IT’S 2AM AND I’M LAUGHING WAY TOO LOUD HELP
the meanderings of one josh belville
GAME OF THRONES SPOILERS, TALKING ABOUT FUCKED UP SHIT, BE WARNED.
The worst thing about the Jaime/Cersei debacle is the fact that the director apparently believed he filmed a consensual sex scene that he could be proud of. Rape culture: when a scene in which a woman is shown resisting, saying no and fighting back can be called consensual sex by the male director.
This is actually a legit question I asked myself after watching that scene — did they film it with the idea that she was consenting? Or “kind of” consenting? Or that she liked it but didn’t like it because of the circumstances? Regardless, terrible choice, both for the obvious reason and also because what the fuck, I was just getting to like Jaime, and he certainly hasn’t, up until this point, been the kind of person who would do such a thing. Eugh. AND also because her consenting actually impacts the scene more; now it’s just a shoddy, poorly structured rape scene, rather than a continuation of the fucked up Jaime/Cersei relationship. If that makes any sense. It cheapens their relationship.
Sometimes I wonder if 10 episodes is enough to tell this story.
Also, I wouldn’t take too much stock on Nikolaj’s response to the scene. Acting is a weird profession, one where characters do horrible things and the actors playing them have to try to not treat their characters as villains. He’s just trying to justify why Jaime did what he did (as an actor justifying a character’s behavior). It’s not really his fault he was given a terrible scene to enact. There might have been pushback during the table read but they probably didn’t have the time to think about rewriting it. TV can suck in that regard.
Anyway, someone should be interviewing the writers, and George Martin especially, I mean, of all the people who should be responding to a terrible alteration of his book, it should be him.
I write poetry. Sometimes. Over there.
you found the answer in antlers,
two bright beaming sticks of bone
born into the winter
and arcing toward the frigid
brilliant blue heaven.
you wore your hats like hearts,
each one a fluttering ventricle
pushing viscous sludge blood
blending with the life force,
the potent battle plasma,
sat atop your balding head
collecting heat for icy nights.
at some point i caused the avalanche
by finding that point in your heart
where you hide love like a smuggled
drug, i found that point and placed
my finger in the hole and dug, dug,
clawing at the point, until your love
popped and poured your life force
onto the hardwood floor, and i thought
about drinking it, lapping it up,
i’d cup it in my hands and splash it against my face
and bathe myself in it
and ask it questions
and ask you questions
and watch it seep into the hardwood floor
and settle inside the grain
and wonder if it was settling in the pores of my skin
and check my face in the mirror
close, close, the beard stubble, the cracked, dry lips,
but no redness, only the color of white flesh,
no remaining love
i bathed myself in it
but it stuck to the ground
and i slept on the floor with it under me
i tried for all the fucking osmosis
stuck my face to the ground
pressed my ear against the lacquered grace
of the hardwood floor,
listening for the secret of how it sucked up that love
and kept it.
i felt the stinging breeze of an early spring morning,
the nettles of ancient icicles floating in the wind.
a yawn, collecting air, a cup of olive-colored green tea
spiked with with work of honeybees, the work of cows,
the work of women in factories.
i took a sip and allowed my tongue to accept the hint of bitterness
silence perforated by the lamentations of my cat
meowing for attention.
a hesitant sip of bitter tea,
it’s cold now, all sweetness
sucked through the tendrils of heat
escaping into the room.
fighting the impending sense of being
swallowed by the universe, the pinprick
of life, an empty vessel aloft in the ocean,
a scream never heard,
a longing glance at the phone,
the sudden realization that i am a well off
white man worrying about dying alone
in the white-walled confines of my empty bedroom,
the fans of my behemoth computer whirring
until they shut the power off,
my cat, fearful and hungry, gnawing politely on my face,
the lingering stench of my decaying corpse
picked up by the oscillation of the fan
and wafted into the house
like a warning beacon to my roommates.
no foul play, no intentional distress,
just dead and alone.
or alone and dead.
or just dead.
mourned yet ultimately forgotten
like the golden leaf
falling gracefully from the tree,
caught in currents of air
caught in a million students’ photos
i just worry about it, that’s all.
when she steps up to my door
in her form fitting red dress
that reaches just above her knees,
the sheen of her lotion-polished tanned shins,
pedicured feet snug in highish heels
which she practiced walking in all morning,
when she steps up to my door
i can’t describe the phonemes
that will attempt a brutish escape
from the confines of my tooth-infested mouth
to form a pitiable assembly of words
in a desperate plan
to collect and cocoon the
bare fundamental concepts of
love, lust, passion, sex,
the light brush of a lover’s fingertips
against the hairs on the back
of your neck, the moment of silence
when you’re both reading the newspaper
in the misty autumn morning—
to trap this caterpillar within
its own cocoon and let it bake
into something better,
something with substance,
something with a viscosity slow enough
to trap mosquitoes for eons
between a soft amber sheen.
when she steps up to my door
i want the beat of my heart
to match the beat of her heart,
for her fingers to interlace with mine,
for our kiss to be awkward,
we bump our teeth together and laugh,
we talk about the harshness
of the light outside the diner,
table festooned with cheeseburgers
and fries, her in her red dress
and me in my button down sky blue shirt and dark pants,
we are the color in this wash of grayscale.
when she steps up to my door,
i want her to want to come inside.
|Coworker:||This Obamacare stuff is bullshit! What if you don't have a job?|
|Me:||I'm sure there are options for people who are unemployed.|
|CW:||Well, my husband [who has a job that doesn't offer health insurance] was looking at the Cover Oregon website, and the lowest option they have is $150 a month.|
|Me:||Yikes, that is a lot.|
|CW:||And I can't put him on our insurance plan here because that would be expensive too, it's like $190 a month.|
|Me:||... which is split between the both of you.|
|CW:||Yeah but that's a lot to take out of my paycheck.|
|Me:||.... It's $95 for each of you.|
|(she texts her husband)|
|CW:||Damn you and your math skills.|
Here’s a thing that guys do online that bugs the shit out of me.
So a lady posts a picture of herself online. It can be whatever. Just a normal photo, or maybe a selfie, or maybe a photo post-arson, I don’t know. But in the background there’s a Thing. And it’s a Thing that’s not totally obvious but not totally unobvious either. Like, for example, a open bag of chips. And instead of just clicking Like on the photo or commenting with a “Hey you look cute!” or “Nice dress,” some dumbass has to be like LOOK AT THOSE CHIPS IN THE BACKGROUND as some kind of awkward way to try and initiate conversation.
I mean, maybe women do this too but I don’t think I’ve seen it.
Anyway, it’s not a huge deal, it’s just really annoying. Stop focusing on shit in the background, dudes!
Dear internet, this is how you gently and thoughtfully change people’s minds. No shaming, no yelling, just a nice nudge to, “Aha!”
I will aspire to use classy same tone next time I try to educate someone about something!