I just received an e-mail from my friend Nieriel that stated that this very blog now has readers in Ireland! YAY! *victory dance*
I've actually checked the stats for this blog just now, and have seen that I've got readers from all over the globe! *stunned expression*
So, to all my foreign readers, I give you my thanks. *bows*
I love each and every one of you.
(Especially you, Eamonn. Yes, you. *virtual hug* I don't even know you, but you get a special shout-out anyway.)
Much love from the U.S.!
xoxo
Lónannûniel
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Inheritance
So, I met Christopher Paolini the other night.
This is him. Ain't he cute?
After the Q&A, we all migrated back upstairs to get our books signed.
What we so hopelessly forgot was that EVERY FUCKING PERSON IN THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA decided to attend this event, and the line to get stuff signed stretched all the out into the alley behind the library.
Thankfully, Nieriel's mom saved us a place in line, but we still had hour wait. (It actually didn't seem that long, though...)
(And I know you're probably reading this, Mrs. Mulreany, so thank you for your awesome spot-saving powers. *virtual hug*)
I'll skip to the exciting part, where I got my copy of Inheritance signed.
(He's actually signing Brisingr here, but IT STILL WORKS.)
It was almost as if it happened in slow-motion. I remember standing in line, and a woman taking my books and placing them on the table to be signed. My heart raced, like I was preparing myself to jump off a cliff. My hands started to almost tremble as the people in front of me moved on. I was repressing nervous giggles and excited squeals as I tapped my fingers against my thigh.
He then called my name, a huge smile on his face as he said it. I made eye contact, briefly, but immediately looked away, almost as if I'd be turned to stone if my gaze lingered.
As he signed my book, our 'conversation' was as follows:
CP: "So, have you started the book so far?"
Me: "Oh, yes, I'm about ten chapters in, and so far, it's absolutely brilliant!"
CP: *laughs* "Well, thank you, very much. Thanks for coming!"
Me: "Oh, it's no trouble...!"
Wow. I sounded like an idiot. *facepalm*
You have no idea how fucking excited I was when this was taken.
And, in case you care, it says Mein Teil on my hand. It mean's 'my part' in German, and it's also a song by Rammstein. Just in case you give a shit.
You probably don't.
For those of you who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, here's a brief synopsis:
Mr. Paolini is the New York Times Bestselling author of the the famed Inheritance Cycle, which consists of the four novels Eragon, Eldest, Brisingr, and Inheritance. On November 8th, 2011, Inheritance was released, finally ending a four year wait for the final book in the series. The next day, Nieriel and I trekked into Philadelphia, as we do, to get our beloved novels signed by the writer himself, Christopher Paolini.
This is him. Ain't he cute?
Unlike our last book singing adventure, we were able to get seats in the auditorium of the library, ones that were very close to the stage, actually. *epic squee*
And this time, we heard stories. Not just ANY stories, dear readers, but stories that proved how hard it is to write a novel. Allow me to demonstrate.
After a brief introduction, Mr. Paolini told us the story of how Eragon came to pass. For those who don't know, Eragon was first written and published when Paolini was 15 years old, right after he graduated from High School. According to the story, it began with a Viking Mead Hall.
Christopher Paolini: "After I graduated, the only thing on my mind was how great it was to be out of school. That lasted for about two weeks. Then... I got bored. Really, really, really, really, really, really bored. How bored was I? Well, I'll tell you. I was so bored... that I dug a hole. And it wasn't just any hole, this hole was 8 feet deep and 8 feet wide, and I insulated it with hay bales, chopped down some dead trees from the river near my house, lined them along the inside, and covered the thing with an old satellite dish. How did I get into the hole, you ask? I dug a tunnel. And it became a Viking Mead Hall."
(Quite honestly, given the chance, I would have done the same thing. Except, y'know... I would have made it a gaming sanctuary of sorts. With snacks.)
He also mentioned the original name of our hero, Eragon.
CP: "Eragon was not originally named Eragon. I've actually never told anybody this, and I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but... Eragon's name was originally Kevin. *cringes*
And he met a unicorn."
And he met a unicorn."
Needless to say, the audience kind of... well, spontaneously combusted with laughter.
(Yes, it's possible. Someone ran out of the theatre on fire, and it was funny as hell. This is my story, so shut up.)
A brief Q&A followed, and I actually got to ask a question! :D
Being a huge fan of Tolkien and his linguistics, I took it upon myself (while trying not to projectile vomit out of nervousness) to ask Paolini about his own language, The Ancient Language, and how he created it.
Me: "After reading your books, and really taking a look at the Ancient Language, I've noticed that it's really similar to Sindarin and Quenya, which are Tolkien's languages. Is language a passion of yours, like it was for Tolkien? You seem to feel very strongly about it."
CP: "My Ancient Language is based mostly on Old Norse, and Tolkien's, I believe, were based mostly on Finnish. There really isn't much of a difference between the two [Old Norse & Finnish], actually. *laughs* But, I wouldn't say language is a passion of mine, seeing as Tolkien dedicated his entire life to his work. I'd like to do something else with my writing. *laughs* I did enjoy creating the Ancient Language and using Dwarvish in my books, though. It was fun."
Me: "After reading your books, and really taking a look at the Ancient Language, I've noticed that it's really similar to Sindarin and Quenya, which are Tolkien's languages. Is language a passion of yours, like it was for Tolkien? You seem to feel very strongly about it."
CP: "My Ancient Language is based mostly on Old Norse, and Tolkien's, I believe, were based mostly on Finnish. There really isn't much of a difference between the two [Old Norse & Finnish], actually. *laughs* But, I wouldn't say language is a passion of mine, seeing as Tolkien dedicated his entire life to his work. I'd like to do something else with my writing. *laughs* I did enjoy creating the Ancient Language and using Dwarvish in my books, though. It was fun."
After the Q&A, we all migrated back upstairs to get our books signed.
What we so hopelessly forgot was that EVERY FUCKING PERSON IN THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA decided to attend this event, and the line to get stuff signed stretched all the out into the alley behind the library.
Thankfully, Nieriel's mom saved us a place in line, but we still had hour wait. (It actually didn't seem that long, though...)
(And I know you're probably reading this, Mrs. Mulreany, so thank you for your awesome spot-saving powers. *virtual hug*)
I'll skip to the exciting part, where I got my copy of Inheritance signed.
(He's actually signing Brisingr here, but IT STILL WORKS.)
It was almost as if it happened in slow-motion. I remember standing in line, and a woman taking my books and placing them on the table to be signed. My heart raced, like I was preparing myself to jump off a cliff. My hands started to almost tremble as the people in front of me moved on. I was repressing nervous giggles and excited squeals as I tapped my fingers against my thigh.
He then called my name, a huge smile on his face as he said it. I made eye contact, briefly, but immediately looked away, almost as if I'd be turned to stone if my gaze lingered.
As he signed my book, our 'conversation' was as follows:
CP: "So, have you started the book so far?"
Me: "Oh, yes, I'm about ten chapters in, and so far, it's absolutely brilliant!"
CP: *laughs* "Well, thank you, very much. Thanks for coming!"
Me: "Oh, it's no trouble...!"
Wow. I sounded like an idiot. *facepalm*
And, in case you care, it says Mein Teil on my hand. It mean's 'my part' in German, and it's also a song by Rammstein. Just in case you give a shit.
You probably don't.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Dark Horse
Music has always played a huge part in my life. As long as I can remember, my Dad has always played guitar, and his dedication to the instrument has always inspired me in my playing and love of music. I can still smell the strangely calming aroma of stale cigarettes and laundry detergent from our basement where Dad used to practice every night when I was little.
I remember the first time I picked up the violin, my first guitar; Listening to almost every type of music ever composed, and adoring close to all of it.
Whether it be the wail of an electric guitar, the haunting sound of a sitar, or the enticing melody of an ocarina, the soul that is behind music is what makes it great.
Music that speaks such wisdom to me is the work of George Harrison.
George's work has always held a special place in my heart. With every song, he put his love, dedication, wisdom, faith, and humour. Listening to songs like Isn't it a Pity and Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth) bring tears to my eyes, simply because of the heart and soul behind it. What speaks to me is not only the love within, but how George had changed millions of lives, including my own, with something as simple as song.
"Love one another"
Three words, their meaning clear as day.
Beautiful words from a beautiful man.
Spiritual in the truest sense of the word, though I myself am somewhat off the beaten path when it comes to religion, George Harrison gave me faith when I needed it most.
Music has an odd way of releasing emotions, no matter what they may be. When you're sad, you listen to mopey, sappy songs; When you're angry, you listen to hard rock and kick random shit. (Or I do, at least...)
When you're happy, you listen to music that makes you feel good. (As I write this, I'm listening to Layla by Derek and the Dominos, which, ironically, is about Eric Clapton's borderline obsession with George Harrison's then wife, Pattie Boyd)
Songs like this, with such feeling behind them that you can close your eyes and almost see yourself standing next to the musician in the studio, is what makes life so great, in my opinion.
If one can realize the true beauty of music that speaks not only to the heart, but to the soul, then one has truly reached a state of bliss, forever immortal in the romanticism of rock and roll's poetry.
George, you've changed my life. Rest in peace, love.
Beautiful words from a beautiful man.
Spiritual in the truest sense of the word, though I myself am somewhat off the beaten path when it comes to religion, George Harrison gave me faith when I needed it most.
Music has an odd way of releasing emotions, no matter what they may be. When you're sad, you listen to mopey, sappy songs; When you're angry, you listen to hard rock and kick random shit. (Or I do, at least...)
When you're happy, you listen to music that makes you feel good. (As I write this, I'm listening to Layla by Derek and the Dominos, which, ironically, is about Eric Clapton's borderline obsession with George Harrison's then wife, Pattie Boyd)
Songs like this, with such feeling behind them that you can close your eyes and almost see yourself standing next to the musician in the studio, is what makes life so great, in my opinion.
If one can realize the true beauty of music that speaks not only to the heart, but to the soul, then one has truly reached a state of bliss, forever immortal in the romanticism of rock and roll's poetry.
George, you've changed my life. Rest in peace, love.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Oh, hello.
You scared the piss out of me.
*sips tea*
So, I haven't written in a while. Apologies.
My computer's an arrogant little *mumble mumble* and took a month to be fixed. I just recently got it back about 2 days ago, and have been pondering what exactly I should write about, now that I actually have the ability to blog again.
I still have absolutely nothing to write about, which is exceptionally unsettling. Usually, I've got a few witty remarks that might make for a good article or two, but today... nothing.
That's what royally sucks about being a writer. Some days, you can't think about anything but writing. Most days, you know exactly what you want to write, but you can't get it down on paper...
Today, I've got nada.
I've literally spent the last hour procrastinating on my homework by staring absentmindedly at this stupid computer screen, listening to The Who and pondering why this country is so fucking entranced by Nutella spreads.
Writer's block is one of the most infuriating things I've ever encountered, and it seems that it gets its sick kicks by infesting my mind like a parasite whenever I sit down at my keyboard.
Usually, music helps me get rid of it, but not even Pete Townshend is helping me now, which he usually does. (Damn you, Pete. You and your adorably gargantuan nose. *weakly shakes fist*)
I keep hovering my hands over this stupid keyboard, waiting for my fingers to just make a masterpiece on their own. I've examined my bitten nails about ten times now, noticing every time a difference in the pattern of my chipped nail polish. There's still ink on my hand from where I smeared my biology notes today. My hands are cold. I have to re-paint my nails. I should really do my homework. My dogs need to shut up.
t';]6\-04r67
I just smashed my head onto my keyboard.
**47 MINUTES PASS**
I have completed my homework. Did you guys know that Nikita Khrushchev was an arrogant little man?
**12 MINUTES PASS**
**12 MINUTES PASS**
I have learned that President Theodore Roosevelt was known to swim naked in the Potomac River in the wintertime.
I have also learned that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was forced by his mother to wear a dress until he was five years old.
...I am bored and my tea is now cold.
I have also learned that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was forced by his mother to wear a dress until he was five years old.
...I am bored and my tea is now cold.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Connecting Science-Fiction with Reality.
Speaking from the philosophy of the Science-Fiction genre, if there is, indeed, a philosophy of such a thing, I came to the conclusion that the BBC's classic show Doctor Who not only creates a window to the populace when it comes to World History, but also mirrors World Conflict in a way that not many people seem to realize.
As said frequently throughout the 48 years the show has been running on the BBC, our hero and protagonist, The Doctor, is revered throughout the entire universe. His name alone means healer, wise man. As the lone superhero, The Doctor travels throughout time and space, saving planets, galaxies, even the entire universe from utter annihilation. But, as the saying goes, "With great power comes great responsibility."
The Doctor has many enemies as well as allies, which brings us to Global Conflict, and the imagery that a simple sci-fi television show impacts upon the viewer.
Starting with the oldest enemy of the Doctor: The Dalek.
To the naked eye, the Dalek may look ridiculous and bear a striking resemblance to that of a salt and pepper shaker, but inside, hatred burns freely.
How many times the Doctor has defeated the Daleks is almost un-countable, but what we do know is that they will not go down without a fight. From Christopher Eccleston's Dalek to David Tennant's Daleks in Manhattan to Matt Smith's The Pandorica Opens, the Daleks in the new series have become stronger and stronger by the episode.
To connect the philosophy of the Dalek with a single point in history is incredibly difficult. The Dalek acts of genocide against the fictional races of the Whoniverse are similar to that of any genocide carried out in reality within the past few centuries, but the most common, or rather the most disastrous genocide that connects to the ways of the Dalek is the Holocaust carried out by the Nazis in Europe during WWII.
Through Hitler's "Final Solution", Germany planned to exterminate the Jewish race by any means necessary, including murder in cold blood.
Much like the emotionless Dalek, the Nazis held no remorse or mercy for those they killed. Most of the high officers of the Gestapo and SS that were acquitted by the Nuremberg Trials or those who managed to take refuge in South America after the War never had an ounce of regret for the hundreds upon thousands of innocent people that they killed.
Connect the two, and the Daleks are nothing more than a sci-fi robotic version of the German Nazi.
"The Big Three" as they were called- Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and Joseph Stalin- were the leaders of the three most powerful countries in the world after WWII. The Nuremberg Trials, held by The United States of America, The United Kingdom, France, and The Soviet Union brought the Nazis to justice, ending their reign of terror throughout Europe.
The Time War, which was the Last Great War between the Time Lords and the Daleks, was the beginning of the end for the two races, all from The Doctor's own doing to save the universe from utter annihilation.
Though these two races-one real, one fictional-have been connected on a level that is but a simple Science-Fiction television show, the harsh reality of it all is that all of this has actually happened before.
Race against race.
Religion against religion.
Man against man.
Hatred against humanity.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Midnight. (Contains Spoilers)
I sit at my desk writing this on Tuesday, July 26th, 2011 at 2:04 PM.
I have Hedwig's theme playing in the background, and my copy Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone resting in my lap. My "Mischief Managed" mug sits on top of my CD of Tommy by The Who.
My sharpie Dark Mark has long since faded, and the lightning scar I had drawn on my forehead when I was six lives on in spirit. The "Sorting Hat" from Brigantine, NJ's Public Library sorted me into Ravenclaw, from which I have never left. The "wands" my brother Sean and I used to use have been blown away by Brigantine's sea breeze, lost...
...However, my imagination, magic, and love affair with reading is not.
I am ready to share my secrets of the midnight release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II with the public.
Twelve days ago today, I began readying myself to venture to Nieriel's house to begin our night of rambunctious wackiness in preparation to transform ourselves from the pacifistic Witches that we are into Two of Voldemort's Death Eaters: Nieriel as Bellatrix Lestrange and myself as Narcissa Malfoy.
Let me begin by giving a bit of comedic fodder by telling the tale of my brother dropping me off at Nieriel's house.
I had everything I needed with me for the premiere. Dress, makeup, sharpies for Dark Marks, a pair of killer heels, my homemade Slytherin choker, and my love of Harry Potter deep within my soul, ready to burst right out of my body.
My older brother, Sean, (who is twenty years old, mind you) had just gotten his driver's license, and was rearing and ready to drive somewhere...so why not give your hyperactive Potter-obsessed little sister a lift to her friend's house? Sound's legit...
Well, we didn't die on the way there, thankfully, but what I didn't know is that Nieriel wasn't home yet when I got there; She and her mother were picking up her brother from camp at the train station from the city.
After knocking on Nieriel's door for a good 30 seconds, I finally realized she wasn't home. I turned back to Sean's car and blatantly signaled that she wasn't home. I shrugged my shoulders and began to walk back to the car...
But my brother decided to speed off without me.
So, there I stood, on Nieriel's front porch, backpack slung over my shoulder, stilettos in hand, looking like a total dweeb.
Figuring that they'd be back eventually, I sat on the front step and waited, only to be stared at by a few of Nieriel's neighbors. I'm not exactly what one would call 'confident' when it comes to being by myself, so I felt incredibly uncomfortable sitting there with all my stuff, so I decided to walk around the block once or twice.
(I forgot to mention that I also don't carry a cell phone, so I couldn't call my brother to come back and wait with me or call Nieriel to tell her I was at her house.)
After rounding the block a few times, I turned the corner to go back to Nieriel's house and looked ahead, into the blazing glare of the afternoon sun, to see a figure sprinting towards me. I couldn't make out who it was at first, so immediately, I thought was that it was a rapist coming to kidnap me, or something.
As the figure grew closer, my heart beat faster with fear. Who in the right mind was running towards me at full speed?
And then it hit me.
Literally.
Nieriel barreled into me and wrapped me in a tight hug, crushing my lungs.
"I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY!! WE LEFT YOU HERE, I'M SO SORRY!!"
Initially stunned and relieved that nobody was going to murder me, I smiled and explained the situation to Nieriel as we walked back to her house. She laughed, and and mentioned that when she called my mom to ask if she knew where I was, my mom laughed, apparently. I was confused, obviously, so I called my Mom to tell her to yell at her son for leaving me there, stranded. She obliged. (Thanks, Mom.)
An hour or so passed, and our friend Devin joined the pack, ready with as much makeup as I was to attack Nieriel with.
We passed the time to wait for our friend Kellyn by sipping "Butter Beer" (Root Beer with print-out labels)
watching A Very Potter Musical, and getting our make-up done. By the time Kellyn showed up, Nieriel's make-up was finished, as was mine and Devin's, so we had to attack Kellyn with eyeliner, shadow, blush, concealer, and lipgloss. It was only around 10:00 PM by the time we were ready for the Golden Snitch cake that Nieriel's mom had gotten for us, and this is what we looked like, pre-Potter.
(Kellyn's in the purple, Devin's wearing the tie, Nieriel's on the floor, And me, with my Rocky Horror Picture Show T-shirt...)
But, we still had to get our costumes on and get to the theatre. I'll skip about an hour of running around Nieriel's house finding wands for us to bring, and get right to the theatre.
TA-DA!!
And now...for the movie itself.
Words simply cannot describe it.
The entire time, I sat glued to my seat, holding my wand in my hands so tightly I thought it might snap. I had chills crawling up my body every second; I just wanted to scream.
And scream I did.
From the very start of the film, people were cheering. From the siege at Gringotts, to the search for the Horcruxes at Hogwarts, to Neville's bravery to Voldemort's demise. And of course, Molly Weasley's famous line of "NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!" to Bellatrix Lestrange, which recieved the most applause I've ever heard in my life.
And I cried more than I laughed. Some tears of sorrow, others of happiness.
From Snape's death to Fred Weasley's, to Remus and Tonks, lying dead, hands still clasped within each other's.
But the greatest part was that in the theatre, you could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet. There weren't chatty teen sluts laughing it up about us crying, people weren't getting up every minute for a smoke, people weren't asking what was going on...nothing.
And that was the beauty of it.
I was in a room surrounded by people who loved Harry as much as I did.
I wasn't being ridiculed for something I loved, for once in my life. And that was good.
I cried until my eyeliner was rushing down my cheeks, and even more so afterwards.
"Albus Severus...You were named for two headmasters of Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin and he was probably the bravest man I ever knew."
With a final cry of "Mischief Managed!" Myself, Nieriel, Devin and Kellyn said our goodbyes to the Wizarding World, and crossed our Dark Marks for one last time.
Thank you, J.K. Rowling.
Thank you.
I have Hedwig's theme playing in the background, and my copy Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone resting in my lap. My "Mischief Managed" mug sits on top of my CD of Tommy by The Who.
My sharpie Dark Mark has long since faded, and the lightning scar I had drawn on my forehead when I was six lives on in spirit. The "Sorting Hat" from Brigantine, NJ's Public Library sorted me into Ravenclaw, from which I have never left. The "wands" my brother Sean and I used to use have been blown away by Brigantine's sea breeze, lost...
...However, my imagination, magic, and love affair with reading is not.
I am ready to share my secrets of the midnight release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II with the public.
Twelve days ago today, I began readying myself to venture to Nieriel's house to begin our night of rambunctious wackiness in preparation to transform ourselves from the pacifistic Witches that we are into Two of Voldemort's Death Eaters: Nieriel as Bellatrix Lestrange and myself as Narcissa Malfoy.
Let me begin by giving a bit of comedic fodder by telling the tale of my brother dropping me off at Nieriel's house.
I had everything I needed with me for the premiere. Dress, makeup, sharpies for Dark Marks, a pair of killer heels, my homemade Slytherin choker, and my love of Harry Potter deep within my soul, ready to burst right out of my body.
My older brother, Sean, (who is twenty years old, mind you) had just gotten his driver's license, and was rearing and ready to drive somewhere...so why not give your hyperactive Potter-obsessed little sister a lift to her friend's house? Sound's legit...
Well, we didn't die on the way there, thankfully, but what I didn't know is that Nieriel wasn't home yet when I got there; She and her mother were picking up her brother from camp at the train station from the city.
After knocking on Nieriel's door for a good 30 seconds, I finally realized she wasn't home. I turned back to Sean's car and blatantly signaled that she wasn't home. I shrugged my shoulders and began to walk back to the car...
But my brother decided to speed off without me.
So, there I stood, on Nieriel's front porch, backpack slung over my shoulder, stilettos in hand, looking like a total dweeb.
Figuring that they'd be back eventually, I sat on the front step and waited, only to be stared at by a few of Nieriel's neighbors. I'm not exactly what one would call 'confident' when it comes to being by myself, so I felt incredibly uncomfortable sitting there with all my stuff, so I decided to walk around the block once or twice.
(I forgot to mention that I also don't carry a cell phone, so I couldn't call my brother to come back and wait with me or call Nieriel to tell her I was at her house.)
After rounding the block a few times, I turned the corner to go back to Nieriel's house and looked ahead, into the blazing glare of the afternoon sun, to see a figure sprinting towards me. I couldn't make out who it was at first, so immediately, I thought was that it was a rapist coming to kidnap me, or something.
As the figure grew closer, my heart beat faster with fear. Who in the right mind was running towards me at full speed?
And then it hit me.
Literally.
Nieriel barreled into me and wrapped me in a tight hug, crushing my lungs.
"I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY!! WE LEFT YOU HERE, I'M SO SORRY!!"
Initially stunned and relieved that nobody was going to murder me, I smiled and explained the situation to Nieriel as we walked back to her house. She laughed, and and mentioned that when she called my mom to ask if she knew where I was, my mom laughed, apparently. I was confused, obviously, so I called my Mom to tell her to yell at her son for leaving me there, stranded. She obliged. (Thanks, Mom.)
An hour or so passed, and our friend Devin joined the pack, ready with as much makeup as I was to attack Nieriel with.
We passed the time to wait for our friend Kellyn by sipping "Butter Beer" (Root Beer with print-out labels)
watching A Very Potter Musical, and getting our make-up done. By the time Kellyn showed up, Nieriel's make-up was finished, as was mine and Devin's, so we had to attack Kellyn with eyeliner, shadow, blush, concealer, and lipgloss. It was only around 10:00 PM by the time we were ready for the Golden Snitch cake that Nieriel's mom had gotten for us, and this is what we looked like, pre-Potter.
(Kellyn's in the purple, Devin's wearing the tie, Nieriel's on the floor, And me, with my Rocky Horror Picture Show T-shirt...)
But, we still had to get our costumes on and get to the theatre. I'll skip about an hour of running around Nieriel's house finding wands for us to bring, and get right to the theatre.
TA-DA!!
And now...for the movie itself.
Words simply cannot describe it.
The entire time, I sat glued to my seat, holding my wand in my hands so tightly I thought it might snap. I had chills crawling up my body every second; I just wanted to scream.
And scream I did.
From the very start of the film, people were cheering. From the siege at Gringotts, to the search for the Horcruxes at Hogwarts, to Neville's bravery to Voldemort's demise. And of course, Molly Weasley's famous line of "NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!" to Bellatrix Lestrange, which recieved the most applause I've ever heard in my life.
And I cried more than I laughed. Some tears of sorrow, others of happiness.
From Snape's death to Fred Weasley's, to Remus and Tonks, lying dead, hands still clasped within each other's.
But the greatest part was that in the theatre, you could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet. There weren't chatty teen sluts laughing it up about us crying, people weren't getting up every minute for a smoke, people weren't asking what was going on...nothing.
And that was the beauty of it.
I was in a room surrounded by people who loved Harry as much as I did.
I wasn't being ridiculed for something I loved, for once in my life. And that was good.
I cried until my eyeliner was rushing down my cheeks, and even more so afterwards.
"Albus Severus...You were named for two headmasters of Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin and he was probably the bravest man I ever knew."
With a final cry of "Mischief Managed!" Myself, Nieriel, Devin and Kellyn said our goodbyes to the Wizarding World, and crossed our Dark Marks for one last time.
Thank you, J.K. Rowling.
Thank you.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Transvestites, Star Wars, and Bastille Day.
I never thought I would cross the threshold into Death Row. It was atrociously hot, like any other day in July. My heart raced. I feared it might skip a beat.
Stepping through the mouldy, decrepit archway into the fenced-in cell block, one can easily imagine the countless inmates who had walked through the very same archway to await their death.
Murderers.
Rapists.
Theives.
Con-artists.
And me, a sixteen year-old hippy-at-heart, linked arm-in-arm with a friend whose Napoleon Bonaparte finger puppet was her only protection against the spirits and specters that haunt Eastern State Penitentiary's dilapidated halls.
Nieriel and I decided to venture back into Philadelphia last Saturday to witness a re-enactment of the storming of the Bastille at Eastern State Penitentiary. I had never been inside the decrepit, some would say haunted, prison before, so Nieriel's mother decided to let us take the audio tour. Being a resident of the 'burbs of the City of Brotherly Love, I felt like a total toolbag walking around with the stupid radio and headphones, but Steve Buscemi was the narrator, so that made the toolbag-ness deflate to zero.
Nieriel and I went on our own separate way, and her mother and younger brother went the other way.
Starting outside the prison, in front of working guillotine, no less, we began our adventure.
(I'm the ginger. Nieriel's the brunette. Her brother is the abnormally tall one.)
When one first sets foot inside of the first maximum security prison in the States, you immediately get slapped in the face with a sense of uneasiness. Not only because of the thought of how many people once walked through these halls, but of the fact that the cells are just as they were so very long ago: Cold, dark, damp, and very, very scary.
This picture proves how powerful the flash from a camera is; This cell had no skylight and/or any source of light at all.
Unlike the cell above, most of the cells inside Eastern State have a total of 5 things:
Cot
Toilet
Skylight
Bible (Or other book for entertainment, depending on the prisoner)
Cell door
If I had a choice of being decapitated with a guillotine, being eaten by the Shelob, and being stuck in that cell, I'd choose the guillotine. (Which you can see in the background of the first picture.) :D
While we barreled down the many different cell blocks of the prison, Nieriel and I had our fill of creepiness after a few hours of listening to Steve Buscemi drone on and on about Al Capone and other notable inmates. While that was interesting and all, we didn't come to learn about the prison.
We came to storm, bitches.
Eastern State Penitentiary was modeled after the French Bastille, so, logically, the entire populace of the Museum District of Philadelphia acts out the Storming of the Bastille from the French Revolution every summer, complete with Imperial Storm Troopers, Darth Vader, Boba Fett, and a Transvestite.
Yes.
You read that correctly.
After our tour, Nieriel's mom got us some pizza, and we fueled ourselves for an evening of yelling at Marie Antoinette, .
(And Lil' Napoleon was with us, too.)
Aren't we just ADORABLE?! *violent twitch*
After about an hour or so of prancing around the vendor tents, petting the occasional friendly dog, yelling random spew in what little French Nieriel and I know, playing my ocarina, and taking a gratuitous amount of pictures, the Storming began.
Now, for those of you brilliant, BRILLIANT snowflakes who have no idea who/what Marie Antoinette/The French Revolution is, here's a brief synopsis:
Marie Antoinette was fourteen when she took place on the throne in Versailles in 1774, declaring herself queen when her husband, the chubby and quite stupid Louis XVI took place as King. The people of France were initially charmed by her beauty and wild personality when she first took to the throne. But as time progressed, and so did the brutal winters, the peasants of France began to accuse the promiscuous Queen, or 'The Austrian', as they called her, of 'fornicating with the enemy' so to speak, as she harboured sympathies for her native country of Austria, whom France did not dwell with positively.
The Bastille, which was the symbol of Noble and Royal Hierarchy in France, harboured only seven inmates when the storming took place on the morning of July 11th, 1789, but the sheer impact of the destruction of the prison symbolizes the beginning of the Revolution. (Hence the name, 'Bastille Day').
Natives of Philadelphia, however, decided that this was the perfect reason to fuse comedy with history and give you this:
Marie Antoinette, standing atop Eastern State Penitentiary, with Imperial Storm Troopers, Boba Fett, and Darth Vader.
(Did I mention she rained Tastykakes down from the sky while screaming "LET THEM EAT CAKE!"?
Nieriel cringed as this happened, and no sooner had I mocked her for doing so that a Butterscotch Krimpet smacked me right between the eyes, accompanied by a shout of "GAH, MOTHER F**KER!!" by me. I received applause.)
A Transvestite narrated Marie's kidnapping from the prison, (I'm not kidding) and led her to the dreaded guillotine. Tastykakes littered the streets, and a young child decided to lob one at the Tranny. He stopped in mid-sentence and called out, "YOU'RE NEXT!". (Might I add that this man pulled off a skimpy black dress and stiletto heels quite well.)
Tranny man led Marie to the guillotine and read the Queen what could happen to her head, if the crowd so desired her fate. We so decided.
A watermelon was chopped in half to test, and Marie's fate was imminent...
Except we couldn't really chop off her head.
The Tranny sentenced her to be Arnold Schwarzenegger's House Maid, instead. (Not much better than getting decapitated, if you ask me.)
After the performance, Nieriel and I decided to snap some photos of Marie's posse.
(Again, Nieriel's on the left, I'm on the right. My hair is particularly red in this one...)
One with a Stormtrooper....
And one with Darth himself. Notice our happiness.
And with these snapshots, I leave you for now, my lovelies.
As always...and with just enough wit, I remain
--Lónannûniel
This picture proves how powerful the flash from a camera is; This cell had no skylight and/or any source of light at all.
Unlike the cell above, most of the cells inside Eastern State have a total of 5 things:
Cot
Toilet
Skylight
Bible (Or other book for entertainment, depending on the prisoner)
Cell door
If I had a choice of being decapitated with a guillotine, being eaten by the Shelob, and being stuck in that cell, I'd choose the guillotine. (Which you can see in the background of the first picture.) :D
While we barreled down the many different cell blocks of the prison, Nieriel and I had our fill of creepiness after a few hours of listening to Steve Buscemi drone on and on about Al Capone and other notable inmates. While that was interesting and all, we didn't come to learn about the prison.
We came to storm, bitches.
Eastern State Penitentiary was modeled after the French Bastille, so, logically, the entire populace of the Museum District of Philadelphia acts out the Storming of the Bastille from the French Revolution every summer, complete with Imperial Storm Troopers, Darth Vader, Boba Fett, and a Transvestite.
Yes.
You read that correctly.
After our tour, Nieriel's mom got us some pizza, and we fueled ourselves for an evening of yelling at Marie Antoinette, .
(And Lil' Napoleon was with us, too.)
Aren't we just ADORABLE?! *violent twitch*
After about an hour or so of prancing around the vendor tents, petting the occasional friendly dog, yelling random spew in what little French Nieriel and I know, playing my ocarina, and taking a gratuitous amount of pictures, the Storming began.
Now, for those of you brilliant, BRILLIANT snowflakes who have no idea who/what Marie Antoinette/The French Revolution is, here's a brief synopsis:
Marie Antoinette was fourteen when she took place on the throne in Versailles in 1774, declaring herself queen when her husband, the chubby and quite stupid Louis XVI took place as King. The people of France were initially charmed by her beauty and wild personality when she first took to the throne. But as time progressed, and so did the brutal winters, the peasants of France began to accuse the promiscuous Queen, or 'The Austrian', as they called her, of 'fornicating with the enemy' so to speak, as she harboured sympathies for her native country of Austria, whom France did not dwell with positively.
The Bastille, which was the symbol of Noble and Royal Hierarchy in France, harboured only seven inmates when the storming took place on the morning of July 11th, 1789, but the sheer impact of the destruction of the prison symbolizes the beginning of the Revolution. (Hence the name, 'Bastille Day').
Natives of Philadelphia, however, decided that this was the perfect reason to fuse comedy with history and give you this:
Marie Antoinette, standing atop Eastern State Penitentiary, with Imperial Storm Troopers, Boba Fett, and Darth Vader.
(Did I mention she rained Tastykakes down from the sky while screaming "LET THEM EAT CAKE!"?
Nieriel cringed as this happened, and no sooner had I mocked her for doing so that a Butterscotch Krimpet smacked me right between the eyes, accompanied by a shout of "GAH, MOTHER F**KER!!" by me. I received applause.)
A Transvestite narrated Marie's kidnapping from the prison, (I'm not kidding) and led her to the dreaded guillotine. Tastykakes littered the streets, and a young child decided to lob one at the Tranny. He stopped in mid-sentence and called out, "YOU'RE NEXT!". (Might I add that this man pulled off a skimpy black dress and stiletto heels quite well.)
Tranny man led Marie to the guillotine and read the Queen what could happen to her head, if the crowd so desired her fate. We so decided.
A watermelon was chopped in half to test, and Marie's fate was imminent...
Except we couldn't really chop off her head.
The Tranny sentenced her to be Arnold Schwarzenegger's House Maid, instead. (Not much better than getting decapitated, if you ask me.)
After the performance, Nieriel and I decided to snap some photos of Marie's posse.
(Again, Nieriel's on the left, I'm on the right. My hair is particularly red in this one...)
One with a Stormtrooper....
And one with Darth himself. Notice our happiness.
And with these snapshots, I leave you for now, my lovelies.
As always...and with just enough wit, I remain
--Lónannûniel
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