SERIOUS clothes envy. And legs envy. And don’t get me started on the bone structure, Jesus god.
It’s the reason I loved writing aboutLt. Thrace
so much, and eventually fell in love with her without ever identifying
with her: That was her story. She painted the sky. She wrote the
Starbuck story, starring Starbuck. She came back from Heaven unbroken,
and brought us all home. And she did that by being braver than we can
imagine, in ways we barely knew about sometimes, and in ways that
usually looked more crazy than not, because she knew the Underworld and
learned to speak the language of birds. Shit happened to her that
wasn’t her fault, and I’m not saying otherwise. Shit happens to
everybody. Unbelievably awful shit happens to us on the reg. But once
it happens, it’syours. Different rules for before and after, because you’re not the one to blame.
I’ve been reading The Sparrow again, the parts about Catholicism (see: me, doing religion like I do everything else) and the parts about the spiritual purpose of remaining unmarried in the priesthood, to love beyond loneliness, so that they are all yours, everyone you see. So that they’re all God. So that you don’t limit your concern to just those that share your blood. So that you didn’t have the excuse of “not mine” to not give a shit. I’m not saying that’s the only way to do things, I’m also not saying it’s not pretty and poetic justification for power, I’m saying that’s not something you should have to force yourself to think. Our fate is your fate. I am thinking of having that tattooed on me somewhere. Seriously.
If the Cylon isn’t Zoe, and if Zoe isn’t yours, you can rip its arm off. You can tell it to destroy itself and it will. People do, all the time. If the Cylon is Zoe, and Zoe is yours … if Zoe is everybody’s … well, then we’re all living John Lennon’s dream, aren’t we? Who’s your family? Everybody. Who’s your people? Everybody. Where is your home, your place where you are something, where you belong? Everywhere. Limitless love is terrifying. When fundie whackjobs call family the building blocks of society, what they really mean is that we’ve got to break it off in pieces, to make it easier to chew, or else we’d choke, we’d go crazy, trying to take it all in.
So, this week. A lot of setup. Daniel Graystone just keeps getting more beautiful and more fucked. He’s got the things that are his: the team, the house, the company. Amanda, a little, though her crazy ass seems to be the only part of his life that isn’t tied up in his narcissistic nonsense. He’s got all this stuff that’s his, and the only thing somebody can do to you after you build a fortress around yourself is lay a fucking siege. The first thing you do after you get your castle is start digging a moat because the invading armies are coming. Did he truly never consider that as fast as it’s all come, it could all go again?
I honestly don’t know if I’m rooting for Tomas Vergis or not, here. He’s clearly in the right. (He’s also hot; I have a thing for three piece suits, and at this point I’d like to live for a week in the head of this show’s costume designer.) Taurons are all about the obligation, the debt to be paid, the loyalty due, the marks you get to make on your skin to tell others who you are and what you carry with you and what they owe you for that. I dig that about them, but I can see where it fucks them up.
I like that Philomon gets himself up for his big date like a leisure-suit swinger and Zoe’s kitted out for the sock hop, basically. Other Bodies, Our Selves. Being a teenager is like having a million costumes; you try them all on until you find one that fits.
Someone needs to do some kind of Behind the Music or InTouch confessional-style interview with Serge Graystone. It can’t be easy living robot life looking like an upright sperm, letting freaky people in at all hours to get ripped with Amanda and fondle the other household robots right in front of you.