#bsmiranda

[mirandahamilton]

[mirandahamilton]

There is no life here. There is no joy here. There is no love here.

[iwt-v]

♕  Miranda Barlow :: first scenes // season 2 

[iwt-v]

The time for conciliation is well past. I must try. Why? I'm the only one who can stop him, pastor. I'm the only one who knows why he's doing it.

[cannellaeluce]

So Messy Hair started to watch Black Sails and, as he gets to experience all the wonder for the first time ever, I get my own private wonder of experiencing it all again. And I’ve got many thoughts, but the most urgent and pressing are -

1. To watch S1Max is both a suffering and a miracle. Suffering because, well, she goes through hell and we know it. Why a miracle, then? Well - in those first scenes with Eleanor, she’s so defenceless; so small. Hints of cunning and brilliance are already all over the place, of course, but the sense I get from her at the beginning is that she’s content enough with how far away she’s got from the slavery of her childhood, and that she would be more than content with her whole world starting and ending in Eleanor’s arms. She’ll tell us about it, won’t she? How mesmerised she was by Eleanor in the beginning. Now, let’s top that with how much in love she was with her, and the modesty of her early ambitions starts to make sense all of a sudden. Then - then she gets broken, quite simply. And after that, she will mend herself anew, with her own hands, and from that destruction she will build ambitions. Max’s growth and rise to power are among my favourite things in BS, and to watch her beginnings with knowing eyes is amazing.

2. As a corollary to point one: to watch S1Eleanor knowing what’s to come, to the contrary, is a fucking nightmare.

3. S1Miranda. Oh, Miranda of my heart. Watching it all again, I remembered how fooled I was by appearances when I first watched S1; how similar to the Londoners and the villagers and the pirates I was when confronted with Miranda. I remember watching her reading Marcus Aurelius to that arsehole of a Guthrie man, watching her flirting with that asinine coward of a pastor, and I remember feeling both irritated and puzzled. Irritated, because I came to her while thinking about Flint; he would be displeased to see her like that, I must have thought - or was it even a thought? More of an automatism: she shouldn’t have been giving all of this attention to these unworthy men. As for puzzled - the first of those men was hideous; the second, an hypocrite. And she seemed to know. Why on earth, then, would she care to spend those many seconds of her life with them? And now I think -

because she was starved. She had literally no-one on that whole island; no-one to talk to, no-one to laugh with, no-one to touch. No-one, that is, but for the raging, hollow shell of a man she once loved, a raging shell of a man who’s almost always away, who’s unreachable at best when he’s there, and whose memory will always be tied up to that of the man they both loved and lost. Miranda, brilliant mind extraordinaire, was left on an island with nothing to keep her mind on but a clavicembalo, a few books, and the burning memories of all she had lost, and then two educated if hideous men pass by and she can’t even quote scripture at them, nor read one of her favourite books to them, without a casual viewer like me - without a Londoner, a villager, a pirate - judging her all over again, crucifying her with labels, trying to crush her with shame. To that she is impermeable; to shame she will not bend. This doesn’t mean, thought, that she does not suffer; for that she fucking does. And I didn’t see that then. But oh boy, do I see that now.

[iwt-v]

An Analytical Look at the 18th Century Methods of changing the fukcing subject Caring for the Injured

@gaygingerpirates

[iwt-v]

💀 Black Sails meme ↬ 8 quotes (8/8)

[dhomochevski]

Nunc est ira recens, nunc est discedere tempus. Si dolor afuerit, crede, redibit amor

Anger is now fresh, it is better now to retreat. When resentment has gone, believe me, love will return