Omnis animales post coitem triste sunt.
I have spent the last few weeks of my life living deep in post-Roman Britain. I took out an entire length of shelf from the University of Waterloo library; drove to Guelph and came home with another several pounds of books (not including the one I originally went for, which was missing). I also ordered several books online, after reading the library copies and realising I had to have them.... ahhh, obsession.

Why? you may ask. I was Writing. It started as a throwaway bit of fun, and ended as forty pages -- with, as I have said, a heavy background of research.

And it remains vaguely embarrassing to me; eh, what can I do?

By the end of last week, I was hating them, all of them. Stupid characters! I'm so tired of you! Just -- get it over with! I knew what was missing (some middle bits) but had to get them down on paper (or on silicon chip, whatever).

Then my best and oldest friend came to visit unexpectedly, and I gave her the first half, until the Big Crisis (just after which, coincidentally, one of the middle bits was missing). And she made me finish it, so that she could find out what happened.

So I did. And it's done, two days ago.

Oh! how I miss them all! Whatever shall I do? I want them back! They're done, they're gone!

I must start writing something new, I suppose.

T & I...
Brilliant! Truly, an inspired piece of work!

In comparison with King Arthur, of course.

Don't look at me like that, Rufus. It's still your fault, in a way.

I... I'm speechless. Even leaving Malory and Chretien de Troyes out of it altogether, I have no idea from what bog of crappy story and worse history this slime-monster sprang.

And yet, I saw it again.
Curse you, Rufus.

Let me be very clear here: this is NOT a movie that stands up to a second viewing. At all. The historical inaccuracies are absolutely glaring (and why, why, why do they have to have TWO lovingly-lingered-over reiterations of that blasted bit of Donne? HOW STUPID do they think their audience IS?)

Oh, wait.

Really stupid.

Never mind the Irish/Cornish thing, or the... well, the whole mess, and Marke's velvet outfit, and Isolde's heart-shaped earrings that look like they were bought in India Bazaar, or the fact that Castle Dore is on the wrong side of Cornwall, or that James Franco is JUST WRONG.

And this time, despite (or perhaps because of) Sewell's beaux yeux, I could see a visible wince there in some of the nastier bits of, er, well, we'll call it dialogue.

And the tunnel. How moronic is that? You didn't NOTICE there was a big-ass tunnel in bottom of your BRAND NEW CASTLE?

Before Romeo and Juliet, there was -- a stupid pair of kids
Tristan and Isolde, that is. (Oh, sorry, the official title has a groovy ampersand, doesn't it?)

This film spends ages trying to sell us on the true lust love between the namesake characters, and fails to clinch the deal. This is partly because the overwhelming nature of the love between them is never properly portrayed -- as it is, it might just be a fleeting combination of hot bods and Florence Nightingale syndrome -- and partly because the rival in the triangle, King Marke, comes out as so much more interesting (and overwhelmingly hot) than the squishy Tristan that one can't help thinking that any woman who wouldn't choose him is an idiot.


"Is there anything I can do... to make you happier?"

They've dumped any hint of magic and mystery from the story; the magic potion is gone (even though I fully expected it after the revelation that Isolde is skilled in herb-lore).

Instead, Tristan becomes the ward of King Marke of Cornwall after an Irish raid kills his family. The Irish, despite seeming not much less ragtag than the Britons to look at, hold an unholy sway over the Picts, Angles and Saxons, demanding tribute and boating over at intervals to slice up the natives. (The Irish are visibly evil because they all look weaselly, as opposed to the Britons, who possess a really unfair number of longhaired and decorative young warriors. The British traitor is plainly marked by his similarly weaselly demeanour.)

King Marke is desperately trying to pull all the squabbling barons together to stand against the Hibernian threat, but every time he gets them all in one spot, the traitor mentioned above betrays the gathering, and the Irish boat over to wreck the party. (How this is accomplished, in the days before shortwave radio, is never fully explained, but it's only one of the anachronisms of the production.)

Tristan is his main champion (to the distress of Marke's sister's son, who feels slighted). When a bunch of Cornish women are captured by the Irish and taken off for Unspeakable Purposes, Tristan comes up with a brilliant(?) guerrilla plan to save them. In this insignificant little scuffle in the forest, he's wounded by Morholt, the vicious Irish champeen who poisons his blades, but he kills Morholt as well. Sadly, Morholt's anachronistic poison (ol' Morholt also chomps on yohimbine, to "make a hard man harder", speaking of temporal and geographical anomalies) causes Tristan to fall into a deathlike sleep, and his comrades send him off in a burning barge.

Fortunately, the waves (presumably) douse the flames, and ol' Tris gets washed up on the Irish shore, conveniently close to where the king's daughter Isolde is wandering, mourning over her fate (which is to be the carrot given to Morholt for services rendered).

She saves him (herb-lore) and through some sort of magical mental link, reads him John Donne (I thought at the time it sounded a little off, but didn't recognise it -- shame on me; I found out from another website. John Donne. Please. As if there weren't enough lovely ancient Irish lovesongs about in the heroic verses. Or something lusty in Latin. Preferably the original. Hah! Let's not go into the "reading" part. They both can read; how odd.) Then they shag in the little stone hut on the shore. Then Morholt is reported dead (as the ragged remains of the Irish force, contemptuously sent back to report by the Britons, return in a little shell of a boat). Isolde hastily packs Tristan off, in another little tiny boat (is Ireland really that easily accessible by water? I thought that was the reason it didn't get conquered by the roamin' Romans). Only omission? She hasn't told him her name, or who she is, because of the danger.

Back in Cornwall, nobody asks Tristan where he was, or how he came back from the dead, because he's Brooding and Mysterious (which Franco doesn't do very well) and they're just so happy to have him back (why? I don't know).

The Irish king, full of plottiness, decides, since Morholt is dead, that he'll get rid of his jade of a daughter some other way. Yes! He'll have a competition for all of that British lot, with the prize his daughter and a huuuge tract o' land, and they'll all come over and fight for her! But he'll fix the fight so that his good buddy the Traitor wins, and all will be lovely in the misted green hills.

On hearing of this, Tristan says he'll win his beloved foster father King Marke a bride, AND unite the warring countries. Good plan, says Marke, though being old and ugly (not really) and maimed (he lost a hand, saving Tristan, who doesn't, in my opinion, seem properly grateful) he fears that a young and lovely girl won't care for him.

And off goes Tristan. Isolde, sulking at being offered like a prize pig, veils her head when she sits over the lists, so he doesn't know her. She knows him, but figures he's there for her own sake. Tristan wins his way through the tournament by doughty deeds of arms; the weasel traitor wins because his fights are fixed -- and when they face each other, Tristan, despite being worn out from all the previous battles, cleans the traitor's clock. Moral: cheaters never win.

And Isolde hurtles down the stairs. "You won me!" "For another man," says Tristan, beginning a movie's worth of soggy petulance, as tears dampen his eyes.

He brings her back. Marke marries her, and falls crashingly in love, treating her with tender care. Despite that, and despite the fact that both she and Tristan know their duty in the whole mess, she's still creeping off to the ruins to get off with Mr. Pouty. Whatever. It ends with Isolde and Tristan dying, and Marke living happily ever after (though without a wife) so that was something.

Visually speaking, there's some nice Dark Ages scenery going on, nice round Celtic huts over in Ireland and wooden forts on the British side, and some splendid Irish hills, and I liked the early costumes, earthy Celtic dealies. King Marke, however, builds a somewhat anomalous stone castle, and we seem to slide gently about five centuries further on during those years, while the costumes also get kind of shaky. And there's the John Donne.

Verdict: it was entertaining in its way, but I'd have taken King Marke myself, and left Tristan to stew. And that shows a fundamental misunderstanding of the story on the part of writer and film-makers.

More meme-y goodness
What is this blog about, anyway? Right now, it's "randomness."

LAST MOVIE YOU SAW IN A THEATER:	Deepa Mehta's WATER
WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW:	Little Women, for the n-zillionth time
FAVORITE BOARD GAME:	Depends. If I'm alert, I like Scrabble; otherwise I like easy things such as Snakes & Ladders.
FAVORITE MAGAZINE:	I buy here and there as they catch my interest. Lately I've been reading The Walrus.
FAVORITE SMELLS:	Things baking. Sandalwood. Crushed green things, as I tear through the clutching foliage of deep summer.
COMFORT FOOD:	Cake, chocolate, something fast-food that someone brings home for me because I look tired.
FAVORITE SOUNDS:	Cats chirping. My dog grunting like a pig. A. singing the I'm So Wonewy song from Team America, or laughing wildly as he only occasionally does.
WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD:	Being the odd one out, and knowing you've been shunned.
WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING:	"Oh, argh. I am so tired, and today's workout SUCKS."
FAVORITE FAST FOOD PLACE:	I like the fish'n'chips place about fifteen minutes drive from my house.
FUTURE CHILD'S NAME:	"Published by ___ Books."
FINISH THIS STATEMENT: "IF I HAD A LOT OF MONEY, I WOULD":	Pay my debts and fix the f$@%ing roof.
DO YOU DRIVE FAST:	Yes, but Volvos look slower than they are.
DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL:	With two to four cats and a dog, there's barely room for me and the pillows, let alone a teddybear.
STORMS -- COOL OR SCARY:	I go out and DANCE in 'em!
WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR:	The first car that's really mine is the one I have now, Grishilde the Mighty Battle Maiden Volvo.
FAVORITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK:	Strongbow, certain single malts, a sweet sparkling Italian muscat wine called Amore, and Bailey's.
FINISH THIS STATEMENT,'IF I HAD THE TIME, I WOULD LOVE TO':	Do it all. Everything.
DO YOU EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI:	Yes. If you peel them before steaming, they're actually the best part. Only sometimes, they're all hollow and weird inside. That's when I don't eat them.
IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOR, WHAT WOULD YOU CHOOSE:	It's already been lots of colours. But I saw that L'Oreal, I think, has a new line of lurid purples out.
GLASS HALF-EMPTY OR FULL:	Depends what's in it. Do I like it?
HOW MANY CITIES/TOWNS HAVE YOU LIVED IN:	Heh. Technically, "one." I think where I am now counts -- everywhere else has either been a village, or unabashedly rural.
FAVORITE PLACE TO RELAX:	Surfing mindlessly right here.
FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH:	Can I read instead?
WHAT IS UNDER YOUR BED:	Dust rhinos, and, for some reason, a large collection of random shims.
TOILET PAPER/ PAPER TOWEL--OVER OR UNDER:	I truly do not care, nor do I see why some people consider this such an issue. As long as there's some within reach when I need it, I'm happy.
CREATE YOUR OWN! - or - GET PAID TO TAKE SURVEYS!

splogged by compass-rose at 8:28 PM EST

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Tis the season
We were always sort of secular about Christmas, but some things made it through. Cultural assumptions.

1. Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate?
Egg nog. No booze. I love egg nog flavoured anything, really, including ice cream and various baked goods.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
He wraps them. And fills an old sock tied to the foot of each of our beds.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?
Aesthetically, I prefer white. If they're coloured, there have to be LOTS of them.

I hate those blue LED lights that are all over the place now. The Gloom of the Season, cold and cheerless.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?
No. One year, when I decorated my house as part of a decorating tour for a work fundraiser, I did make a Kissing Ball and hang it in the front hall. I had to look everywhere for mistletoe, and when I found it, the berries had been replaced by plastic balls and the whole thing preserved in glycerine, so that it felt strange, limp and leathery.

5. When do you put your decorations up?
When I do, around the solstice. I hate having them hang about for weeks, and if there's a tree, it must be real. I haven't decorated anything for about three or four years, since my home became and remained a construction zone.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?
Stuffing. I like my mother's, which has raisins in it.

7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child?
Going to get a Christmas tree stomping through the woods with my older younger brother and my sister behind my father in his old black coat, with an axe and saw over his shoulder. That was a huge tree.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
I can't remember ever not knowing. That's what comes of being an early and omnivorous reader. It never particularly bothered me.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?
Now, we usually open a gift or two on the Solstice. As a child, no; everything on Christmas Day, after a special brunch that usually included my mother's Holiday Fluffy Buns (a kind of buttery overnight yeast roll).

10. What kind of cookies does Santa get set out for him?
We never did that.

11. Snow! Love it or Dread it?
I hate winter and everything about it, but if it has to do something, I'd rather snow than sleet or freezing rain.

12. Can you ice skate?
Not really. I broke my ankle as a child when a friend of mine decided to teach me by pushing me fast and telling me to "keep going" (I did, right into the boards of the arena) and since then, I've been a bit afraid of it. I can keep my feet and stagger along, but I can't really skate.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?
My ex gave me a food processor. Not only was it a great gift, it was the only thing from him that took my tastes and interests into account at all. I still have it and use it, although I had to replace the blade.

14. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you?
Happy kids. They're the only ones who wholeheartedly enjoy them.

15. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert?
I LIKE those bricklike supermarket fruitcakes with marzipan icing. I mean, really like them. But I love to bake. My favourite dessert is probably "whatever turned out best this year." Oh, and mincemeat. I love me a mincemeat tart.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?
I used to love those Christmas mornings as a kid. My parents still asleep; us sitting on our beds comparing stocking contents (and stuffing ourselves with stocking chocolate). Wired. When were they going to get up so we could open presents? (This, you must know, was shortly after dawn...) We'd wait and wait and wait -- peeking at the tree, looking at the packages. That big one -- was it for me? Or my brother? How many packages did we each have? We'd count them, without touching them.

Then my parents would get up. So late! (but much earlier than they usually got up; my parents have always believed in the fine tradition of sleeping in on weekends and holidays.) But they'd insist on breakfast before we could open presents. We were already wired on chocolate -- we were READY! NOW! But no, a nutritious breakfast must be consumed.

That was the best. Before the presents got opened, when every package was a box of possibility.

17. What tops your tree?
Different things. A garland of roses, once. A star handmade out of milkweed pods.

18. Which do you prefer -- Giving or Receiving?
Giving, I think, if I have the right gift. I hate buying things just because I HAVE to buy someone something, though.

19. What is your favorite Christmas Carol?
Something I can sing to. I like Good King Wenceslaus, and I like Walking in a Winter Wonderland (but more for the filthy lyrics improvised one year by me and a crew of theatre people I was hanging out with).

My favourite ever holiday song is Kate Bush's December Will Be Magic Again.

20. Candy Canes!
Yuck. I hate hard mint candies, and have a problem with mint in general.

Next year, then
"Initially a poet, Le Guin published her first novel at 37." An interview with her in The Guardian.

I didn't realise that. S'pose that means I'm just about ripe.

Dear coz, thank you for the kick in the ass. (heh.)

Musings in Dvorak
or, This Entry Took A Long Time To Write

So -- yes, I finished a book. I realised day before yesterday that I missed -- I didn't, quite, write the book I meant to write -- I wrote around it a bit. I got bits of it, but there's a lot I left out.

Hello, rewrites.

And after the pain this one junior-size book caused me, I thought it very likely that were I now to go off (as I would like to) and write lots more, my incipient carpal tunnel syndrome would kick in, and cripple me within the year.

Thus, when (in search of Rewrite Hints) I came upon this article about using the Dvorak keyboard, and its benefits, I decided to start, as it were, before I absolutely had to.

Oh! Hate! This is maddening! I'm stumbling along here and this is worse than Hunt and Peck, cos I almost know, but really don't -- halt, stagger, stutter...

I can feel, though, that it does make more sense -- even now, my fingers have less roaming to do, to say the same thing.

How long, though, before I "speak" easily and fluently again?

A. is reading my mess (so far called Name of the Blade, but that title doesn't quite fit). He says he likes it. I hope he's not just blowing smoke up my ass. I guess he can't see all the places where it went HORRIBLY, HORRIBLY WRONG!!! Heh.

I can't feel my hands...

*dies*

Pain! I love pain!
Ooooo-kay! Pass me that big hammer! Oo! Ow! That felt good!

I'm crazy, aren't I? O yes.

Never mind. Blame my cousin.