Tag Archives: writing

GoT Recap, S8 Ep1: Dragons

 

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“I can show you the world…”

Roughly 595 days ago, I posted the Game of Thrones Season 7 finale recap, thinking we would never see the end of this series due to a Trump-related nuclear fallout, a George R. R. Martin-type setback, or simply death by anticipation — but we made it, friend-ohs. Seems like we should be rewarded for our never-ending patience with a brand new opening sequence. Reward granted!

Thoughts on the new opening sequence: ALL THE YESES. I love the upgrade, how they’re going deep into the interior of things (I think the Winterfell crypt is important this season), and that they’re tracking the undead army by turning white tiles into blue ones. Genius. Read more about what the production studio has in store for the credits here.

This first episode was one of reunions and revelations. The pace wasn’t as lightning fast as last season was — at least it didn’t feel like we were sprinting, merely trotting along with purpose — but I’ll be happier once the episodes go feature length, starting in Episode 3.

The first scenes, we saw the Unsullied, Dothraki, and two fully-grown dragons plus all the human throne hopefuls marching into Winterfell. Within 30 minutes, there was a Jon-Bran reunion, Jon-Arya, Tyrion-Sansa, Euron-Cersei, Bronn-Qyburn, and Yara-Theon. Shocking no one, Dany and Sansa are high school frenemies now. Bran is still pretty Bran, though more talkative than usual (from three words per episode to like…seven). Sansa and her ex-husband, the Imp, have an outdoor tete-a-tete. Qyburn tasks Bronn with revenge-murdering Tyrion for Cersei. Yara clocks Theon after he rescues her but they make up, Iron Islands-style. What is dead may never die.

Euron and Cersei predictably get it on because he’s the most arrogant man in the world and some women like that kind of thing. Especially when their other partner is a tender-hearted sibling who abandoned them to fight the undead. Also totally normal: Saying “I wanted those elephants” post-coitus while drinking red wine in a terrible wig.

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Heads of Mettle

It’s been a minute since I’ve been on this thing called “Blog” and I’ve sort of missed it, in the same harmless way I miss radio even though I primarily listen to Spotify now. This is somewhat ironic since I’m volunteering twice a week for local-to-global radio station, KEXP, and listening to more radio playlists than ever, albeit from inside the booth.

I recently wrote a guest post for the Faces of Fortitude blog and forgot to post it, so here it is for your reading pleasure, if “pleasure” for you includes tales of depression and suicide. True to form, it’s not all Debbie Downer because if I can’t laugh at myself, I’ll surely drown in my own fiery, fist-sized tears. I got some fairly dramatic messages after it went live; people will make stuff about them no matter what the topic, but the joke’s on them because I invented that move. Most of the messages were supportive and reminded me I have great people in my life, something that’s helpful during the inevitable low points of this biological adventure.  

Faces of Fortitude began as what I would describe as a self-healing heart project for Mariangela Abeo, a powerhouse friend I met around five years ago. Initially, I was just glad she’d found a creative outlet for the pain surrounding her brothers’ suicide and her own attempt in high school. But then the project spread, as heart projects do when it creates a space for others to be seen, to be heard, to heal; and now it’s on a trajectory that aims to help as many people as possible. I love watching friends step into their power and make big strides in the direction of their dreams. It seems like so many are doing that around me right now and I can’t help but be inspired by it*.

 

 

 

*Doing scary shit I can’t say out loud yet because of the aforementioned scary part

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Kick The Shit Out of Life

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Maria Semple, total badass & Yours Truly, lipstick-wearer

“Maria Semple has a total boner for your writing.” So said Katty, far and away the best part of the writing workshop we finished last month. Tom Skerritt was a fellow classmate, too, because my life is just a series of What The Fuck moments held together by carbs and decorative washi tape from the dollar store. I want to say meeting Katty was nice, a word that describes nothing and leads to other nothing-words like interesting or cool, but really, it was a relief. There is so much weight lifted when you meet a kindred spirit, someone you don’t have to be anyone else but yourself around, loudly and without apology; someone who gets your language and likes making fun of the same people. Our friendship was forged rather quickly — a satirical shotgun marriage, if you will, pregnant with a friendship baby who likes yelling fuck over various dessert items. She is a curly-haired, barely-contained East Coast tornado, which works since I’m a West Coast weather system trapped in a supermodel’s body.

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Proof of Evolution

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Current mood

We are 286 days into a world on actual fire, and I’m eating pho like it’s the secret antidote. Pho is the steaming security blanket to my current dystopian nightmares; the carbohydrate cure-all for my wintry blues; the delicious, healing constant in a world ravaged by political fuckboys and predatory weather. Eating pho is an aggressive act of self care for me; a chance to administer much-needed soup CPR. Over Vietnamese iced coffee and spicy noodle soup, I talk, brood, listen, heal, think, breathe, and just get right. No matter what state of mind I go in, I always come out better, and ready for whatever comes next.

Given our current political climate and the built-in anxiety, it’s no surprise I’ve eaten approximately 96,000 bowls of pho in the past 10 months (give or take a few bowls). Watching the world burn down around you can have that effect. Pho is the place I remember there are good things in the world while also bracing myself for it.

My first bowl of pho was not a transcendent experience. One of my best friends, Auticia, took me to a Than Brothers in Ballard, where I eyed the plate of garnishes meanly and the plate of cream puffs with confusion. Who ate these things together? There was sriracha on the table, and a giant squeeze bottle of dark mystery goo — all of which would be dumped into a bowl of broth with rice noodles, then paired with basil, bean sprouts, lime, and jalapeno. If the sriracha and jalapeno weren’t enough, there was an ominous jar of what looked like the jam equivalent of a fire alarm on the table. Why not pour gasoline directly into your mouth and then toss in a lit match? At the time, I didn’t even use black pepper because it was kinda spicy, you guys. The whole flavor mash-up was a bridge too far for this zero-star, plain-eating Queen of Mayonnaise.

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The Roaring Twenties

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When I was nine, I couldn’t wait to be in my twenties and all the question marks that entailed. At that point, most of my ideas around being an adult came from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Adventures in Babysitting. People did real-life things in their twenties, like had boyfriends and jobs and cars and stayed up way past 8pm. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but I knew I wanted to get there fast. Freedom of choice, late nights, making memories, finding trouble; I couldn’t wait for the future adventures of awesome adult me.

In my thirties, I referenced my twenties like they lived next door. I’d start a story with “A few years’ back…” and later realize it had been ten. I had my first real ma’am in my thirties, where a pimply-faced worker bee scanned my face for way too long before deciding I was old enough to be ma’am-ed. I considered slashing his tires to prove how young and dumb I was, but I wasn’t that young and dumb, so I didn’t. I worried about 40 for the first time and I guess being somebody in what was now a shrinking time frame. Girls at parties said, “Oh my god, I didn’t know you were [whatever age], I thought you were [a much younger age]!” It flattered and annoyed me, these plucky young women who thought 38 was ancient and 25 was some kind of prize. I wouldn’t do 25 again, not for a lifetime supply of cheese. Was age even really that important?

In my forties, I started wondering out loud if age was really that important, and was met with mostly silence and eyerolls. I talked about my twenties with part-awe (how am I still alive after so many bad choices?? oh, me!) and part-wistfulness (remember when I could wear heels?) for all the things I thought would happen but never actually did. No older French lovers, no artist retreats, no picking up at a moment’s notice to travel the world and have adventures or explore the countryside, wherever that was. I never did – not once –  ayahuasca in the jungle with Tom Robbins or some other literary giant. None of these things happened because 1) I’m not a blond chick in a movie and 2) I was too busy barely surviving. I was broke and also broken, or at least in the process of breaking, and not for the first time. I bumbled my way through that decade, making lovely people cringe and simple things harder, never knowing what direction to go in. So far, this is what I remember most about my twenties.

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