Brilliant work, as always. I am completely fascinated by how each subsection has its own tone and language. And the duality! Setting “War Paint” in a shower; the gift that’s a call that’s an inside joke that’s probably a paradox; the penance that’s not necessary but welcome, &c.
(“Gift” was somehow both sad and hopeful and romantic all at once. Whenever I watch that scene now I’m going to think of it.)
Now favourite parts: “Because she can.” <3
“A pen for when she’s sure. A pencil for when she’s not.” This! Such a great metaphor.
There is a meeting, a moment that she can’t yet place. It exists in her mind in several places at once, and therefore in none of them. When she feels out into the gaps it all dissolves or retreats or evaporates and she gropes in frustration like . . . Tantalus after water. She reaches instead for the strings and tugs. Ideas sweep around her in arcs, and the system responds, adjusts, returns to its balance even as it moves. It’s a physical discomfort, the moment she can’t place--all these spots that don’t fit catch and pull at the flow, and the eddies ruffle her, and disturb her calm. I love this. All of it. It is perfect. I am rambling. It is still perfect.
The see-saw is such a great description, I don’t even.
And this time she gives the smug free reign. Oh, she is good. You go, River, own your smug!
no subject
Ahem.
Brilliant work, as always. I am completely fascinated by how each subsection has its own tone and language. And the duality! Setting “War Paint” in a shower; the gift that’s a call that’s an inside joke that’s probably a paradox; the penance that’s not necessary but welcome, &c.
(“Gift” was somehow both sad and hopeful and romantic all at once. Whenever I watch that scene now I’m going to think of it.)
Now favourite parts:
“Because she can.” <3
“A pen for when she’s sure. A pencil for when she’s not.” This! Such a great metaphor.
There is a meeting, a moment that she can’t yet place. It exists in her mind in several places at once, and therefore in none of them. When she feels out into the gaps it all dissolves or retreats or evaporates and she gropes in frustration like . . . Tantalus after water. She reaches instead for the strings and tugs. Ideas sweep around her in arcs, and the system responds, adjusts, returns to its balance even as it moves. It’s a physical discomfort, the moment she can’t place--all these spots that don’t fit catch and pull at the flow, and the eddies ruffle her, and disturb her calm.
I love this. All of it. It is perfect. I am rambling. It is still perfect.
The see-saw is such a great description, I don’t even.
And this time she gives the smug free reign. Oh, she is good. You go, River, own your smug!