March 11th, 2011

[stock] when in doubt wear red

welcome home.

Just came home after a long and semiproductive (~800 words of a fic about a certain character, falalala) train ride—and can I just say, nothing's lonely like being in TOTAL ARTISTIC SWOON by yourself in public? Before boarding, I spent a straight hour-plus listening to "Welcome Home, Son" by Radical Face (aka the song at the end of Skins, which I did not stop listening to, and am in fact still listening to) on a loop and reading Coast of Utopia (just "Voyage"—someday I will reread "Shipwreck" and "Salvation" but "Voyage" is seriously my Russian comfort food. Natalie Beyer is my fierce little Russian Francophile tertiary-character spirit animal and I should love her less than I do; O WELL) and trying not to come over all heartclutchy in public. And failing a bit. There's this moment in the song, two minutes and twenty-five seconds in, I think, the first time they say "I've come home" and it is SWEEPING and GLORIOUS and I just want to sink into it and drown for years.

Speaking of drowning and Stoppard and glory, ARCADIA IN A WEEK. My best friend (and ex-Septimus) told me that it was good but Bel Powley was no good as Thomasina, and if this is true I will weep tears of blood, because OI, THAT'S MY SOUL'S FUCKING PRIORITY AND I'VE NEVER SEEN HER DONE PROPERLY. Vexationnnnn. But mostly I am just excited for the Crudup ("he's a god" enthuses mon Septimus) and Tom Riley and Raul Esparza and Margaret motherfucking perfectly-cast Colin. This play. My play.

And speaking of all the performative feeling, and where the original swoon of today started out: Skins.

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This generation. Its leitmotifs. My God, it's full of stars.