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there is no crime greater than slap-dash narrative construction
Tuesday, 27 May 2008 08:56 amGah. Weird dreams last night, with frequent alarmed wake-ups in the mistaken belief I should have been somewhere doing something. Quite what, history does not relate. Part of it involved a very odd wedding, my own, in which I was dashing around in an elderly car trying to pick up my turquoise satin wedding dress, while rootling under the bonnet at intervals.
In the Department of Minor Triumphs and Gratifying My Mother, I am pleased to relate that my credit card debt is currently sitting at at total of 0.00. *dances quick and triumphant cha-cha on recumbent financial corpse*. I feel proud, relieved, obscurely lighter, and horribly unable to think of a good reason why I shouldn't go out and buy not only Torchwood but the boxed set of the entire 5-season run of Alias in celebration. I really never got this financial planning thing.
I have to say, the finale of Alias left me underwhelmed. While there was a certain poetic justice to the fate of the wretched Arvin Sloane (I never liked him), the absolute and predictable JJAbramsesque failure to explain all the weird Rambaldi artefact stuff was somewhat annoying. Why the hell should the floaty ball of water and the red and gold spherical net thingy be necessary to activate immortality? What about the weird bottle amulet doohickey? Why is page 47? On the upside, I'm enjoying constructing alternative endings which might actually have pulled some of the threads together. Current favourite: Sloane actually is Rambaldi, immortal but plagued with memory loss, and on a quest to reconstruct his own works and discover himself by means of carefully-planted clues. The McGuffin is not immortality, but time travel, which is really the only way of justifying all the prescient stuff. And, naturally, Sidney Bristow is Sloane's daughter, and her genetic material is necessary to restore his memory.
Sid is lurking, stomping around and surveying the inside of my skull with preparatory demolitiary glee, like jo&stv's builders. Occasionally the dull ache from his hobnailed boots rises sharply as he taps things with hammers or runs a heat-gun along my cheekbones. Upon which I hit him, hard, with Advil.
In the Department of Minor Triumphs and Gratifying My Mother, I am pleased to relate that my credit card debt is currently sitting at at total of 0.00. *dances quick and triumphant cha-cha on recumbent financial corpse*. I feel proud, relieved, obscurely lighter, and horribly unable to think of a good reason why I shouldn't go out and buy not only Torchwood but the boxed set of the entire 5-season run of Alias in celebration. I really never got this financial planning thing.
I have to say, the finale of Alias left me underwhelmed. While there was a certain poetic justice to the fate of the wretched Arvin Sloane (I never liked him), the absolute and predictable JJAbramsesque failure to explain all the weird Rambaldi artefact stuff was somewhat annoying. Why the hell should the floaty ball of water and the red and gold spherical net thingy be necessary to activate immortality? What about the weird bottle amulet doohickey? Why is page 47? On the upside, I'm enjoying constructing alternative endings which might actually have pulled some of the threads together. Current favourite: Sloane actually is Rambaldi, immortal but plagued with memory loss, and on a quest to reconstruct his own works and discover himself by means of carefully-planted clues. The McGuffin is not immortality, but time travel, which is really the only way of justifying all the prescient stuff. And, naturally, Sidney Bristow is Sloane's daughter, and her genetic material is necessary to restore his memory.
Sid is lurking, stomping around and surveying the inside of my skull with preparatory demolitiary glee, like jo&stv's builders. Occasionally the dull ache from his hobnailed boots rises sharply as he taps things with hammers or runs a heat-gun along my cheekbones. Upon which I hit him, hard, with Advil.
