On AvatarMASSIVE SPOILER ALERT!
Maybe I'm late to the party on this one, but I'm finally watching Avatar. We can tell it's going to be Something by the fact that there are three discs in the box, and three different cuts of the movie. (Some would call this indecisive). The fact that I'm writing a review of it as I watch it speaks volumes.
So, we're in a futuristic society. That's made pretty plain. I can't remember exactly what it was, but there was some stock 'look, this is the future and yet surprisingly relevant to us today' device early on in the film. It's a society that doesn't take care of its veterans its Marines end up wheelchair-bound, beating the crap out of people in shoddy bars. A comment on current-day America's treatment of its veterans, perhaps? Really? How imaginative.
And, oh look! Even more evidence that society does not care for its own Tommy or Butch or whatever-stock-ex-Marine-name our hero has is told his brother is dead. His brother's corpse i
Alive - And Living Under...I was working as a postman. It was my first day on the job. I'd never been a postman in my life. I'd never even had a job. I don't know how I got there, but suddenly, there I was, delivering letters to a neat row of houses. They were ordinary, middle-class houses - it was an ordinary, middle-class road in Surrey - except for the life-boat ramp that went down to the sea between number twenty-four and twenty-six. Every house was pebble-dashed, painted white or cream, with red or green paint on the windowsills, door, drainpipes, garage.
And now I was here, with a bunch of letters in each hand, trying to match the addresses on the envelopes with the numbers of the houses. Rain was spitting down gently from a grey sky, leaving spatters of water on the paper, making the inked addresses run. I didn't know how I was going to post them. And they were all waiting for their post. I bunched together a group of letters - all addressed to Mrs Eliza Barnett - and strode purposefully down the nearest
Language of LoveIf email had been invented
I would send you a thousand messages,
Each one longer than the last.
I would listen to the dial-up song
Chirruping my love.
If texts had been invented,
I would pick up my mobile phone
And (studying the keys for a while)
Press out 'I <3 U'
And hope I had the credit to send.
If binary had been invented
I would send you, laboriously,
01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101
And let you examine the positives and negatives,
And hope (and hope) to be understood.
But in these dark days of ignorance and bliss,
Without Morse or Marconi standing by,
No flags or drums to flicker my words,
I will say I love you
And be content.
StarTrek: KS ValentineVignette
'Happy Valentine's day, Spock.'
Spock cocked an eyebrow, looking quizzical.
'What logic is there in St Valentine's Day?' he asked. 'If one loves, surely one loves all the year round. One does not need a special day to prove it.'
Kirk smiled wryly, producing a wrapped parcel from behind his back. A single red rose lay on top of the dark paper.
'Then I guess this is illogical?' he asked with a sliver of regret in his voice.
Spock's gaze became introspective as he picked up the long-stemmed rose between his fingers, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
'My mother grew these in her sheltered garden on Vulcan,' he said, caressing the petals softly with one fingertip. 'I remember my father presenting her with one on the morning of February 14th, once '
He looked up, a shade seeming to drop across his eyes.
'That was long ago,' he said, dismissing the memory from his mind.
He took the parcel from Kirk's outstretched hand and unwrapped the
On Seeing Sunlight...It was a square of sunlight,
luminescent through the cotton fabric
bringing the leaves on the curtains to life.
It was a raft to catch hold of
an ephemeral thing,
a wafer of hope
ready to dissolve, sweetly,
on the pillow of my tongue.
It was a small word spoken
spring, spring, susurrating in the air.
A promise of things to come.
Of SnowDihydrogen monoxide (when cold)
is a slow and steady thing.
A six-fold miracle,
hiding cruelty (hiding grace)
in microscopic smallness,
only realised as we watch it coalesce
to melt on a tongue, warm with life,
to shroud the grass and the roofs and the roads,
to pillow the pocked and fretted earth,
and make it smooth again.
To cover the eyelids of the dead,
indiscriminate as dust.