Does fairy liquid last longer in space?


Saw Catching Fire. I was willing myself to like it. I want to like the Hunger Games. I want to feel the excitement that’s getting everyone squealing on the internet. And I am so tired of the highlight of my movie going experience being fizzy cola bottles.

There was X-Men: No Class and Man of Stupid.. lets not dwell.. there was Snow White and the Hunt-for-decent-writing, the Hunger-for-credibility Games and now Catching Flies..

I was raised on Star Wars and Flash Gordon. I’ve wanted to add to the pantheon of Ming the Merciless and Wookies for a very long time. Is it possible I’ve outgrown my childhood dreams before I ever got to live them? falling asleep

I love the cremola foam skies and glittering cities tucked in the shell of a floating asteroid. I love never knowing if the cantankerous little snot ball is actually a wise master. I love all the hairy antennae’d, three eyed possibilities..

So why do I feel so tired of it all? Tired of the add-viewer-and-stir bland mulch. Insta love, insta heroism, cheap rhetoric and self-assemble wonder, asking us to weep, but what have they done to earn my tears? A few easy notes in a minor key.

I’ve always had a love of the mundane.

Not because I have a love of being bored, nor because I am one of those dreary creatures afraid of their own happiness, sure that excitement is another word for danger and I’d rather put on my slippers and wake to another familiar day shuffling on the bus.

I guess I just seem to see something others don’t. I like the feel of hot tarmac against the soles of my feet on a summer day and the way my breath puffs like an old man’s beard after the first frost. I’m curious about the old woman I used to see on the way to work who always wears a little red kilt and too much rouge on her wrinkled cheeks; once ached to write a story inspired by a dirty mattress abandoned against a crumbling church wall..

This influences everything I like in fiction. Everything sadly we see little of. Whatever you put in the centre, my eyes will always move to the sides. I want to tell their stories, the second lieutenant who introduced Spock’s parents, the old nursemaid to the intergalactic warlord. More than that though, I’m looking for the things that shape us; the forgotten moments and everyday connections that no one stops to notice.

I want it all. I want the frailty of human touch and the endless possibilities of our imagination.

When I look up at the stars, when I acknowledge how big and wide and impossible the universe is, and how very tiny I am, it doesn’t scare me. The thought of the world just being me and this, here and now, that would scare me. I don’t want limits to my dreams. I don’t want to be big enough to ever reach the end. There should always be light years to go and lunar mountains to climb.

Can I grow my heroes with me? Can I keep the whimsy and the hope, the ideals and the mundane simple pleasures? Because that is what I am always reaching for. I am celebrating the odd, the unseen, the overlooked and undercooked.  And I’m serving it up amongst the stars.




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