Vive “Versailles”!

Speaking of Charles II (see Diana), his Bourbon cousins, Louis and Phillippe, figure prominently in the latest period drama to have taken over Chez Ru and Ter: a rollicking, racy, extravagantly produced series about life in the Sun King’s court, aptly titled “Versailles”.

I spied the title in the Movie Channel listings one night in July and realized it was episode three of a series in its second season. Second season?? How had we missed the first? And was it worth watching in any case? Rather than risk being completely lost by watching episode three live, we discovered the first two episodes available on demand and promptly fell under its spell. Alas, season one was not listed, neither could we order it from Amazon (it shows on the European sites, but won’t ship to Canada).

I have no idea which of the angels prompted me, but I suddenly remembered that the Greater Victoria Public Library loans DVDs of everything from popular TV series (like NCIS) to obscure European productions, all for the price of nothing! I immediately got online and to my ecstatic delight, “Versailles - Season One” was not only in the catalogue, copies were available! I renewed my library card the same morning (the central branch is across the street from my office) and Ter and I were set for marathon viewing over the next few weekends.

We’re caught up as of this writing, with two episodes to go in Season Two. I can’t gush enough about this series. Seventeenth century royalty is an obsession of mine, but honestly, this show is so well written, acted, directed and produced (they film in the palace itself, among other French locations) that it deserves to be gushed about. I did spend a good part of the first few episodes trying to place the guy who plays Louis—Ter finally Googled him and discovered he’s the same actor who played Athelstan on “Vikings” (a waste of his talent, if you ask me)—and the fellow who portrays his younger brother, Phillippe ... okay, even if he wasn’t stunningly gorgeous, he’s brought that character to life in a way that history has failed to do. By reputation, “Monsieur”, as he was called in the day, was a mean, vindictive, cretinous little man, but in this series, he comes across as vulnerable and sympathetic, if not a complete fool in love. His relationship with his brother is alternately painful and magical, as are his affair with his lover, the incorrigible Chevalier de Lorraine (brilliantly played as a baroque David Lee Roth), and his marriage of political convenience to a German princess.

The main focus is on these relationships, as well as the usual court intrigue brought about by Louis’ decree to have all the nobles in France reside where he can see them. Ninety percent of the story is allegedly based on historic record, but these days, alternate history is as prevalent as alternate fact. I’m willing to forgo some things in favour of artistic license, but really, if the outrageous antics of Louis XIV’s dissolute and devil-worshipping court is halfway accurate, I’m more than a little peeved that my beloved Charles was criticized for not keeping on top of his gang in England at the same time.

He makes an appearance at the end of the first season, by the way. The actor wasn’t tall enough, his eyes were blue, and the voice was all wrong. You can’t play fast and loose with the image of my king and come out unscathed—but that’s my only issue with this fabulous, opulent, fascinating show. Series for which I fall this hard are generally cancelled after the first year. Best news of all: Season Three began filming in April 2017!

Nice Going, Einstein

How disappointing—and yet I don’t know if my disappointment is with the show or with myself, for not knowing better.

No, I knew better. Give a guy like David Lynch eighteen hours of airtime on premium cable and you’re a fool not to expect lengthy bouts of directorial self-indulgence ... but episode seven of the current Twin Peaks amounted to a solid hour of my life that I will never get back. Disturbing, art house imagery, discordant audio and no visible connection to the greater plot (which is pushing for coherence as it is) had Ter and me agreeing—reluctantly, on my part—to quit before we waste any more of our time. We are huge fans of the original series and anticipated the next one like a pair of little kids anticipating Christmas. I was prepared to allow for some alternate reality nonsense given the source, but last week’s offering was just-plain-stupid.

Truly disappointing.

On the other hand, the National Geographic channel’s showing of Genius—based on a book about the life of Albert Einstein—was, well, genius. I hoped it might be, as it starred Oscar winners and was produced by Imagine Entertainment (Ron Howard and Brian Grazer); a combo that rarely misses the mark. No disappointment here! Ten episodes of brilliantly written, expertly acted and perfectly produced television, most of which I could follow despite the science not being dumbed down for the casual observer. Geoffrey Rush was splendid as Einstein in his later years, as was Johnny Flynn as the physicist in his youth, but the character I felt most for was his first wife, Mileva, a scientist in her own right who was sacrificed by the time in which she lived. Bravely played by Samantha Colley, she was absolutely wrenching to watch.

The story alone is interesting enough, but could have been ruined in the wrong hands. The complexity of Einstein’s mind, his obsession with science and his inability to relate with his family, set against the rise of Nazi Germany and the US investigation into un-American activity, was laid out in gorgeous detail, right down to the spacey special effects used to aid us in seeing what he saw during his theoretical “a-ha” moments. The dialogue was intense (the physics jokes were actually funny) and the politics of war made a full colour backdrop for the drama of real life relationships. The science was integral, but not the star. Gads, the series surpassed my expectations by as much or more than Twin Peaks fell short.

Genius is in the eye of the beholder.

Retrograde

It’s a scientific fact that if you take your foot off the gas, you’ll lose momentum. The same applies if you cease to continue applying yourself to forward motion. To your home. To your job. To your relationships. To your physical, mental and/or spiritual health. It’s not all uphill, but ongoing effort is required.

Was it George Washington who said complacency is democracy’s greatest enemy? Somebody said it, and democracy is one thing. A large thing, granted, but the statement fits all to which we mortals aspire. I don’t mean to chide anyone for skipping a nightly prayer or a daily vitamin here; this isn’t a reprimand. It’s a theory.

My favourite villain at present is the bad guy in Sleepy Hollow. He’s a super-successful industry magnate who has recently gained immortality through nefarious means (he sold his soul to the Devil, then reneged on the deal by stealing the Philosopher’s Stone). During a dream sequence at the start of one episode, he pontificated on humanity’s need, nay desire, for a shepherd. He talked of our reluctance to apply ourselves to the labour of self-government, our abhorrence to think for ourselves, and our inherent propensity to take the easy route. That route, regrettably, leads to complacency. From there, society goes downhill pretty steadily. Eventually, we lose what others fought to preserve or achieve in hope of creating a better world for us—their children. Finally, when enough momentum has been lost, things like the US election and Brexit happen, and we all wake up in the 1950s.

Are we truly going backward? Have we allowed our society to regress beyond redemption? Do we really have to start over, to regain ground first broken for us then lost through our own negligence? Sure seems like it ... but maybe it’s a matter of perception.

Every once in a while (too often for my taste), the planet Mercury goes into retrograde. This happens when Mercury’s orbit, which is smaller and faster than Earth’s, takes it past us and into a spin that makes it appear as if the tiny planet is moving backward across our night sky. It messes with technology and communications (don’t ask me how) until Mercury catches up with us ... or we catch up to Mercury. Again, it’s a matter of perception.

And that’s my point. We may appear as if we’re moving backward, but in truth we continue to move forward. Even as hatred and avarice seem to be gaining strength, the majority who oppose these recessive traits are amassing to fight them. At the very least, we’re maintaining orbit, and in time, when enough collective energy gathers to push us ahead once more, we’ll come out of social retrograde.

In the meantime, maintain your cool. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Blame no one. Take responsibility. Work hard. Remember your divinity. Express gratitude. Breathe. Tell someone you love them. Be the change you want to see. Trust your heart. Let’s continue moving forward, wide awake and aware.

With love,

Viking Visdom

I admit, it’s harder to keep the faith when I’m hurting. This darned human experience sure gets in the way of my being a divine spark.

Thank the gotts for diversions like season five of Vikings. The character of Ragnar Lothbrok, played so hideously/beautifully by Travis Fimmell, continues to beguile. In almost every episode, he drops a line worthy of remembering not just because of his delivery, but because the words apply—seriously—to my own life.

Take the argument he got into with his grown son Ivar, for instance. Ivar is historically known as “Ivar the Boneless”. None of the saganistas knows for sure why, so the series’ writer has depicted the character as a cripple. He hauls himself around on his hands, dragging his useless legs behind him and fighting like all get out to be considered as normal as his well-formed brothers. The kid isn’t particularly likeable. He certainly isn’t a sympathetic character, not with that attitude.

Anyway, Ivar goes on a raiding voyage to England with his father and nearly dies in a shipwreck. He and Ragnar, along with the other survivors, end up trekking inland from the beach, and because of Ivar’s disability, he falls behind. Ragnar stays with him, but finally loses his patience and demands that the boy quit trying to be normal. “Let yourself be a cripple!” he says. Naturally (to me, anyway), Ivar loses his temper. They get into a fight, shouting into each other’s faces, the boy screaming that he can be normal. Ragnar screams back that he can’t be normal because he isn’t normal, and “only when you accept that, can you become great.”

Blink.

That line hit me as hard as Ragnar telling his sons in an earlier episode, “Don’t look behind you. That’s not where you are going.”

I embarked on this series because Ter was curious about it so I thought I’d go along in support. The first season was so awful that I have no idea why we came back for season two, but that was when things got interesting. I still consider it one of the funniest shows on TV—the scenes between Ragnar and King Ecbert of Wessex are truly priceless—but pearls are present if I listen closely ... and I maintain that Fimmell’s portrayal of Ragnar makes it all worthwhile. He has the best lines and he delivers them brilliantly. I can’t say I’ve learned everything about life from Vikings, but I’ve sure picked up a few gems to get me through my recent struggles.

Uff da!

King of Kings

It’s been years since I read a novel by Stephen King. His On Writing is a staple on my bookshelf, but despite his name perennially displayed in the New Releases section at the local bookstore, the last novel I read was Gerald’s Game in 1993, and even then, I did not finish it. Too scary.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I still believe The Stand is his best work. Cal Leandros even gives it an honourable mention in Roadkill!

The man doesn’t need a book release to get my attention, however. I have long admired him for his honesty and, in particular, his sense of humour. The guy’s a hoot.

Little did I know that he and George R.R. Martin have been friends for decades, since before GRRM struck gold with A Game of Thrones (the book, not the TV series). So imagine my delight on finding a video of the two old pals having an onstage conversation when Steve’s recent book tour brought him to New Mexico. The bulk of the talk was stuff I already knew, but I always appreciate hearing how the professionals operate. One of King’s genre policies is this: “Aim for terror. If you can’t reach terror, aim for horror. If horror eludes you, settle for the gross-out.”

The other thing he said that had me rolling on the floor was during an elaboration of a storyline. He mentioned a villain’s recent diagnosis of pancreatic cancer as motivation for a diabolical act and the audience gasped as one. He looked at them and scolded, “It’s written on page nine, for Chrissakes! Spoilers? Spoilers? There’s no such thing as a spoiler. You can’t ‘spoil’ a book; people read books to have an experience, so who cares?”

Or words to that effect.

He’s right. If he was wrong, I’d only read a book once. How else can I explain my passion for revisiting The Night Circus or GRRM’s series, or Station Eleven or the Cal Leandros novels; or for multiple viewings of Orphan Black or The Newsroom, for that matter? Knowing what happens ahead of time is clearly no deterrent. It’s the joy of reconnecting with beloved characters that brings me back time and again.

I recognize that some folks prefer the slow reveal. I admit, I prefer it myself, but knowing before I saw The Empire Strikes Back that Luke Skywalker’s dad was Darth Vader did not prevent me from paying to see the movie. If you really care, you won’t care. Stephen King certainly doesn’t.

Long live the King.

Idle Thoughts

One week off is not enough.

Hands up, everyone who’s surprised.

I doubted this would be news.

Truly, I am grateful to have had the time to be Ru. Though I didn’t get everything done that I wanted, everything I did I wanted to do.

I went back to Castasia. I finished the story about Lucius’s twin sister—I started it months ago, so it was good to wrap it up at last—and began another one about his youth, this one from his foster father’s POV and why he (Lucius) went into exile. Geez, this character is a goldmine; I could write Lucius stories forever and never run out of episodes. His influence is so powerful that he even owns the ones that aren’t about him!

I also embarked on a refresh of Orphan Black so I’m primed for season four (expected for my birthday)—no time for a marathon, but I got in a few episodes of season three. I remain an ardent fan of the series. It gets better and better.

And I finally watched the documentary about the late Amy Winehouse that won an Oscar last spring. I could have been a fan if she had been allowed to follow her bliss rather than her path—I had not known she started as a jazz singer before her career went supernova and she went the tragic way of many a broken child whose solace became her undoing. Her story, unfortunately, was the same as too many others—Billie Holliday, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain to name a few—but in a way it was worse for her because of the relentless media exposure. She wasn’t free to conquer her demons in private. She was forced to do it publicly, because that’s what the public demanded though her battle was deeply personal. As in “none of our business”, yet it became big business for the media. And how quickly the applause turned to derision! Get famous enough in this world and you’re doomed no matter how talented you are.

Her version of “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” is sublime.

Enjoy.

X Company

Over on channel 2, CBC is running the most X-ellent TV series, X Company, a spy story set in occupied France during World War II. It’s produced in part by the group behind Orphan Black, which is why I decided to give it a whirl when it debuted last year. I generally avoid war stories and, yes, this one is disturbing, but it’s so well done that I’m as worried about the Gestapo officer who’s hunting the heroes as I am about the genius kid who signed up for active duty but told his parents he’d got a desk job well away from the front.

Actually, I’m worried about everyone. That’s how I know it’s a good show. Every scene, every character, and every dire situation is expertly written, directed and played. The heroes don’t always win, and the villains aren’t always proud of their villainy. Sometimes the guy you think is a baddie turns out to be what he insists he is: young, scared and desperate, despite the uniform. But you don’t find that out until you’ve already shot him.

I doubt that the writers have invented anything worse than the crimes that were actually committed against the French people during the Nazi occupation. Or that are actually being committed against civilians in present day wartime—all that’s evolved since WWII is the power of our weaponry and the technological skill required to deploy it. It’s ironic that “the war to end all wars” didn’t. That particular conflict may have been resolved, but war itself has certainly not been stayed. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

This doesn’t stop my toes from curling during an episode of X Company. The discomfort here is psychological. I applaud it. I appreciate that the producers acknowledge my ability to perceive what’s happening without being walked through it step by gory step. In our desensitized world, it’s cheating to film severed limbs or acts of bestial cruelty. The suggestion of anything—good or bad—is far more powerful than graphic visuals. It takes greater skill, however, to ignite someone’s imagination and get the desired result than it does to lay it all out for them. There’s nothing lazy about X Company.

I wish I could have said the same about Game of Thrones.

A Patient Man

The first season of Vikings was hilariously painful, but once our hero, Farmer Ragnar, through a series of strategic manoeuvres, became King Ragnar, things got a little interesting. A new cast of characters in England (specifically Wessex) expanded the story in season two, and I have to admit, I kinda like the shifty King Ecbert because I cannot for the life of me figure out his game. In season three, the Vikings tried to take Paris, which brought in another band of individuals, mostly a pushy Frankish princess and a nutty Mercian queen, but through it all, Ragnar has maintained his magnetic mystique.

Four episodes into season four, and I’m hooked.

Is it possible for an actor to earn an Emmy by saying nothing? Travis Fimmell probably has fewer lines per episode than any other actor in the series, yet he owns every scene he’s in whether he speaks or not. He can simply sit and stare, and I’m enthralled. It’s not like he’s eye candy, either—he modelled when he was younger, but he’s matured into, well, a Viking. Age and scruffiness haven’t dimmed the wattage in his smile, though. When he flashes teeth, it’s like panning along the bench at a World Cup hockey game. The beauty in a Viking smile is unparalleled.

Let’s just forget that he’s actually Australian.

The annoying characters have remained so, alas, but Ragnar’s enigmatic methods have appeased my frustration with them. Floki the Nutcase, for instance, has bugged the h*** out of me for three seasons, but crossed Ragnar last year by making a deluded gaffe and has paid dearly for it—to the point where he may have been driven sane (not a typo) while awaiting the killing blow that hasn’t come yet.

Then there’s Princess “My Father Was A Gott” Aslaug, who replaced Lagertha as Ragnar’s wife in season two—why, I still can’t fathom because Lagertha kicks serious butt and I may just have answered my own question. In any case, Aslaug has also crossed Ragnar and is paying the consequence. The honeymoon is definitely over.

Firstborn son has grown up and is fighting to prove worthy of Dad’s affection. First wife now rules over a neighbouring community but I think she’s still in love with Ragnar so we’ll see where that leads, especially since he’s become so disenchanted with Aslaug. Older brother Rollo, whose jealousy of Ragnar is eclipsed only by his idiocy in trying more than once to overthrow him, is stranded in Paris and being wooed by the local aristocracy in hope of keeping the barbarian horde from crashing the city gates. I’m pretty sure he’ll oblige them just to piss off his little brother.

And through it all, Ragnar watches in patient solitude, listening, assessing, planning and swiftly executing. He’s a complicated man, seldom lovable, sometimes infuriating, always entertaining.

And he has the best lines. Last week’s episode had him speaking directly to the camera:

“I am constantly torn between killing myself, or everyone around me.”

I - love - this - guy!

Those 70s Shows

Nostalgia has figured prominently in my life of late. Apparently I am old enough to have nostalgia, which is in itself alarming, but on the other hand, it’s provided some great entertainment. Ter and I have done some serious bonding over the music we loved in our formative years, i.e., before we met, and at Coffee on the Wall last week, the conversation somehow found its way into the same decade: the 1970s. And here’s where I learned something that I’ve always known about my wee sister:

She loved police shows. Boy Sister gave us a list of the cop/detective series that were hip in the 70s (more than I’d imagined), and wee sis said she watched most of them. More than I did, for sure. I recall watching reruns of Emergency! with her after school, so perhaps it’s not so strange that her significant other happens to be a paramedic. Funnily enough, when BS asked us what our favourite 70s show was, without hesitation, we both said “Starsky & Hutch!”

“Do you want to borrow the DVDs?” I asked her. “I have the first two seasons.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I dunno, they’ll be pretty cheesy nowadays.”

She’s right, of course. Cheesy doesn’t begin to describe the hokey plots and ham acting that seemed so hip back in the day … though Starsky’s Torino is still pretty darned cool.

The sitcoms of the time seem less dated. Maybe humour is timeless? Sure, the costumes and sets are hideously pea green and polyester, and we get as much laughter out of the hair and makeup as we do the dialogue, but it’s less painful to sit through an episode of M*A*S*H  or Mary Tyler Moore as it is an episode of, well, any of the dramatic fare. Granted, some of the humour then was as blatantly stupid as much of the humour now, but laughter is truly ageless.

Rolling further back in time, the local TV station runs back-to-back episodes of Star Trek on Tuesday nights. Talk about cheeseball, but it’s the original series with the original crew, and that makes it mandatory viewing on “Trek Tuesday”. I look forward to it for the humour as much William Shatner’s wiggle—and I don’t necessarily mean the humour in the script. In the right mood, Ter and I can crack ourselves up during the show, turning a TV classic from drama to comedy with a single well-crafted quip.

We do the same thing with modern-day shows as well, though truth be told, we’re hard-pressed to find much worth watching. Give me the good old days—ironically, the days when folks in their mid-fifties lamented the lack of anything worth watching, deeming it all too crude or controversial.

Time really does move in circles.

GRRM

I’m a third of the way through A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This means I’ve read the first of the three stories about Ser Duncan the Tall and his squire, Egg, and am about to embark on the second tale of their adventures—but first, I had to run for The World of Ice and Fire to read up on the politics of the time. The Targaryen kings still ruled Westeros and since a bunch of royals showed up at the tourney in The Hedge Knight, I was compelled to study up and get the names straight.

It’s hard to keep track of so many similarly sounding names (Aemon, Aegon, Aerion, Daemon, Daeron, etc.), hence my determination to get the characters straight. GRRM has said that he’d been told writers should not use names that begin with the same letter more than once in a story, which he felt restricted any cast of characters to a maximum of twenty-six. He added something along the lines of his readers being smart enough to tell their Targaryens apart. Not to mention English royal history, where Williams, Edwards, Richards and Henrys appear in nearly every generation. So he cheerfully uses names more than once, and mixes it up with derivatives of those names until you practically need a map to tell who’s who.

I’m having a ball.

Not only are the Dunk and Egg stories built on solid ground, they flow from one scene to the next, they carry the reader with ease, the imagery is bright and the voices clearly heard, and best of all, they stay with you when you’re not reading. That’s why I consulted the Westerosi Bible to get a better grip on the historic players—book in hand or book elsewhere, in some part of my psyche, I am there.

What a joy to be reminded of why I am a fan. Twenty years ago, the cover art on a paperback copy of A Game of Thrones caught my eye. I fell into the first pages while standing in the bookshop. I devoured the book itself, reading faster and faster, revelling in the writing as much as in the plot. Glorious, glorious, every page was thick and juicy and alive with colour and sound and texture. Sure, I thought it would look fab on film … but just because you can doesn’t mean you should. Season Five has taught me so. Unfortunately, I let my dismay with the TV series weaken my perception of the creator.

Dunk and Egg have reminded me of something vitally important.

GRRM is a masterful writer.

A Song of Ice and Fire was as inspiring to me as The Vampire Chronicles. Even as I read the first volume all those years ago, I was thinking, Could I write something like this? Did I dare to try?

You bet I did.

It started with a book. The written word. One writer speaking to one reader, one page at a time. And that is how I mean for it to stay.

Bibliography XI

“A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms” – George R.R. Martin

Live from Westeros!

I’m done with the TV series, but a book about Westeros is always welcome. Last Christmas, it was The World of Ice and Fire, which also won my award for “Pretentious Coffee Table Book of the Year”. A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms houses the stories of Ser Duncan the Tall and his squire, Egg, which take place well ahead of A Song of Ice and Fire. I read the first one in an anthology some years ago and loved it. GRRM has written more, obviously, and I think I read a second Dunk-and-Egg tale in another anthology, so when I heard that our heroes were getting their own collection in one cover, I was on it … but I did not tell Ter about it and it was soon forgotten in a landslide of other priorities.

As a writer, I completely understand the concept of spinoff. It differs from a series in that the serial storyline is broken. Create a world for one set of characters and eventually, if it’s done right, a host of other inhabitants will clamour to have their stories told. When (if) the original project gets out of hand, you can still enjoy being there by focusing on lesser known people or a different period in that world’s history. As a reader, I admit to being somewhat disappointed when a side project pops out, especially if I’m waiting for the next volume in a larger series, and I don’t usually invest in side projects. I guess I see them as indulgences for the author. I certainly write them as such, with no eye to anything other than completing a work for the sheer fun of it. Calling on familiar characters in a familiar environment helps with the “fun” part.

Writing a series is hard work. I can imagine that the success of GoT has catapulted GRRM into a bit of a quandary, too. Maybe he doesn’t want to finish the novels. Maybe it’s no fun anymore. Maybe he’s afraid to disappoint or fall short or be unduly influenced by what happens next on the TV series. In his position, I would check all of the above. Evidence of distraction/avoidance is everywhere, most notably in the absence of the sixth novel.

Or, in my own personal case, the seventh.

At any rate, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms will entertain and inspire me, and serve as a reminder of why I first became a fan. GRRM was a darn good writer before the galactic hoopla happened. My hope is that his standards remain something to which someone like me can aspire.

De-Throned

Warning:

·         spoiler alert

·         content may be unsuitable for some readers

Proceed at your own peril.

I’ve done something I thought I would never, ever do.

I’ve cancelled my pre-order for Game of Thrones 2015.

It’s a small comfort to note that GRRM had a severely reduced role in the production of season five, and the plotlines veered wildly from those in the books, so I can say this without betraying my loyalty to the original storyteller. Season five was absolutely no fun to watch. It was unnecessarily graphic in the sex and violence department—a constant through the first four seasons, come to that—but I have simply run out of excuses to defend the series. Almost every episode had me wondering why I was tuning in when most of what I got was pornographic, misogynistic, borderline criminal crap.

I have a pretty high tolerance for sex, and I understand that we as a society have grown so numb that more extreme visuals are required to engage an audience when it comes to blood and gore. I hate it, but I get it. I myself prize clever dialogue over vivid pictures. The banter between Tyrion and Varys was gold, but also like gold, those few nuggets were buried so deep in the dirt as to have taken up perhaps ten minutes of ten hours. Instead, we were treated to more of Ramsay Snow—a man whom we already know is a sadist, so must we be continually reminded of it with ever increasing enthusiasm? Of course Sansa was in for a rape on her wedding night—we didn’t have to hear it while it happened. Also featured was the burning at the stake of a child, and it was not enough for the producers to suggest it was happening; no, we had to hear the girl screaming for her mother until the flames were pretty well extinguished. Oh, and then there was the public humiliation of Cersei, whose walk of shame was indeed written into the books (Sansa’s rape and Shireen’s fiery death were not) but which lasted on paper for as long as it took to read. On film, they dragged it out for a longer eternity to me than it was for the character.

Painful.

Brutally painful.

And the final insult? The series won best drama at the Emmys this year.

Mortifying.

So, now what do I do? I have yet to cancel HBO—The Knick resumes this month and yep, I’m hooked—but the reason why I signed up in the first place has gone sour. The first season was awesome (except for the obligatory gratuitous sex), the second slightly less so, the third perfectly awful for the torturing of Theon Greyjoy, the fourth started to stray from the books and the fifth, well, the fifth isn’t coming to my DVD collection any time soon. In fact, I may unload the second, third and fourth seasons if I can find a taker. My office buddy teases that I’ll be unable to resist season six in the spring, but I wouldn’t put money on that one.

I’ll just wait for GRRM to publish the next book.

The Three-Ring Night Circus

Falling so in love with The Night Circus means that it deserves to be a hardcover addition to my library. I dropped the hint for my birthday in 2014 and no one picked it up. Then I forgot about it until Christmas, when I re-read the paperback. I dropped the hardcover hint again and, again, no one picked it up. I suspect this was because my presents had already been procured. I got some neat books in lieu and forgot once more about TNC in hardcover.

Earlier this year, I searched online and discovered that new hardcovers no longer exist. Used ones, however, are available from various sellers in various conditions for various prices. I didn’t order one because online options can be boggling and I still have my paperback. A hardcover is a nice to have, but certainly not mandatory.

My tea fairy, Treena, usually coordinates her birthday/Christmas prezzie shopping with Ter; they compare notes and such to ensure that no duplications occur. Only this year, they didn’t consult on my birthday until it was too late. Each of them had remembered my request, and each of them had gone ahead on the assumption that the other would never think of it. Once they consulted, they realized that, uh oh, a duplication was in progress. Ter’s had already arrived when Treena came by for tea—a celebration which included my acquiring season three of Orphan Black, thanks to Treena, who shares my hope that one day Ter will become equally addicted to the series and we can all be addicts together. Ter certainly knows the series’ premise, well enough to coin a clone joke when referring to the duplicate prezzie gaffe. She and Treena decided to give me both “clones” of the gift and let me choose which one to keep.

Meanwhile, bearing in mind that I had no idea what they were up to, I quietly decided to pursue my own hardcover edition of TNC. There’s a great used bookshop on SSI called Black Sheep Books, and if there was a hardcover edition to be had, surely it would be had there. Ter dropped me after lunch one day and I went over the store from floor to ceiling in search of my treasure.

No luck.

No luck at Salt Spring Books, either—though I did score a copy of Plague by CC Humphreys (murder and mayhem in Restoration England).

When we got home, Treena’s clone had arrived, so she and Ter contrived to present me with two wrapped packages on Sunday afternoon. I was a little concerned about them being wrapped. Since they were the same item, where was the element of surprise on the second package? Oh, the thing about clones, I was reminded, is that they aren’t exactly identical.

True enough. The book pictured on the right is the North American release, courtesy of Ter, and the book on the left is the UK release, by way of Treena. They’re each so beautiful that I’m keeping them both.

And I’m keeping the books, too.

Smell the Roses

It’s the first day of vacation and I can’t slow down. My mind chatters like a runaway train: what to do first? Dust? Bake? Walk? I can almost hear it panting in my ear, a juiced-up puppy eager to bust loose.

Why is it that I feel pressed to do everything—even play—all at once? Granted, a jet moving at speed on an extended flight needs time to slow down once its wheels touch the tarmac. A sudden stop would flip it end over end, and I’d rather avoid a face-plant on my first day off.

Breathe, Ru.

PBS began a rerun of Wolf Hall, last week. Two episodes, back to back. I read the book by Hilary Mantel and wanted to see what Masterpiece made of it.

For most of the first episode, I was dying, the pace was so ponderous. It helped that I know the characters—told from the perspective of Thomas Cromwell, it’s the oft-told tale of his rise in the court of Henry VIII at the time of the King’s Great Matter. A darned good story worth retelling, else I may have packed it in at thirty minutes. I’m glad that I stayed with it, though, because after thirty-five minutes, it got interesting. By the end of the second episode, Ter and I were sold and looking forward to the next installment.

She guessed why: we had to slow down, ourselves. Once we did that, we could pay proper attention and the story came alive.

A friend once told us that he could teach anyone to juggle. “All you need is to stick with it for more than three minutes,” he said. Three minutes being the critical period required to catch and keep someone’s attention.

Are you kidding me? Three minutes? That’s all?

Apparently, it is. I am guilty of impatience if F***book takes too long to load, if more than two people are ahead of me in the checkout line, if I land at an intersection as the light turns red and I have to wait through the whole sequence.

I have two weeks to live life at my own speed. Right now, I’m on “world speed”. If I take three minutes to be still and silent, it’s almost guaranteed that my natural rhythm will kick in and suddenly I’ll believe what is true:

I have all the time I need.

I must use some of it to stop and smell the roses.

A Literary Feast

Since the Flyers didn’t make the playoffs, HBO has given me a reason to live through the next two months: season 5 of Game of Thrones premieres tonight at 8:00 p.m. Hats and horns! I hear rumours that the plot diverts from the novels this year, which it pretty well must, as the fifth book was published in 2011, the show has been roaring along, and the sixth book is still pending. I’ve also heard that GRRM has stepped away from the TV series to focus more intently on getting the darned novel done, and has blessed the show’s producers to take the story where they will.

Ter and I are planning our annual Thrones feast for the first episode. This year it’s honeyed chicken and buttered veggies, with frozen blueberries with sweet cream for afters. The recipes are taken from A Feast of Ice and Fire, a way cool book even if you don’t cook because it features quotes from the written series. The cookbook’s authors – foodies and chefs themselves – pored through the first four volumes (Dance with Dragons hadn’t been published yet) in search of meal descriptions and set out to create “real” versions of the fantasy food. Turned out that much of the fare in GRRM’s books has reasonable facsimiles in history, so the cookbook includes both the historical and modernized versions of each recipe. Lazy bum that I am, I find many of the modern versions too labour intensive, so the sweet cream for the blueberries is actually a medieval custard known as crème batard, or “bastard cream”, which is ironic considering that it’s a dish served at the Wall, where Ned Stark’s illegitimate son is in residence.

Okay, this post may be too specific for a non-Thrones reader. To recap, one of my favourite shows, based on my favourite work of one of my favourite authors, resumes tonight and I am there. Oh, and the Wall I mentioned? In the novels, it stands seven hundred feet tall, built of ice and snow to keep the terrors of the northern wilds at bay (a fantasy version of Hadrian’s Wall), but believe it or not, there is also a Wall here in Victoria. It stands about seven inches tall and is made of brick. It’s where I have coffee with my wee sister and my boy sister every week; last Thursday, the wee ’un emailed BS and me: “I might be a bit late today; can I just meet you guys at the Wall?”

The Cone of Silence

A Get Smart fan might have been disappointed after seeing Don Adams and the shoephone in my “KAOS or Control” piece, last week. Despite posting the pic and using the acronym in place of the actual word chaos, I made no reference to the iconic 60s TV series. That kinda sucked. So here’s a true story based on one of the more memorable gadgets featured in the show:

It’s the late 1990s. I’m working as part of a superior administrative team headed up by the present Mistress of the Manse who, in her professional life, is affectionately referred to as “Ms. Wormwood”, after the tyrannical schoolteacher in the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip. Our group works hard, but there are days when I suffer from glass butt syndrome and can’t sit still. Worse, I wander the cubical canal and chat over the walls at my colleagues, until Ms. W. is forced to employ drastic measures.

“Ms. Greig,” she says from her desk, “the Cone of Silence is descending!”

Duly chastised, I skulk back to my cube and resume squirming. On some days, once warned is enough. Today, not so much. I am consistently called back beneath the Cone because I apparently have less interest in earning my pay than in aimless chirping. After how many episodes, and figuring that a more severe consequence is required, Ms. Wormwood rises from her desk, stalks along the aisle, and growls into my ear:

“Ms. Greig, the Cone of Silence is about to become the Cone of Isolation!”

I am tempted to point out that, in the series, the Cone of Silence never actually worked, but in this instance, it’s safer to scamper. Ms. Wormwood is infinitely scarier than the Chief of CONTROL.

We still laugh about that episode.

Where 'Ere You Find It

Downton Abbey, series 4, episode 8: Lady Edith Crawley laments to her grandmother, “Sometimes I think God doesn’t want me to be happy.” To which the Dowager Countess of Grantham replies with something along the lines of, “Life is full of challenges. One is resolved, then another … and another … and … and why don’t you fetch us some ice cream?”

I confess, I often want to smack Lady Edith. Ter admonishes me to be more forgiving and to consider the time in which the Crawleys live. Edith is clearly a misfit in Edwardian society, a culture where a woman’s worth is based on how good a marriage she makes. She’s a misfit in her own family, as well—the homely middle daughter outshone by her beautiful older sister (who is mean as a junkyard dog with her) and eclipsed by her charismatic younger sister (who, unfortunately, died in season 3). She may also be the smartest of the three, the one who strikes out on her own to write a weekly newspaper column and even—gasp!—has a fling with a married man, but because every “normal” move she makes blows up in her face, she is an object of pity and self-loathing. Playing by society’s rules hasn’t worked for her, so, naturally, she is a sullen, self-pitying presence in the drawing room and is surely justified in suspecting that God is out to get her.

She couldn’t be more wrong.

God, by whichever name applies, wants everyone to be happy. God, however, is not responsible for whether or not we are happy. That’s our part of the bargain. And while life is designed to push us beyond our comfort zone, it also provides for joy. Even in our darkest moments, joy can be found. It doesn’t have to last long; just enough to help us forget our moment of misery and emerge a little bit stronger for having had the break.

Sometimes I think that the more we have, the more we expect from happiness—and the less likely we are to get it, because happiness is a soul thing and we seek it through our egos. Don’t get me wrong, I love “stuff”. I love coloured pencils and hardcover books and shiny earrings and fast cars and cool shoes, and who doesn’t love chocolate??? but acquiring stuff is like eating too much sugar: it only whets your appetite and leaves you sick and unsatisfied.

Joy is found in experience rather than stuff. Hearing a child’s laughter. Holding a warm mug of tea in your cold hands. Listening to the ocean’s heartbeat. Watching the Flyers even if they’re losing the &*^%ing game. Thinking fondly of someone you love. Trusting that the someone will sense that thought and feel better for it.

Knowing that you, too, are loved.

Rather than smacking her, now I wish Lady Edith would bust out and tip the world on its ear. If she does, however, her life won’t get any easier. She may not be any happier, either. But if she chooses to look for it, she will find joy.

And so will you.

With love,

My Daily Tea

Coffee drinkers may not comprehend this, but tea is as much a ritual as a habit. It either defines or complements the moment. It’s something to be savoured, if not treasured, and if it doesn’t taste good, there’s no point to it. Even the vessel can be specific to the blend. Today, a writing Friday, I would normally use my tea tumbler; however, I bought a new flavour yesterday and it wants to be steeped in my glass pot, then sipped from a little tiny cup. It’ll take up more room on my desk, but when tea speaks, I listen.

This one is called Ginger Pear and is the Tea of the Month at David’s. White tea with ginger, pear, cinnamon, vanilla, apples, rosehips and a few other boosters—how can it go wrong? White tea is a delicate thing, though, hence its desire to be sipped from a daintier vessel than my clunky chunky tumbler. Being new to my collection, it hasn’t been assigned a character yet … but in a way, it sorta kinda has.

My first thought this morning was to start a piece called “The End”. The vision was so strong that it was like a movie playing in my head. I got all excited to hit the computer and let the magic happen … and then my mind turned me toward all the unfinished projects, listing each by name and suggesting that I at least attempt to complete one of them sometime before the Second Coming and certainly before I start yet another story.

Sigh.

Actually, I’m in a good spot with each of the unfinished stories; I could pick up any one of them and do something worthwhile. That said, my other plan for today was to have a Newsroom marathon if HBO would oblige with the last three episodes of the second season. I watched the same three episodes twice last week, so surely the final trio would be scheduled for today.

Nope. No joy. Rats.

Hey, wait a sec. Shouldn’t I be happy about having a whole day in which to write? When I remembered that, I got pumped up again—and a little confused about what to write. My stupid schoolmarm mind has judged me guilty of neglect, but I’ve decided to go ahead with “The End” because it was the first thing on tap when I was still half-dreaming and every guru Ter has read agrees that the first thought of the day is the most important one, the real one, the one that will set the tone and be the most successful if you surrender to it.

So, Ginger Pear has just been assigned to Cassandra Stannard. She’s serial novel material, so I’d better get enough GP in stock before it’s discontinued …

Gracepoint-By-the-Sea

How strange to see Victoria dressed up and masquerading as “America’s Last Hometown”. 

The “television series event” called Gracepoint started its run last week and I’m pretty sure that every TV in town was tuned to channel 8 for that hour. Gracepoint, y’see, was filmed in Victoria and area earlier this year. Based on the UK miniseries Broadchurch, the US version also stars David Tennant, this time sans British accent, and anyone who remembers Twin Peaks will experience a similar sense of déjà vu regarding the story. A smalltown murder victim is discovered on the beach—but who did it? I haven’t seen Broadchurch and I don’t know David Tennant except as my tea fairy Treena’s time-travelling crush from Dr Who, but hey, I saw the film crews setting up across the road from my house. How could I not watch the series?

What an odd feeling. Truly, I was so distracted by Oak Bay Avenue pretending to be Gracepoint’s main street that I missed all the dialogue in the opening scene. Then there’s the beach where the body was found—right below the cliffs where I indulge in the occasional Sunday morning flânerie. Ter and I guessed at Island View Road and maybe Beaver Lake Park, and the waterfront in Sidney figured more prominently than anywhere else as the cop shop was set up in a vacant retail space at the marina.

The GP police crest is still stenciled on the glass doors. I dunno if the series is a one-off or aiming to be picked up (Twin Peaks made the mistake of going fulltime in the 1990s), and I’m not usually so giddy about six degree brushes with fame, but while on Ter’s birthday trip to Sidney, I just had to take this picture. Thank God I don’t have an i-Phone, as a selfie might have been in order.

Gushing notwithstanding, by the end of the first episode, aside from wondering if the interior shots were also filmed locally—the former Blethering Place tearoom, for instance, plays a hotel lobby/lounge—I was absorbed enough by the plot to forget for a moment that while living in the Canadian city of Victoria, British Columbia, I also live in Gracepoint, in Oak County, California, in the good old continental USA.

Does this qualify me for dual citzenship?