omglost!!!

I have been trying all day to come up with coherent things to say about LOST.

I keep ending up with OMGLOST!!!

And then I check the time to see how many hours are left until the S6 premiere. (Just under five & counting.)

We finished our epic re-watch over the weekend. Five seasons in just about two months. LOST really does benefit from being watched in quick succession, rather than being drawn out week-to-week. You remember more, for one thing, even though there were still points when the boy and I couldn’t recall details from episodes we’d watched a week or two before. It’s just so epic. It’s hard to believe this is the beginning of the end.

I love this show to pieces. I just do. I could go on about the acting or the writing or the mythology but I’m beyond explaining it without flailing like a fangirl. As much as I’d like to post something thoughtful or meaningful, OMGLOST!!! pretty much covers it.

So I have my numbers shirt on and I’m making Pina Coladas later and I greatly regret that I only just saw this Dharma brand party pack. Might have to pick that up for the finale.

And y’all have probably seen these around the wilds of the internet already, but I love them so you can see them here again: LOST posters by Ty Mattson. I think this one is my favorite, but it’s so hard to choose.

Lost-Poster-07

flax-golden tales: letters & measures

lettersandmeasures

letters & measures

When they finally got inside the house, everything was in jars and nothing was labeled. Though it is difficult to say whether or not labels would have been any help. What does one label a jar full of rulers? The jar is clear glass, the contents are as plain as day. Would a label really bring all that much clarity as to why, precisely, those rulers were put in that particular jar?

Thousands of jars, meticulously organized in an indeterminable, label-less system. It must have taken years.

Those charged with dividing the contents were at a loss.

After much debate, it seemed easier to leave things in their respective jars.

Everything in its proper place.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

iWednesday

I spent a large portion of the afternoon mesmerized by the shininess of the Apple iPad. Even though it has a horrible, horrible name. For about an hour I seriously considered getting one, since we were planning on replacing our MacBook later this year anyway and we don’t use it for that much. And it seemed like it would be a good happy medium between my iPhone lust and my AT&T loathing.

And then I realized since it’s app-based I can’t really do anything useful on it and would be deprived of my beloved Scrivener. So I am going to have to ignore the shiny for now. Someone call me when it runs OS X.

In better news, I tested USPS requested package pickup today and it seems to have worked just fine, so I now have an alternative to walking to the post office in the snow when I have something larger than print envelope sized to mail.

And we are rolling toward the end of our epic LOST re-watch. Season 5 is a lot more, um, inconsistent than I’d remembered. Still good, just missing something. But I know the finale will make me cry again, so maybe I’ll forgive the inconsistencies in a few days.

Still in revisionland, of course. I’m not sure I’m going to have a finished(ish) draft by as early in February as I’d wanted, but it’s starting to look novel-shaped again, which is something. It still needs massive amounts of work but the structure is getting there and that’s making my brain hurt marginally less.

Bucket, as always, remains unimpressed.

unimpressed bucket 2010

flax-golden tales: swinging in snow

swinging in snow

swinging in snow

The school has been closed for years. They say that they’re going to turn it into condos eventually but there’s always one thing or another holding that up.

The playground is still there. It’s closed, but all of the equipment was left trapped in the concrete. The jungle gym. The line of swings.

Last night I walked by on my way home from work, just past sunset when everything was getting dim despite the winter white.

And as I passed by the swings they started to sway, deliberately, one by one along the line until they were all swinging, back and forth.

Chains squeaking in the snow-quiet as invisible children swung ever higher.

It would have been frightening if it hadn’t looked like such fun.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

monday miscellany

  • As an addendum to the Fluevog-o-rama post, the boy would like me to mention that he does not have two pairs of vogs, he has three. I forgot about his shiny dress shoes with the diamond pattern that Googling has not helped me find a link or name of the style. They’re shiny, though. I should talk him into letting me do a photo retrospective of his shoes, too.
  • We finished re-watching Season 4 of LOST today. The entire finale is kind of brilliant. I still love Frank. They need to make a movie out of The Hunger Games soon because Tania Raymonde needs to be Katniss. I’m excited to re-watch S5. Also, my crush on Michael Emerson is pure & true & knows no bounds.
  • I’m still in revisionland, which mostly consists of writing down snatches of new scenes in a notebook while breaking down my previous draft in Scrivener. It’s a mess right now, but the new version is starting to have shape, so that’s something.
  • I’m weirdly obsessed with antlers lately, have I mentioned that? I recently got this necklace and I rather love it. I’ve been favorite-ing actual vintage antlers on Etsy, too, but people keep buying them before I get a chance to mull over where I might put them. (I do have one random antler hanging out on one of the bookshelves in the studio already.)
  • I don’t think I’m going to be able to catch the A.R.T.’s production of Gatz, unfortunately, but I’m loving getting bits of The Great Gatsby via @ARTGatz on Twitter. It’s making me want to re-read the book, which I haven’t read since high school.

flax-golden tales: objects in space

objects in space

objects in space

Only the objects remain. A forgotten suitcase. An empty chair.

Waiting for new stories to add to their old ones.

The old stories are gone. Slipped away through time and space. Replaced with price tags and rarely removed dust.

But you can hear them, if you listen quietly enough.

Stories are never truly gone. They just become more difficult to hear.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.