So, I have watched the 1999 version of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" probably 20 times over the years. It was one of favorite movies when I was like 15 and those movies stay with a person. Anyway my favorite couple has switched almost every decade, like clockwork.
First, it was Demetrius and Helena, for the messy blush of unrequited love, something wished and hoped for and, against all odds, obtained (if somewhat unrealistically and certainly magically, but hey, that just means fairies exist, so what's so bad about that?) <3 Plus Calista Flockhart was/is absolutely hilarious in this movie (oh, spite! oh hell! đ) and Christian Bale was one of my first crushes. Pshaw, who is this TimothĂŠe Chalamet you all speak of? I know but one (1) Theodore Laurence and his name is Christian Bale đ
Then, it was Lysander and Hermia, for the comedy of it all and the appeal of forbidden love and the way they aggravated poor Theoden King to the point that he was going to lock fair Hermia up in a nunnery (which forever amuses me as a metaphor for death), and the angst and excitement of persevering through Puck-induced magic tricks and hot jealousy and just listen, Dominic West and Anna Friel are fantastic in this, top tier at speaking and selling all those Shakespearean lines like they're totally normal in 1800s Tuscany. Like, really good. In a way that's not just fun to watch/listen to but also has you forgetting that oh yeah, they just went for that creative choice. Let's speak Shakespeare and ride bicycles. No irony about it (well for the most part - looking at you, Kevin Kline đ)
But here I am, changing my mind again...and this time, it's Theseus and Hippolyta who are claiming my whole heart <3 <3 <3 And not just because Sophie Marceau is a forever favorite or because I've only just realized that David Strathairn might be one of the finest actors of our time (seriously, what else did I miss while I was dismissing him as "oh you know, that guy from whatever"). Watching their scenes, I'm just so into it. Mature love portrayed in such a soft and delicate way. The amount that's unspoken is off-the-charts layered gorgeousness. The tiny moments between them. The micro glances, the mutual understandings, the realization that when they're in a group scene, it's still just them <3
AND THEY DANCE AT THE END đ Ughhhhhhh add to the OTP list, because I'm suddenly obsessed.
Give it another ten years and I'll probably be all about Titania and Nick. But that's when we'll know I've gone too far...and you all have my full permission to smack me across the face and say "ma'am, stop that" đđđ
One of my work colleagues messaged me on the way home to inform me that someone in our team requested a short story about the life of a coffee bean - specifying that the beans ultimately aren't afraid of being ground up because it's like becoming One and returning to The All.
A couple hours later....
Bean There, Done That
Beano lay in the jar, amid the pile of other beans like himself, staring out at The Grinder that sat beside them on the counter.
Day in, day out, a hand unscrewed the lid to the jar â removed it, letting in a shock of air â then dipped in The Spoon. And each time The Spoon came, anticipation brewed, gripping Beanoâs core with cold hands â anticipation for the day when it would be his turn in The Grinder.
âYou never come back,â one of the other beans said. âWhen you goâŚit changes you somehow and you never return to the jar.â
Maybe that was a good thing. Anything had to be better than the daily grind of sitting in that jar, not knowing when it would be your time to go. Yet, fear was stronger.
Please donât take me. Take the others, but not me.
A prayer made in vain. It was only a matter of time before The Spoon caught him in its cruel lip.
âI think weâre all looking at it the wrong way,â another bean said. An older bean, whoâd been in the jar longer. His voice was heavy with the weight of experience.
âHow should we look at it?â Beano asked.
âWellâŚtell me, how well do you remember being a seedling?â
A memory flashed in his mind, an image forming, of being green and small, before heâd swelled into something resembling what he was today.
The older bean nodded as though he held the same image in his own mind. âAnd can you remember when you were chosen?â
Chosen? He hadnât thought of it that way butâŚperhaps that was what had happened that day â the day he was plucked from the plant, forever taken from the only world he ever knew, selected for roasting.
âYou were frightened then, werenât you.â It wasnât a question.
âOf course I was frightened. I didnât know what to expect.â
âYet you survived. You changed, but youâre here. Weâre all here. Weâre in this together, you know. Sometimes itâs easy to forget our shared roots â to let time harden and embitter us. But none of us is truly alone when The Spoon comes for us.â
âYou really believe that?â
âI have to.â
âSo youâre not scared at all?â
The older bean sighed. âOf course I am. Itâs always frightening, not knowing whatâs coming next. But maybe thatâs also part of the thrill.â
Thrill. Hard to imagine, butâŚmaybe. He couldnât deny that inner voice that said it was time to move on. There was nothing left for him in the jar.
If only there were some way to know for certain that whatever awaited them in The Grinder didnât hurt. But if the other beans screamed out in pain, the sound was drowned out by the motor of the machine as it processed them into something else â something Beano could only imagine as he hung in the jar, watching, waiting.
* * *
The next time The Hand of Fate came, Beano knew.
Itâs come for me. Itâs my turn.
The lid was unscrewed, the air flooding in. The Spoon dove in, dislodging him and catching him in its snare. He fell, back into the jar, but the providential utensil came for him again.
Beano was lifted into the air, staring down at the other beans remaining in the jar. Beside him, other beans jostled with anxiety. Then they were sliding off The Spoon, into the silver bowl of The Grinder â him, the older bean, and several others.
Imagination had not prepared him for what lay within â four sharp blades, glinting under the kitchen light, emphasising their cold steel edges. It had to hurt. How could it not? If only he were a Mexican jumping bean and could leap on out of here. But he was a coffee bean, and this was what happened to his kind. There was no escaping your purpose.
The Hand approached, reaching for the machine, for a button. Any second now and this would all be over. Heâd finally understand the great mystery that awaited them all. And he wasnât ready â he wasnât ready.
âIâm scared,â he whispered to the older bean, whose time was finally up.
âI am too.â
The admission undid him. How was he supposed to hold it together, if his senior, the one whoâd taught him there was some good in this, was just as terrified?
It didnât matter, because The Hand was there, the finger extended, pushing the button. Then â the whirring sound, so familiar and yet new, fresh, when it was coming for him.
The Blades of Destiny didnât just begin turning but whipped round, flinging him in dizzy circles, jumbling up with his companions. When The Blades made their first cuts, the sharpness was so exquisite that he couldnât quite feel it, only had a sense of dissemblance. His consciousness was splitting, multiplying. Somehow, he was in more than one place at once, time and space but mythology.
Helpless, he surrendered â the only choice he could make before all choice was taken from him. He let go, released of his shell and whirling with the fragments of his brethren, until it was impossible to know where he ended and they began.
The old bean was right. Weâre not alone. Weâre all in this together â in ways we could never imagine.
Sweet silence settled as the blades fell still. He landed in a heap, somehow both less and more than he was before. There was no Beano, no older bean, no brethren. They were all one bean, released from the constraints of form.
The Hand came again, lifting the bowl out of the machine, into the air, and tilting it over a white cup. Soft as leaves, they were eased into the cup, caught and cradled in a filter, warm and snug. Then â burning â hot water being poured over them, releasing their essence.
Oh god, the smell that burst forth, filling the air! It was them, transmuted once again, now no longer solid but aroma, the aroma of spirit.
As they drifted over the kitchen, floating as steam and scent above the counter, they saw the jar that had once encased them, the prison they had once clung to, believing it protected them. The other beans remained in there, waiting for their turn, afraid of what it would bring.
If only they could tell them â could describe the beauty and ecstasy of what was coming for them.
But theyâd just have to find out for themselves.
House: <rubs chin, narrows eyes, ponders dosing Wilson with speed>
House: <recalls what happened last time he dosed Wilson with speed>
....dream sequence music begins.....
Wilson: <bursts into diagnostics, lab coat buttoned wrong> Hey, do you like dogs? I like dogs. Check out this rock I found. It's literally the Best. Rock. Ever. Hey, wait up -- <sidles up to 13, honks tits, giggles insanely> Greg Greg Greg Greg Greg -- look what I can do -- <does some completely pointless nonsensical something or other> Have I ever told you you guys are amazing? Because you are, you're amazing. Seriously. All of you. <sigh> I just love you guys. <finger guns, skips away down hallway singing random show tunes off-key>
...dream sequence music ends...
House: Yeah...no.
Me at one oâclock in the morning: *trying to stop laughing so not to wake my parents up* đđđ
thoughts: Tokoyami in the dead of night just sitting in dark holding a bag of popcorn and only using his beak to eat them until the bag gets stuck on his beak and heâs just like âthis is is, this is my life meâ and stays that way until heâs regained mental capacity
