, I suppose that leaves only one choice-”

Lestat turned on his heel and let himself fall backwards, collapsing into the pillows with a dull thud. He was no small man but even he felt dwarfed by the sofa, wide as it was. When he kicked off his shoes and put up his feet they came nowhere near reaching the end of it. Hideous, perhaps, but luxurious, even he had to admit. The type of thing one could fall asleep on without quite meaning to.

He patted the space beside him. “Well?”

Armand stared. “I will not have intercourse with you on the sofa in my sitting room, where all of Madison Avenue can see.”

Lestat rolled his eyes. “Number one, no one out there can see because you have enough velvet hanging from those windows to curtain even the largest stage,” he said, counting off the reasons for his indignation on his long, pale fingers. “Two, you know that’s not what I meant, you wretched little succubus. And three, even if I had, an audience has hardly ever stopped you before.”

Armand’s mouth was set in a flat line but there was a certain mirth to his eyes only an immortal with their heightened senses would be able to pick up. Of course he’d been winding him up. Anything to make Lestat look like a petulant brat.

“Get over here and lie down with me, before I go and buy Benji the matching armchair and really ugly the place up,” he threatened.

Armand rolled his eyes even as he acquiesced. There was ample room for them to lie side by side but he tucked himself in between Lestat and the back of the sofa anyways, head resting on Lestat’s broad chest. “It is comfortable, if nothing else,” he had to admit.

“Just be careful we don’t lose you among the cushions, mon petit chéri, Louis would never forgive me,” Lestat teased.

He got his side pinched for it but he didn’t bother to pinch Armand back for once. Getting to curl up with him like this was too delicious to ruin with childishness. Armand fit so neatly against his side, leg thrown over his thighs and his hand curled in his sweater; nestled in at just the right spot for Lestat to tilt his face down and kiss the top of his auburn head. Lestat ran his hand up and down the length of his back and Armand’s fingers tightened on his sweater in response.

So sweet and domestic, it was, lying together like this. A perfect opportunity to bring up the apartment he’d found in Paris.

“You know, I’ve been thinking-” Lestat began.

“How frightening. Your thoughts so often end in chaos for us all,” Armand mumbled into his chest.

Ah well. Fine. If Armand was only going to hassle him he wouldn’t say it at all.

“Mon dieu, fine. Nevermind. I’ll just call Benji and tell him you said to go ahead, get the armchair. And one those horrible gaming chairs with the neon lights while he’s at it, that would really set off the Louis XIV desk you’ve got in the corner-” Lestat pretended he was going to grab for his phone but then Armand shifted, his chin pressing against his sternum as he looked up at him. 

“Lestat, go on,” he murmured. I want to know what you’ve been thinking. Truly.

“You just don’t want another ugly chair in this room,” Lestat said, though he was struggling to withhold a smile. Impossible to be annoyed, really, when he had such a lovely little demon staring at him as though hanging on his every word. “Anyways, as I was saying. I was thinking it was time we got a home together, you and I.”

Armand arched a delicate brow. “A home?”

“Yes. Picture it, a penthouse apartment in the heart of Paris. Something small but sumptuous, two bedrooms. Just enough for you and I, and perhaps a guest if we so wish to bring Louis or Daniel along,” Lestat said. “We already have such grand homes for entertaining and loaning out. It’s time we had something just for us, something we can escape to and make just as opulent as we like. Don’t you agree?”

I already had a place in mind. Nothing is set in stone, of course, but I thought best to come with a clear vision to convince you with. Lestat opened his mind, letting Armand shuffle through the images of the apartment he’d been looking at.

In comparison to the court at Auvergne or Trinity Gate it was small, but with its antique wainscotting and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Seine it rivaled both in terms of luxury. He allowed him to see his ideas for decor as well, the silk damask bed covers and ancient, oversized mirrors that could line the walls. The great 18th century wardrobe he’d seen for sale, barely big enough to hold his own clothes, but then the second bedroom could be retrofitted into a dressing room if need be. Between the two of them they’d come up with something.

You know that I hardly need convincing. Armand turned his head, settled with his ear to Lestat’s racing heart. The worry that he might be turned down had made him so nervous for a moment. But why Paris? Why now?

“Well, why not?” Lestat asked. “I never should have pushed you away so suddenly when we first met. I should have taken you into Paris, re-introduced you properly to living amongst mortals. Taken you to the opera, to the fashionable boutiques to get you out of those old rags and into the silk and lace you suit so well. I never should have left you to founder alone.”

“It never would have worked out, long term. You know that,” Armand said quietly.

Armand wasn’t wrong. The people they were then were incapable of any sort of relationship. Armand would have dug in his claws too hard, Lestat would have instinctively jerked away. The blows they’ve already dealt each other would have been nothing compared to the pain of the slow and then cataclysmic dissolution of any relationship they might have built in their youth.

And yet Lestat fantasized about it anyway. Perhaps it was in his nature, wanting to fix something beautiful and broken despite so often being in shambles himself.

“Yes. I know.” Lestat dragged his fingers through his hair, nails skimming across his scalp. If he did this long enough Armand would drift off; he’d found that out some time ago when he’d been playing with his hair, only to look down to see him fast asleep with his head in his lap. “But just think, now we can experience all of those things in a Paris built with modern luxuries, with nary a rat infested slum to be found.”

“You put things so romantically,” Armand muttered into his chest. He’d shifted up a little, tilted his head in silent demand that Lestat massage the back of his neck. Lestat indulged him almost immediately, searching for the spot that would make him sigh and melt under his hands. 

“Perhaps I’m merely saving all of my romantic urges until I have you at home with me in the City of Love,” he said, just as Armand gave a little groan. Ah, there it was. He pressed his thumb harder into the sensitive ditch between his neck and his jaw. “What do you say? I want to hear it, that you’d like this as much as I would.”

“I would like it,” Armand said. “But I’d like to visit first and see the place you have in mind before we commit to it. And there must be some rules.”

Lestat practically beamed. Damn the rules, he was pleased enough he’d agree to most anything Armand proposed. “Such as?”

“What colors we paint the rooms. We may agree on much but there is a line between opulent and garish,” Armand began. “And who may visit when we are there.” No David Talbot. No Marius either, not yet.

Lestat snorted. “You know that I’ve been to Night Island, you’re hardly one to talk about garish when I’ve seen the heart shaped bathtub you had hidden in there,” he said. “But yes, of course. As you like. I see them more than enough in Auvergne as it is.”

Armand nodded and then, like some great jungle cat, pushed himself up onto his elbows and stretched. Then we must seal this agreement with a kiss.

There was some mischief in his gaze but Lestat hardly had time to question it, for Armand had curled his fingers in his hair and sealed his mouth to his. Armand must have fed earlier that night because he was so warm, he was practically burning up beneath Lestat’s hands as they found their way up the back of his shirt. Lestat pulled him closer, sucked his lower lip between his teeth and savored the approving sound that got out of him. When his fang pierced Armand’s lip the fingers in his hair curled so tight it ached.

It was only a little taste of blood. But it was enough that Lestat’s mouth tingled with it, that it burned all the way down his throat. He sucked at it hard, didn’t let go until he was certain that when Armand pulled away his lip would be bloody and swollen with his kiss. Even their tender moments were laced with violence, but how could Lestat help that? No one wore a bruise as beautifully as Armand did. 

He left the cut unhealed and let Armand work his way over his jaw, down the column of his throat. Soft kisses, with just the hint of teeth to get Lestat to inhale sharply and bare his throat. Not that he had a choice, Armand’s grip on his hair meant he could turn his face any which way he liked.

Normally Lestat would fight against this. They did both like a tussle, and Armand could give as good as he got. 

But let the little devil take what he wanted, Lestat decided when Armand licked a hot stripe up the length of his neck. He’d given him such a great gift tonight, agreeing to his whims about sharing a home. A few moments of control was the least he could give in return. Especially when the ache in his scalp and the sharp nip Armand delivered to his earlobe were so delicious.

Go ahead and do it already, no need to drag it out, Lestat demanded in his mind.

Armand brushed his lips teasingly against his artery, hovering there as if he might actually obey Lestat’s command. Patience is a virtue, they say came the reply as he pulled away to tug his sweater down and nip at his clavicle instead.

“Not one of mine,” Lestat muttered.

The little pat to his cheek was equal parts endearing and patronizing. Lestat had half a mind to flip them over and show Armand what a real tease was. Just as he reached down and got him by the hip Armand tugged hard at his hair, and ah, there it was. Exquisite pain, radiating down into his chest. Sometimes Armand was as slow and gentle as he was with one of his beloved victims, but others he sank his fangs in all at once, holding Lestat tight so he couldn’t scrunch his shoulder up and shrink away from it. It made his heart pound, hard enough the arterial spray into Armand’s mouth must have been overwhelming; enough that the sudden loss left Lestat dizzy and panting as he held Armand tight.

When he opened his eyes Armand was hovering above him, blood dripping from his mouth and onto his chin. He looked like a lion after the kill, Lestat couldn’t decide if he wanted to lick him clean or smear it across his skin and leave his throat bloody and red too.

“What a tragedy,” Armand said.

Lestat shifted over, craning his neck awkwardly to see what he was looking at. Beside his head was a blood stain, still wet. The pillow was soaked; some had even dripped down onto the cushion beneath him, and every time Lestat moved he only made it worse. Armand had only half healed the wound before he’d pulled away.

“You did that on purpose, you little demon,” Lestat said. “You’ve never spilled a drop before.”

“I was overcome by how beautifully you submitted to me.” A demon and a poor liar. Lestat could see the tension at the corners of his mouth where Armand was holding back a smile. “I suppose this sofa can’t remain in the sitting room in this state. That stain will never come out.”

“No, I suppose not.” Lestat sat up and neatly shoved Armand onto his back. He pulled his sweater off, discarding it before it could get stained too, and settled into the space between his thighs. “So that means there’s only one thing left to do.”

“And that is?”

Lestat smirked and licked his own blood from the corner of Armand’s mouth. “Wreck it entirely, of course.”

—

Lestat was curled up in an armchair with a book, hair still damp when Daniel came in the front door. There was nothing unusual about that. He often went out with Benji and Louis, returning home before them while they went out to feed. Perfect. Daniel could be easier persuaded to choose something nice from the furniture store. For once Lestat had every intention of cleaning up the mess he’d made. He was in too good a mood to leave Armand to deal with his coven complaining about the ruined sofa.

“Jesus christ, what happened here?” Daniel asked.

Lestat snapped his book shut. “There was an accident.”

Daniel arched a brow at him. “An accident? It looks like a goddamn abattoir in here.”

Well. He wasn’t entirely wrong. A little scratching had turned into a lot of biting, and a struggle that had left both of them so breathless they’d left their table manners behind entirely. Armand had come out worse for the wear, but he’d insisted on staying in the bath alone while Lestat dealt with the issue of the sofa.

“Yes, well, your maker can be such a wild cat when he thinks the sanctity of his home decor is being threatened.” Lestat got up and threw his arm around Daniel’s shoulders, guiding him back toward the door. 

Daniel, always a perceptive thing, was eyeing the blood stain on his collar. Lestat hardly cared. He’d abandoned the concept of shame in his youth and life was far more enjoyable for it. 

“And I’m guessing the bruises I’ll find all over Armand later will have been an accident too?” Daniel asked, shaking his head fondly. “What is it with you two, it’s like you can’t get off unless you leave the place looking like something out of the Shining.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Anyways, come, we’ll go pick out a replacement together. Something comfortable and tasteful,” Lestat said as he guided him down to the sidewalk, where he hailed a cab.

“Or something ugly we can help Armand destroy together?”

Lestat glanced at Daniel, took a little peek into his mind to see if he was joking. He wasn’t, not entirely. He had visions of Armand between them, both of them holding him with their preternatural strength as they sucked marks into his neck. There was a reason he’d always liked Daniel. Oh yes, he would definitely be invited to their little Parisian love nest once they’d broken the place in.

“Daniel Molloy, I do love the way you think.” Lestat slid into the back of the cab beside him and shut the door. “Let’s go to wal-mart, shall we? I’m sure they have something Armand would find absolutely hideous there.”

[365days365movies]

February 6, 2021: Romeo + Juliet (1996)

From the top!

Two households, both alike in dignity In Fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross’d lover take their life; Whose misadventured, piteous overthrows Do, with their death, bury their parents’ strife The fearful passage of the death-mark’d love, And the continuance of their parents’ rage Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove, Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage; The which, if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strike to mend.

I mean, c’mon. It’s Shakespeare, I practically had to.

Which is why it may come as a surprise to hear that I think this play is overrated, far too overexposed, and honestly stars two of the most obnoxiously immature protagonists that Shakespeare ever wrote. Which is not to say that I don’t like it, but it is to say that it isn’t my favorite. Which one is my favorite, you ask? Eh, I vacillate between a few, but I might get into it, we’ll see.

Weirdly fitting, though, since this film is directed by a director who also isn’t my favorite. Can’t say I have a definitive favorite director either, but Baz Luhrmann ain’t it. To be fair, I haven’t seen Moulin Rouge (probably should, huh?), but his turn on The Great Gatsby...wasn’t my favorite, I’ll just leave it at that.

And while we’re into it, lemme just address Romeo and Juliet adaptations on film real quick. To be completely transparent, before today...I’ve only seen one adaptation of the play: Franco Zeffirelli’s excellent 1968 turn on it, and it’s a fantastic adaptation at that. Sone of you, however, may now be realizing that, if I’ve only seen one adaptation of the play...there’s an extremely glaring omission to my film repertoire.

Yeaaaaaaaaah...we’ll get there, I promise.

But, of course, the adaptations only scratch the surface of this plays influence. See, the whole point of the rivalry between the Montagues and the Capulets is that it’s SO OLD, that nobody truly remembers why it started in the first place. Because of that, other romance films have sought to supply a reason for that rivalry.

In other words, the two protagonists destined to fall in love often come from two backgrounds, if not families, that class. And, yes, only ONE FILM that I’ve watched this month doesn’t do that. Dirty Dancing and The Notebook make their “ancient grudge” class-based; low-class vs. upper-class. Even You’ve Got Mail makes it about money, although that one’s a little more of a stretch. In any case, versions of this trope have lasted for centuries, and it’s...maybe poisoned romantic cinema? I mean, there’s a reason they all seem similar. They’re all taking from a classic. And, yeah, more of them than you’d think use this formula. I mean...

Hell, if you think about it, both of them are technically dead by the end.

Anyway, jumping right smack dab into the ‘90s, where teen heartthrob of the decade, Leo DiCaprio himself, is cast to play the titular teen boy, and sort-of popular at the time Claire Danes is cast as the titular teen girl. Put them together, and you have a hatred that will last for centuries. Because yeah, they HATED each other apparently. Let’s watch! SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap

...Look, here’s a quick recap of a story that EVERYBODY KNOWS.

Two families hate each other, and each has a teenage kid; a boy named Romeo and a girl named Juliet. They see each other at a party, they IMMEDIATELY get those teenage hormones a flowing and fall in love at first sight. They talk a few times, then decide to get married. Romeo’s friends say, “Dude, her family’s all dicks,” and Romeo says “naw, dude, she’s hawt,” They hook up, and they get secret-married. But, since they can’t be together in life, and since Juliet’s supposed to marry a whole other dude, Juliet runs to the priest and says, “hey, fake my death real quick?” He gives her a potion, she pretends to be dead, Romeo finds out (after one of his friends is killed by Juliet’s cousin), and runs to her side. Dude then ACTUALLY kills himself with poison, only for Juliet to wake up, see his dead body, and then kill HERSELF with a KNIFE, and then the families find out, and the Prince comes by and just says, “Goddamn, you guys are dicks. So much so that you killed your kids, congrats.” And that’s the end.

Yeah. Two hours of play and movie (nice touch, by the way, Luhrman) compressed into a paragraph. And yet...I’m still gonna recap this movie. Glutton for punishment, I guess. And with that said...

It all starts with a newscaster, speaking the lines of the Prologue in the guise of a newscast, which is...very neat, actually! That’s followed by...Pete Postlethwaite saying the whole thing over again, backed by a hell of a lot of fast cut editing.

...Oh God, it’s a Luhrmann movie. I forgot. Also, uh...really trying to stretch out that runtime to make that 2-hour mark, huh, Bazzie? I admire that you’re trying to stick to that “two hour-stage” quote from the Prologue, really I do...but you had to repeat the Prologue TWICE to do that?

As the lines flash on screen, we’re also introduced to out major players, whom I’ll just introduce as they come up. After a little montage of the movie to come, and a confirmation that the ancient grudge has broken out into a gang war on the streets of Verona Beach (clever), we jump in the car of a few Montagues: Sampson (Jaime Kennedy), Benvolio (Dash Mihok), and Gregory (Zak Orth).

At a gas station, they meet some Capulets, specifically Abra (Vincent Laresca) and a few others. After some thumb-biting, they all draw their swords. Which are guns that have sword written on them. Well, that’s just silly.

This standoff is interrupted by the arrival of another Capulet: Tybalt (John Leguizamo). This, of course, leads to a swordfight (ugh), during which all players are, just...REAL dramatic with their movements, holy shit. In the process, Sampson’s shot (or...stabbed, I dunno), and the gas station explodes.

It’s war in the streets now, as Tybalt and Benvolio are eventually intercepted by Captain Prince (Vondie Curtis-Hall), the chief of police for Verona Beach. He reads out his rage upon the heads of the families. For the Montagues, these heads are Ted (Brian Dennehy) and Caroline (Christina Pickles); and for the Capulets, they’re Fulgencio (Paul Sorvino) and Gloria (Diane Venora). Is...is the grudge taking place because one of them is named “Ted,” and the other is FUCKING “FULGENCIO”? Because that’s one hell of a dichotomy.

Captain Prince lets them all off with a warning (I mean, no, they should ALL be arrested), and Caroline and Ted question the whereabouts of their melodramatic emo son. That son is, of course, Romeo (Leonardo DiCaprio), who laments poetically about how fucked up his family is.

Hanging out at a decrepit carnival (because of course he is), he’s soon found by Benvolio, and he laments on the lack of love between their two families. They bond over talk of women, and decide to secretly go to a party held by the Capulets that night to check out some girls.

Meanwhile, Fulgencio is speaking about this whole mess to Dave Paris (Paul Rudd). D...Dave? Really? We’re keepin’ fuckin’ Benvolio and Balthasar, but we had to name Paris DAVE? Guys, a little consistency with the name shit, PLEASE! Anyway, Dave (uuuuugh) is the governor’s son, and very wealthy, while also being a suitor for Fulgencio’s daughter.

That daughter is, of course, Juliet (Claire Danes), who’s being attended by her vain mother and kindly Nurse (Miriam Margoyles). As her mother’s preparing for the party, she talks up Paris as a suitor, although Juliet doesn’t seem SUPER into it. And s the Nurse tells her to “seek happy nights to happy days,” we go to Sycamore Grove, and to another party.

And this is where we meet my favorite character (everybody’s favorite character, let’s be honest): Mercutio (Harold Perrineau). Mercutio has been invited to the Capulet’s party, and invites Romeo to come along, in disguise. In the process, he gives one of the play’s most famous monologues: Queen Mab’s Speech. It’s truncated here, ad to be frank, Perrineau’s performance is a bit...over the top. But, it ends up to be fairly effective.

Also, Queen Mab is ecstasy. Yeah, that kinda dulled by enthusiasm for the whole enterprise, I ain’t gonna lie. But Romeo lies with Queen La, and they head to the Capulet’s party. And we’re about to hit PEAK LUHRMANN, people.

Look, I’m lame, I’ve never really done drugs, ecstasy included...but it FEELS like I’ve taken something now. And Romeo’s now trying to sober-up a bit. He dunks his head into a sink in the bathroom, and looks at a tropical aquarium that’s in there. And through that aquarium...

However, Juliet’s quickly spirited away by Nurse, and brought to dance with Dave. Romeo, meanwhile, gives his “Did my heart love till now” speech, and DOESN’T SAY THAT SHE DOTH TEACH THE TORCHES TO BURN BRIGHT??? Seriously, the beginning of that speech is completely deleted. That line, in and of itself, should’ve been left in.

Anyway, Romeo and Juliet speak, and the teenagers kiss...a lot. And yeah, they do kiss in this scene in the ply, but not that much. Immediately afterwards, they discover their family alliances, and Romeo and Mercutio flee the party. Romeo heads back soon after, and, well...you know the line. But soft...

This movie...LOVES water, huh? We see both Romeo and Juliet from underwater at separate points, they see each other for the first time through an aquarium, they’re making out in a pool right now. I mean, I’m sure there’s some symbolism to that, but I’m not sure what it is yet.

Anyway, the two starcross’d lover come just short of crossing stars, and they IMMEDIATELY get engaged to marry.

After a bit of ‘90s music whiplash, we meet Father Laurence (Pete Postlethwaite), a botany-loving priest, and soon-to-be ally to the young couple. Romeo asks Laurence to wed them, despite the fact that Romeo actually was in love with a woman named Rosaline. But, yeah, she’s one of the unseen casualties of this play, only sometimes making it into adaptations. As Romeo speaks to the Priest, I think this is a great time to mention that there is a FUCKTON of Jesus and Christian imagery in this movie. Water and Jesus, goddamn.

The Priest agrees, believing that a marriage between the two could bring peace to Verona Beach at last. We also get a bunch of quick edits showing various parts of the Luhrmann Shakespeare Cinematic Universe, all backed by a choir boy singing “When Doves Cry.” This is an...unusual movie.

It also seems that Tybalt has issued a challenge against Romeo, which Mercutio and Benvolio muse upon. They meet with Romeo on the beach, and as they hang around, their revelry is interrupted by the arrival of the Nurse. She gives him a warning not to fuck with Juliet’s heart, which he says that he won’t, as they’re planning on marrying. She appears to approve, but Mercutio seems not to. Definitely going with a more superficially mercurial take on the character, which fits. But that’ll be more apparent later.

Nurse goes to Juliet, and...OK, is she supposed to be Italian or Hispanic? Because I feel like I’m supposed to be mildly offended, but I don’t even know what she’s going for here. Anyway, the wedding time approaches, and the two get wed in secret. But on the beach, Tybalt has come to go after Romeo. Romeo tries to make amends, even giving up his “sword” to him, much to Mercutio’s anger. Which, uh...he’s not gonna stand for.

And, of course, Mercutio’s fatally stabbed while defending Romeo’s honor. He lays A PLAGUE O’ BOTH THEIR HOUSES, and dies. Romeo’s PISSED, and immediately goes to kill Tybalt. That leads to Romeo’s banishment, although they consummate their marriage before he takes off. Also, Juliet KNOWS that he KILLED HER COUSIN...but it’s Leo, I guess, and...hormones.

Romeo’s banished and goes to Mantua, AKA a trailer park in the middle of the desert. Juliet, meanwhile, is commanded by her father to marry Paris, although she REALLY isn’t into it now! She goes to Laurence and, yeah, threatens to kill him AND herself if he doesn’t have an idea. Hormones, man. They’ll fuck you UP.

Laurence’s solution, of course, is to have Juliet pretend to have killed herself by drinking a potion. No idea why he comes up with this idea, or has the skill to make the potion, but some questions aren’t meant to be asked or answered. He also says to that he’ll send a litter to Romeo, to let him know what the deal is.

Juliet pretends to kill herself, and it interred with her relatives. Meanwhile, Romeo’s cousin Balthasar (Jesse Bradford) comes by the desert, having just gone to Juliet’s funeral, and tells him that Juliet’s dead. And since Romeo never got the goddamn letter, he’s decided, “Well! Guess I’m gonna kill myself.”

He gets some poison, then goes to Juliet’s tomb, which is...decked in neon crosses. I mean, it looks nice, even it’s very, uh...over the top. Goddamn.

And, at this point, you know how this goes. Romeo drinks the poison and dies, Juliet wakes up JUST after, then kills herself as well, and the parents of both parties arrive to see them both dead, along with the Prince, who says “Y’ALL ARE DICKS,” and bounces.

That’s Luhrman’s Romeo + Juliet. And it’s a movie. Yeah, that I’ll give you. What did I think? What rating does it get? Well...I’ll elucidate in the Review.

[trenchkamen]

[book review] Earthseed duology (Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents) by Octavia Butler

"In order to rise from its own ashes, a Phoenix must first burn.”

So I find myself with a massive backlog of potential book reviews, although I’ve been doing a fair amount of re-reading and many of those are old classics (does the world need another review of The Brothers Karamazov? Or Siddhartha? Ironically Hesse would find the idea appalling as he is a firm believer that the more you try to discuss something to death the less power and truth it holds). I am of a similar mind about the Earthseed books (Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents) as they are very well acclaimed indeed and aren’t in desperate need of visibility. But I have things to say. Lucky you.

Parable of the Sower opens in 2024, when civilization has collapsed (the same year, as it happens, as the Bell Riots, so two sets of writers saw in the nineties the road headed on a thirty-year course to hell) to differing degrees depending on one’s socioeconomic status. The last of the middle-class holdouts live in self-policed, self-contained walled neighborhoods crowned with razor wire and glass. Groups only venture outside the walls armed. Despite this, people struggle to maintain some degree of normalcy and forward momentum—a local college still holds online classes (as it is too dangerous to travel to and from campus) and the community keeps holding church services and teaching its children in a living room-based school. Even as an adolescent Lauren Olamina realizes this is not sustainable, and that soon, the walls will be torn down and they will have to face the outside world as one of the dispossessed. Her realization that change is constant and inevitable, but that one must shape it, not try to hold to the old order, forms the basis of her personal philosophy she dubs “Earthseed”. It is partially her experiences as a “sharer”, or a person with hyperempathy syndrome, that informs her philosophy. When she sees others in pain, she feels it, as surely as if she herself was hurt. It is a handicap in a brutal world but she learns to live with it. In 2027 her prediction is fulfilled and she escapes the burning and plundering of her neighborhood and goes north—toward the Pacific Northwest, toward rain and opportunity. In contrast to her younger brother, who made his way in the outside world on cruelty and guile, she gathers a group of travelers and ex-slaves for mutual protection and support and from them forms her first Earthseed commune.

I found Sower at one of those clearance book sales that are frequently held outside Ackerman. The version they had has a rather bland, white-light background cover that tries to make it very clear that this is Serious Literature and worthy of consideration by people of intellectual fiber and not just the sort of riffraff who are mesmerized by the flash-bang tripe of sci-fi, but, at the very least, the protagonist is (correctly) portrayed as black. Unfortunately this often leads to the book being marketed or shelved as “special interest” but that is a whole other rant.

The broad socioeconomic changes predicted in the book are not surprising. They’re evident as imminent possibilities to many people. What always shocks me most in the writing of the most visionary speculative fiction authors – William Gibson, Margaret Atwood – is the correct prediction of small details. They predict tiny, sharp, and accurate vectors of future movement within the larger one. In the book Southern California is parched and dying and overcrowded and everybody wants to flood up to the Pacific Northwest, where there is water and the air is clean and there is space. This is exactly the trend I have seen now, twenty years after the book was published and ten years before the book takes place, and after several of the hottest, driest seasons on record (not counting that lovely burst of heavy rain this past winter). I’ve shot around vague “what are you going to do after graduation/in the future” etc conversations with various friend groups, who have no knowledge of each other and therefore no influence over each other, and with the exception of people who have personal ties elsewhere they almost all mention a vague tug toward “Seattle” or “Vancouver”, words that evoke greenery and cooler air and oxygen in place of dust. I’m no exception to this, despite the fact that almost all of my friends wound up in the LA area (many of us from Phoenix), but the way conversations are going we might all end up in the same place again anyway. In the books, Oregon, Washington, and Canada have sealed and armed borders to keep out floods of “California trash” hiking up I-5 looking for a better life. The flood has gotten bad enough that shoot-on-sight has become the accepted rule for guards. (And, from what I’ve heard of people currently living in those areas, that spirit is certainly there. It is understandable – their lovely area is being flooded with crowds of people driving up rents and costs of living, the rich buying up properties, the area choked with traffic. In short, it’s becoming SoCal. There’s a Tragedy of the Commons analogy here somewhere.) Given that communications infrastructure has collapsed most migrants are not aware of this, but even those who are feel it is worth the desperate attempt, because there is nothing left in SoCal for anybody but the rich. (In this case, ‘nothing’ really does mean complete anarchy and mob rule—the government has essentially become a privatized and parceled enforcement corps for the wealthy.) In the Real World LA we’ve had drought and relentless summer heat and given how overburdened the grid is the power goes out almost every time the temperature goes above 90*F. Even in the five years I’ve lived here traffic has gotten much worse (quantitatively—based on drive times) and rents have spiked dizzying amounts. The entire demographic character of neighborhoods around me has shifted in a matter of years. It all makes people feel like so much cattle and ferments a great deal of resentment and economic unrest.

In the first book the president runs on a populist platform that, at the time of publication (1993) might have sounded rather farfetched and Machiavellian, even though the country was coming out of the Regan years backlash, but at the current time sounds rather familiar. You know exactly where I’m going with this and I am far from the only person who has drawn parallels between President Donner and President Trump. Again, an example of prediction of ‘small’ details—a populist charlatan winning a desperate public is a common dystopian trope, but Butler correctly predicted the details of Donner’s plans and the rhetoric he uses to pit industry regulations and worker protections against this nebulous idea of “freedom” and “opportunity”. Company towns are a major part of the national fabric, and we see how they attract people (with promises of security and a constant source of food, no small offer when you grow up having to go around the neighborhood in armed groups) and the end result of (legally) indenturing people to their service through the use of payment in scrip. It’s a privatized debtor’s prison system. But, in the rhetoric of the elite, this represents “opportunity”, and the disgusting part is that they’re not wrong. To many people it’s more attractive than being murdered or raped on the road—until they realize that once they are legally ‘indebted’ (slaves), they will be treated that way anyway. But it’s the only “opportunity” offered to the masses. At this point in the story a good portion of the population is completely illiterate, and with that loss comes also the loss of their ability to learn about the past, to read and understand contracts and laws, to read newspapers. The school system collapsed, so you have a generation of young, angry people with no knowledge and no literacy. Hopeless, easy to inflame, easy to mislead. Butler is not coy in implying that this is a direct result of the end of the public school system and the collapse of public youth programs—money-saving measures touted as things that will ultimately lead to a more ‘efficient’ system (privatization). Surprise of surprises, though, once private those schools and youth programs no longer want to go where there is no money.

Donner also runs on a platform of returning to an idealized past – making America great again, if you will. (I almost did not add this because it’s too on-the-nose but fuck it. EDIT NOTE: I hand-to-God wrote this paragraph before I started reading Talents and I rescind my previous statement. Just keep reading.) When things are getting worse it’s only natural to want to turn back to when things are better. A savvy politician realizes this and uses it in his rhetoric—a vague promise. Lauren realizes that there is no turning back and that energies must be used to shape the future. As a leader, she is his direct foil.  

Overt racism has again spiked in the wake of populist anger. Interracial couples are particularly likely to be attacked by mobs and in-group tribalism proxied by the marker of skin color is brazen. Lauren’s father points out (correctly) that their suburb is too black and brown to be of interest to authorities to try to re-claim, despite “respectable” middle-class status, and, indeed, it is one of the few white families in their neighborhood who is accepted to a company town on the coast. People get mean and scared when resources are few. Honestly as I am white I realize I am only made aware of overt shows of racism, so it is difficult for me to say how much worse things have gotten in the past few years (I do think that is the direction it has gone), but racists have certainly gotten bolder and more outspoken. It’s this ancient division tactic to keep the masses fighting each other for the few crumbs the rich leave for them, instead of focusing on the rich themselves. Again, not a new observation, but I am pleased with how accurately Butler predicted (or remembered, to anybody who reads history) that overt shows of racism and other forms of in-group/out-group behavior spike with hardship. People seem to think we’ve moved past that and become truly post-racial. Odd, that. People show their true prejudices under stress.

Women and children, especially, are vulnerable, and find themselves either disguising their sex (like Lauren, who is tall and angular in build) or finding men to travel with, often in exchange for sex—and condoms are rare, so this often leads to more pregnancy, more vulnerability, more dependency. (Aside – this is mentioned in the Saga comic, that women and children suffer most in war, even considering battlefield violence against drafted men.) Something Andrea Dworkin said – conservative women find the traditional marriage model attractive in that it is better to be raped by one man instead of by all men, and to get a roof and food in the deal. This is the origin of patriarchy. Lauren is well aware of this and is terrified of getting pregnant. In this book there is no Mad Max-like group of women acting in solidarity for mutual protection, but the concept of strength in numbers is proven in Lauren’s nascent Earthseed traveling group. Atomization – of the marginalized, of the weak, of minorities, of women – is what leads to death in a hostile world.

Lauren also learns that she is not the only person with hyperempathy syndrome (colloquially, ‘Sharers’) – it is a common result of in utero exposure to a new ‘smart’ drug, and it is a trait much prized in slaves and workers, as it makes them easier to control. The doctor in her traveling group points out that it would not be advantageous for healthcare workers, etc, to be paralyzed by another’s pain, but concedes that a greater prevalence might control a lot of the wanton violence. Sharers are also a uniquely vulnerable people; when they are in the minority, they are easily controlled, but were they the majority, the world would be a better place.

A designer drug (not the above mentioned) that makes people start fires, rape, and torture, is widespread and highly addictive, and provides a source of transcendent joy to a dispossessed and hopeless people. Seeking that happiness itself could be as powerful as seeking to alleviate withdrawal symptoms. The concept that dispossessed, impoverished, trapped people turn to drugs to numb their pain and crushing boredom is not new, but, again, is true, and is accurately portrayed as causing cascading ripples of destruction and pain around the primary user.

Parable of the Talents takes place (the mainline story, anyway; it is presented as a collection of diary entries with commentary) five years after the events of Sower and was published in 1998. Sower ended on an uplifting note and the book would have worked well as a stand-alone, but Talents goes the direction of The Handmaid’s Tale really quick. Or, and I don’t think this counts as much of a spoiler, America has gone from what anarcho-capitalists say would not happen in their system but honestly would, to what honestly to the average person makes little difference but this time when they’re being raped and held as slaves their captors have the pretence of saving their souls while doing it. Yes, a theocracy. With re-education camps and electronic slave collars and all that dystopian stuff. Oh, let it not be lost on the reader that this theocracy was elected into place by a populace responding to strongman posturing and a promise to bring the country back to order. There was no violent coup. And as always it’s the people who are (desperately) trying to mind their own business and live their lives who suffer the most. Not even just incidentally, as collateral damage, which happens plenty, but they are also directly targeted for having the audacity to want to exist on their own terms, hurting nobody. (I get that the Bible says that suffering sinners to live in your nation without crushing them brings down God’s wrath, so, by that interpretation, it is not a victimless crime. Very convenient, politically, for the authors and supporters of the Bible to include that as a stipulation, but this review is already running far too long.)  

Lauren discusses the changes in the political landscape that have occurred since she founded the Earthseed commune. A presidential candidate has been advocating a return to some halcyon days of socio-ethno-religious homogeny, and clearly something in his message resonates or he is merely a mouthpiece for an undercurrent of fermenting backlash, because the anarchist gangs are largely replaced by paramilitary self-styled Crusaders (crosses and tunics and all) who have taken it upon themselves to wipe out anything that would ruin that. The candidate, Jarret, winkingly-but-not-super-openly advocates these activities by not-really condemning them, but using this as an opportunity to hint that if only people would fall in line, this would not need to happen.

Oh, his entreaty is, literally, not metaphorically, ‘Make America great again.’ That’s when I stared at the book for a good ten seconds.

Had this book been written post-Trump I would have found the use of his direct slogan too on-the-nose and overbearing, but this book was published in 1998. This is not just a freak prediction in a literalist sense. That slogan was effective because it evoked that already-fermenting resentment and vague desire to return to something ‘past’ and better, and that is what Butler predicted.

Ultimately it’s irrelevant whether or not Trump resembles Jarret in that he actually believes all the Christian right claptrap he spews or is just an opportunist. The end result is the same. It’s a tacit endorsement that resonates with an already-existing, simmering resentment and hatred in the populace. That is why half-veiled innuendos are understood. The idea is already there. Butler had predicted this, in a slightly different form, in Sower—life goes to shit for the previously-privileged or majority class, so they look for scapegoats, and the scapegoat becomes especially infuriating if it has the audacity to do well while they are not, and those in true power encourage this because better to channel that energy into infighting among the dispossessed instead of risk an alliance against them. But it becomes refined, in Talents, five years later, from aimless hedonistic anarchy to something ideological and disciplined.

Subtle, it is not. But that is because the distortions in the book are only in scale, not in a sideways or backwards distortion of the direction things are going. It is a direct vector from where we are now to where the world is in the book. There are no side-steps required. It is a situation in which were you to jump directly to the center of the book, you’d be tempted to find it heavy-handed and melodramatic and self-discrediting, but reading through from the beginning of the story it becomes very easy indeed to understand how things became as bad as they did. It’s the boiling frog principle.

This is already a heinously long review and I could pick apart the books almost line-by-line with political commentary and adulations for Butler’s Cassandra-like clarity of vision, but that would ruin the primary experience for you, gentle reader, and I must respect the white space left in the book to contemplate subtleties and parallels. Ultimately, these stories are about rising from the ashes of your past life, no matter how many times your world burns down around you. Lauren’s God as Change is not intrinsically a merciful or a cruel god, but in this world change takes the form of complete and utter devastation more often than not. She loses everything, scrapes her way through, builds up from the ash and blood a community, and has it all taken from her—again. And, even when she rebuilds her life, some of the things she lost can never be regained. She has to carry that sorrow the rest of her life and keep going. I’ve heard it said that losing a child breaks something in you, forever. And yet people choose to keep living, even if they’ll never be truly happy again. It is not a happy tale, in that there is no closure for many of the characters, and people bear the most terrifying and complete forms of sorrow for decades without relief, but they survive. Usually in these stories people are able to hold on because there is that one thing they get back, or that one thing they can count on. In this story, it’s all burned away. Children are killed or sold into the most sadistic forms of sexual slavery. Spouses are killed. Second spouses are killed, again. Second batches of children are killed, again. People who were outcast and unwanted in their own families of origin find a new home and it’s ripped from them. It keeps happening. But they survive and shape the world by guiding change.

And, it’s well worth saying all this misery is wrecked on people by other people. There is enough misery in the world without having to cause any of it. That is what is so heartbreaking. And then broken people want to spread their misery. It never stops until somebody—probably a broken and hurt somebody—is willing to say stop. And live with the misery stoically and still shape the world for the better.

In some ways, I am glad Butler died before the housing crash and the socioeconomic fallout that is still shaking the world apart (she died in 2006), as she would not have to witness her vision come closer to fruition, but what I wouldn’t give to talk with her about current events. She died far too young of tragic circumstances but at least there’s peace in death. I know she would not appreciate me saying that—she always valorized survival—but I guess I’m trying to find some redeeming aspect of a shit situation. And that, I think, she might appreciate more. Cassandra was not a happy person.

[minditruitt]

Misunderstanding the Misconception of Miscommunication

They say you continue to learn until the day you die. That may be true with regard to some things but miscommunication has been around since the beginning of time and most likely won’t end.

We have many ways of communicating with each other....speaking and writing are the two major ways along with sign language. The rest of them vary depending on who’s doing the communicating.....

Emails, and before that, ‘snail mail’ as we now call it....slang, texts, slang texts (lol), the correct form of punctuation, various hand gestures....including the one we sometimes use from the window of our cars, memos at work, jokes, letters, cards and most importantly touch are used daily. A pat on the back, a shoulder massage from someone special during a time of stress, a kiss or a slap across the face which I hope very few people have experienced but I’m afraid that’s not the case....are all ways of communicating.

When I was a child, in the glorious days of 70′s flower power, we thought we had it going on when we would speak “pig-latin” and no one over the age of 12 understood us. In the 5th grade my best friend and I taught ourselves sign language to get around the rule of ‘no talking at lunch’ which happened a lot. I guess a room full of children gave our teachers a collective headache because for some reason they had a teachers table and not a lounge they could escape to. They would hold up one finger or two and if it got to three we all had to shut up immediately.  We got in trouble anyway for the sign language, my friend and I, because we broke the rule of no talking...wait...what? We weren’t talking, we were ‘communicating’.

Isn’t that different?

Apparently we had a misconception of what Mrs. whatever-her-name-was meant. We were pretty impressed that we were helping the collective headaches of our teachers and still able to discuss who the cutest boy was at the table was.

WRONG.....

We got in trouble anyway. So that meant that she misunderstood what we intended by teaching ourselves a primitive version of sign language by thinking we were breaking her rule while we thought we were doing her a favor.....Misconception.

There is nothing worse than a text but I’m someone that uses it frequently. But I know what kind of mood I’m in when I send one. The person on the other end of  doesn’t....although most people who know me know that I am very rarely angry. As a matter of fact I tend to NOT be angry when I should be. Or that’s what my father often told me...

I use emoticons a lot to help with the intention of my communication. Over the last few years I had misunderstandings with a couple of people.

One in particular.

But....

My emotions were all over the place with both of them. and the more I tried to explain what I was thinking it made things worse. I started to put “the tone of this email (or whatever) is....” I would put sad, or confused or happy....to help this person understand that I was not angry as they thought I was but actually conciliatory and caring in what I was saying. With the other one I was trying to be overly accommodating. This even sounds confusing to me as I write it because it seems exhausting and so ludicrous but at the time I felt like I was not explaining the way I was feeling very well and they were misunderstanding me, my meaning and my intention. They thought I was pushy and aggressive when actually I was feeling confused, abandoned and frightened. Those two concepts are almost polar opposites but they were misconstrued into a completely different scenario than the intention. Confused? Yeah...me too. lol (slang-text)

Back in the dark ages of the pre-internet days when we all wrote things down either on pieces of paper, letter head or fancy notecards with our monograms....we could (and did) use various handwriting skills no longer taught. I remember watching my mother write in cursive when I was young and being so excited to learn it in school. In my teenage years I embellished my writing with grand flourishes. A sign of a true Leo, I’m sure.

I’m still a little dramatic....ok, a lot. :-)

Yes.....I used the little circle over my ‘ i’s ‘. I was one of those.....

Handwriting could tell a lot about someone and there were even handwriting experts to decipher the tone or intention and actually would compare styles of different writings to see if possibly they came from the same person.

My handwriting would slant. Sometimes in two different directions in the same paragraph. My teacher said it was caused by the fact that I was actually left handed but was forced to use my right hand when I was younger. Interesting concept. I just thought it was because my brain raced faster than my hand and that was why my handwriting differed a lot. My mood also influenced my handwriting style. I could tell when I would go back and re-read a journal entry or something that my words were slanting all over the place or neatly slanted to the same side. Maybe I was rushing or maybe I was either happy or hurt. At any rate, it’s interesting....

Using different languages can also add to misunderstandings. I was born in Germany and had a pretty regular sitter that was a wonderful German lady we still communicate with. She taught me a lot of German and when I came to the United States at almost 2 years old for the very first time my grandmother said...’oh my goodness, teach this child some English’. Which was silly because my parents were American and I was an early version of a military brat.

At several points in my life I studied German and despite “pronoun hell” I could speak better and understand a little more than I used to. My husband at the time took me to Munich for our 10th anniversary after a business trip to Switzerland and we went to non touristy places so he could hear me communicate in German. It was exhausting but fun. I am to this day jealous of people who are bilingual and like to watch them switch languages in mid speech. I find it fascinating.

When we lived in Greece for two years I learned a little Greek but sadly the only thing that I remember now is the ability to order a half a watermelon and the words to their national anthem.  

Writing and speaking, different languages and all forms of communication appeal to me even though sometimes I’m not able to get my point across well because of an inability to relate to people who are smarter than I am. Which includes the vast majority of folks..... 

So I guess despite all the ways we can communicate with each other the best way is still face to face in conversation which sadly is becoming a bit of a lost art.

It, I think, can make some people uncomfortable because you can’t hide behind words and your entire persona is put on display when speaking directly to someone but at least you can read the body language and facial expressions of either happiness or exasperation of the person you're talking to. The only other option is the phone which can also not work as well because 90% of us are doing something else while talking...especially with ‘speaker phone’ option. I’m even driving and talking hands free, sometimes, and lord knows when you do that you’re communicating with dozens of people all at once through blinkers, brake lights and sometimes hand salutes. This is distracting to the person with whom you’re actually on the phone with because they are now involved with your traffic issues too whether they want to be or not.

So today, when you speak with someone whether it’s on the phone, in person, email, text, messenger, Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, sign language or one of the thousands of foreign languages be sure to either incorporate a smile or an emoticon that your intended understands....

It will make your day better and hopefully theirs.