she lingers with me

Just a quick scene I thought was missing from 5x22. Enjoy!

Killian feels the photograph in his pocket as heavy as if he were lugging around the entire galaxy within his leather jacket, close enough to grasp if he just reached for it. 

Mary Margaret seems to notice the way his hand twitches, but if she’s thinking of making any comments, she decides against it. They’re all feeling a little helpless, but Killian feels like if he doesn’t flex his fingers wide, he may just take his anger out on the floor beneath him. It does little to soothe his frustration.

The picture in his pocket does not make it any easier. The picture of Emma Swan. 

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Crazy pure internet for March 2013

1.  I try not to be but who knows what kind of hateful shit they mixed into my late capitalism baby food when I was but a real 90s kid, now I can’t remember anything but some plastic collectibles where my idiot emotions should be.  I want to love everyone but the road that brought me here was strewn with garbage and germs, who knows what I picked up on the way.  Please be my cleansing fire.

2.  This is a fly love song.  This is a fly in the ointment song.

3.  If I’m understanding correctly you are a guy and the front of the underwear would be my face, with your dick providing an elephant nose?  Not interested.  If my face had to be on someone’s underwear I would want it printed on the inside, facing in, because I am very shy.

4.  Ten, of course.

5.  I love Jodorowsky’s work, especially El Topo, Holy Mountain and the Incal…  But I made the mistake of reading the “The Spiritual Journey of Alejandro Jodorowsky”.  It’s some spiritually hateful and wrongheaded 1970s shit of the worst order.  I can’t help but see EST and Gerhard and all of that 1970s birth re-enactment and violent militaristic self-abnegation and airtight psycho-analytic roleplaying as the broken mirror of incorrect spiritual assumptions pursuing and catching incorrect answers.  The revolution of ‘68 forcing academics away from the world into deeper and more baroque exegesis, the erecting of barriers, the cognescenti defining their new theory existence by divesting themselves of human language.  While outside the psychedelic questers stopped thinking of political change, or even of a cosmos but turned inward.  Men with mustaches and emotions in hotel conference halls acting out war screams and their childhood primal existence, seeing that political change could only happen once you moved to California and focused on enemas.

And this is where the Jodorowsky book comes in.  His spiritual journey is macho horseshit about sport-fucking mysterious women and undergoing fraternity-hazing-ritual-style endurance challenges.  He finds himself studying under a Zen Buddhist monk in some strange version of Zen where there are correct answers and the only way to prove you are a man(?) is to meditate dangerously close to physical death in some evel knievel zen stunt.  Later he fucks a beautiful amazon voodoo woman who wears a green merkin and owns a panther.  Then the zen monk saves the poor Mexican farmers from starvation with soy beans, and Jodorowsky inherits all of Mexican psychic history by eating a Witch’s children(?)(psychedelic mushrooms kept in honey).  There is a tragedy to facing the mysterious, the infinite, the unknown and the unknowable, and to come back with an explanation that reads like the Dungeons & Dragons monster manual.  Anyway, the funniest part of the whole book, because of it’s icky 1970s touchy feely psychoanalytic cum spiritual idiocy is when Jodorowsky is forcibly dragged to a hotel room and (kind of) raped by the bastard daughter of G.I. Gurdjieff; this scene culminates in Gurdjeff’s daughter forcing air through her vagina and making it sing to Jodorowsky. She explains that this is a lost art that all women once knew and this is how mothers soothed their babies and wives soothed their husbands… And Jodorowsky breaks into tears and has a religious experience; this woman’s singing (farting, kind of?) pussy cures Jodorowsky of his childhood resentments towards his own mother. (I’m serious, this happens, read the book).

That said I still love Jodorowsky’s work.  I don’t give a shit about the author.  I think Mishima Yukio was an idiot, and I am glad he took his idiot life, but I love his work.  Art is better than the artist.

nothing is more annoying than falling in love with a line you wrote and then when your professional bf looks over your work, points to that exact line and the bits around it, and says “that’s a darling. it needs to go.” 

nothing gives me greater satisfaction than proofreading something of his and getting to do the same thing, because I feel like it happens so rarely in that direction, I almost get too excited, “that’s a darling!!!! found a darling. I bet you’re in love with this bit. well, it needs to go”