Fun.

[whatho]

First time I need to restore from draft it doesn't give me the option. Well, fine.

Random statements before I forget.

I loved that a crazy Scottish man called Desmond lives in the hatch. I loved even more that the hatch turned out not to be a quarantine zone...the rest of the world is in quarantine. Hatchworld is fine. I love Locke more than anything. He thought he was Him. Sniffle. And he's just Mr Box of Better Boxes. I ADORED the camp music that came on at all the most dramatic moments. I even liked something that Kate did, namely eating chocolate in times of peril.

Don't kids look scary when they're pouring with saltwater?

And I think they ought to stop loading the dialogue with clunky exposition right now. That would really make me happy.

I go to bed now.

Comments

[aldenmacrae.livejournal.com]

OH I AM SO GLAD YOU GET TO START SEASON 2!

~cough~ Pardon me; I shouted. But seriously, so happy!

~sings~ ...you've gotta maaaaaake your own kind of muuuusic,
Siiiiiing your own special soooong,
Maaaaaaake your own kind of muuusic,
Even if nobody else sings aloooooooooong!

I adore the silly music (apparently it is Mama Cass)! And the retro exercise bike Desmond uses; the whole hatch was totally furnished from late-1960s savings stamp albums. ♥

Also Locke's rope-tying skills are impressive, yet they also smack of bondage-interests, which worries me as far as Locke is concerned. Because... well. I do not love him that way.

P.S. Walt is a big freak. He should dry off, I think.

[whatho.livejournal.com]

Yay! I was thinking of you every time I squeed a little at Locke. I had not thought of bondage. I shall endeavour to keep not thinking of bondage.

PS. Also Walt should speak up. Whispering irritates me.

[overlycautious.livejournal.com]

I've hated Kate ever since I read that Evangeline Lilly prayed to God to make her ugly when she was younger because she hated being sooooo beautiful.. :\

[whatho.livejournal.com]

Oh...ick! I might pray that she gets boils.

[tiniago.livejournal.com]

The nice thing about when people you like like things you don't like is that it reconciles you somewhat to the existence of aforesaid disliked things.

That is all. I smile upon you benignly.

[whatho.livejournal.com]

Look at you, with your benign smiles of JUDGEMENT. I make hatch-related noises of SCORN in your general direction.

I like seagulls too. I assume the rest of the world dislikes seagulls because they make offensive noises and steal chips. I think they're like pirates slightly. Do you like seagulls? I ask this very benignly.

[tiniago.livejournal.com]

I LOVE seagulls. So very much. They screech and fly about and make a fuss and make roofs white and look beautiful. You needn't fear I'll be benign about your love for THEM, no sirree.

[tiniago.livejournal.com]

Ooh! Pablo Neruda loves them too. In exactly the perfect way. Sometimes I worry people will think I am plagiarising what he thinks wrt seagulls because it is SO EXACTLY TRUE:

Ode to the Seagull
To the seagull
above
the pinewoods
of the coast,
on the wind
the sibilant
syllable of my ode.

Sail along
in my verse,
shining boat,
banner with two wings,
body of silver,
lift up
your emblem across
the shirt
of the cold firmament,
O sky-sailor,
smooth
serenade of flight,
arrow of snow, calm
ship in the transparent storm,
you raise your equilibrium
while
the hoarse wind sweeps
the meadows of the sky.

After your long journey,
feathered magnolia,
triangle that the air
holds up into the heights,
slowly you come back
to your form
closing
your silver garment,
ovaling your brilliant treasure,
becoming once again
a white bud of flight,
round
seed,
egg of beauty.

Another poet
at this point
would end
his triumphant ode.
I cannot
allow myself
just
the white luxury
of the useless foam.
Forgive me,
seagull,
I am
a poet
of reality,
a photographer of the sky.
You eat,
eat,
eat,
there's
nothing you don't devour,
over the water of the bay
you bark
like a poor man's dog,
you run
after the last
scrap
of fish guts,
you peck
at your white sisters,
you steal
the despicable prize,
the crumbling heap
of oceanic garbage,
you scout for
rotten tomoatoes,
the discarded
refuse of the cove.
But
you transform
alll of it
into pure wing,
white geometry,
the ecstatic line of your flight.

That's why,
snowy anchor,
sky-sailor,
I celebrate you as a whole:
with your overwhelming voraciousness,
with your screech in the rain
or your rest
like a snowflake detached
from the storm,
with your peace or your flight,
seagull,
I consecrate to you
my earthly words,
a clumsy attempt at flight,
to see
if you will scatter
your birdseed in my ode.