I’m not going to lie, BBC period dramas are like crack for me. I just can’t get enough of the complicated (if sometimes formulaic) plots, the decadent costumes, dashing actors and lovely actresses all playing their part in a usually slow dance of insinuation and misunderstanding. It always works. 100% of the time.
There is so much to love, and often many layers which are only discovered on repeat viewings. Conversations are littered with double entendre, manners muddle the waters between men and women and shock and scandal are the topics of choice over tea and crumpets. The women are clever and compassionate,
and the men have that indescribable “it” factor which make these films famous in the first place.
They truly do transport you to a place where witty retorts are bandied back and forth and a sidelong glance can turn the plot up on its head.
But in a day and age where we are surrounded by the obvious, I enjoy the innuendo and suffering from afar. In a time where no one holds the door for anyone, let alone offer up their seat, it’s fascinating to watch the complicated rules that everyone abided by “back in the day.”
The plots may seem dense at times, but they touch basic truths of living. Death and birth, loss and love. When I watch Maryanne’s heart break I feel that emotion very deep down, because I’ve experienced it before.
When I see the misunderstandings and miscommunications between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy or Margaret and Mr. Thornton, I relate because I too have misjudged people.
And yes, the men are dreamy.
But all jokes aside, there is another element which I love: The happy ending. No matter what convoluted plot twists the writers come up with, you know the characters will end up with who they should be with. And in a world where broken hearts and relationships are all too common, sometimes it’s nice to rest safely in the knowledge that things will all work out as they should.
Love, love, love You’re a whore You’re a whore You’re a whore Love, love, love, love 'Cause we bruise you and abuse you But time after time You take us back And kiss us hard on the mouth
Love, love, love You’re a whore You’re a whore You’re a whore Love, love, love, love 'Cause we cheat you and mistreat you And beat you and bruise you And use you and abuse you And cruise you and lose you But time after time You take us back into your bed and Kiss us Harder Hard on the mouth Kiss us harder Harder Hard on the mouth Kiss us hard, ha, hard, ha, harder on the mouth
Kiss us hard on the mouth Yeah, yeah, yeah Kiss us hard on the mouth You who-oh-ore Kiss us hard on the mouth Yeah, yeah, yeah
We do no want merely to see beauty, though God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words - to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. That is why we have peopled air and earth and water with gods and goddesses and nymphs and elves that, though we cannot, yet these projections can, enjoy in themselves that beauty, grace , and power of which Nature is the image. That is why the poets tell us such lovely falsehoods. They talk as if the west wind could really sweep into a human soul; but it can’t. They tells us that “beauty born of murmuring sound” will pass into a human face; but it won’t. Or not yet. For if we take the imagery of Scripture seriously, if we believe that God will one day GIVE us the Morning Star and cause us to PUT ON the splendor of the sun, then we may surmise that both the ancient myths and the modern poetry, so false as history, maybe be very near the truth as prophecy. At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendors we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.
Things aren’t all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsay able than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.
ready to throw into the air for… the days you wake up without your alarm clock.the smiles you get from strangers.when your shampoo is on sale.hitting every single green light.when you see your Love.your favorite song coming on the radio.when you get mail.when you get hugs from your family. when you’re with your best friends. … and especiallywhen you realize you are exactly where you need to be,doing exactly what you need to be doing. (you are. i promise. it’s all part of His plan.) my only question is: why isn’t confetti always raining from the skies? …we’ve got a lot of reasons to celebrate. via littleremindersoflove
“You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander. We build this place with the sand of memories; these castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible. So part of us believes that when the tide starts coming in, we won’t really have lost anything, because actually only a symbol of it was there in the sand. Another part of us thinks we’ll figure out a way to divert the ocean. This is what separates artists from ordinary people: the belief, deep in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won’t wash them away. I think this is a wonderful kind of person to be.” — Anne Lamott (Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life)
What then kills love? Only this: Neglect. Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things. Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you. To choose you out of habit not desire, to pass the flower seller without a thought. To leave the dishes unwashed, the bed unmade, to ignore you in the mornings, make use of you at night. To crave another while pecking your cheek. To say your name without hearing it, to assume it is mine to call.
I can’t stand to see your eyes when they’re aiming at the floor, But the worst is knowing I’m the reason for your bitter heart. And with my head in my hands, I’m thinking of the things I’ve done so wrong Though it’s what I deserve, never take the melody from my song.
'Cause you're a lullaby playing through the tragedy That I listen for to brighten up the dark That’s been romancing and keeping us asleep
So now the quiet came around, found a soul muted deeper than its own And all his luggage piled in the room, he knows he’s gonna have to stay for a while And with my feet on the ground, I wonder how I’m gonna escape from the flood Though it’s what I deserve, I never want to have to decide to give up
'Cause you're a lullaby playing through the tragedy That I listen for to brighten up the dark That’s been romancing and keeping us asleep While everything is wandering away from our reality
Hello, darlings! I just had to share this amazing passage with you:
"Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, God damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled - a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, God damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick…
Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so God damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you.”
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
I’ve made mistakes. Smalland cruel. I made my plans.I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like childrenbefore they turn four. Like being held in the armsof my brother. The slow dance of siblings.Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,and when he turns to dip meor I step on his foot because we are both leading,I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.The slow dance of what’s to comeand the slow dance of insomniapouring across the floor like bath water.When the woman I’m sleeping withstands naked in the bathroom,brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spitinto the sink. There is no one to save usbecause there is no need to be saved.I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowedthe front yard. When the stranger wearing a sheer white dresscovered in a million beadscomes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,I take her hand in mine. I spin her outand bring her in. This is the almond grovein the dark slow dance.It is what we should be doing right now. Scrappingfor joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance.
As often-times the too resplendent sun Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won A single ballad from the nightingale, So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail, And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
And as at dawn across the level mead On wings impetuous some wind will come, And with its too harsh kisses break the reed Which was its only instrument of song, So my too stormy passions work me wrong, And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.
But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung; Else it were better we should part, and go, Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, And I to nurse the barren memory Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart Open to me! For I will show you places Nobody knows, And, if you like, The perfect places of Sleep.