We're All Mad Here

This was part of an old picture series I made several years ago. But I thought it incredibly fitted to the next Marvel film due. That, and they actually looked halfway well done......

Made by Angelique

Made by Angelique

Made by Angelique.

Made by Angelique

Made by Angelique

The quotes don't quite make sense, but it was based off a music video using the song 'This is War' by Tatyana Oracle on youtube that I liked.

I also find amusing that most of these are of Steve......

I solemnly swear I am up to no good -

What choices I make are not what I should.

But I will do them because I can:

Sometimes the stronger is the one that ran.

I soullessly swear I am up to no good -

What I did 'til the end no one thought I could.

But this I have chosen; for this I will fight -

For in the end? Only this could be right.

It's quite annoying, really. 

One sits down to an episode or a film, and one enjoys it - and there is one actor that just does not look right, Well, he - or she - looks right, but too familiar! And yet not nearly enough to be recognised - just a niggling feeling....

It helps if it were a major film or production - but when they were only in one episode, or if I didn't even see them at all but only saw them mentioned tangentially in another post on something....  It gets confusing and annoying.

Something that irks me immensely: that I can't be feminine.

Well, obviously, I can - and yet, I can't without judgement.

I'm the sort of person that loves to wear stockings and heels, and hats, and gloves, and girdles, and corsets, and waistcoats, and skirts, and gowns....  And I'd wear them every single day if I could. I like a touch of makeup, and I love red lipstick, and I adore shapely nails. Such as the ones above - what started this rant.

And yet, perhaps I just don't meet the right people ever, but I've always been judged for it. Or gotten that strong impression. "Why are you wearing a hat? Are you going to a funeral?" 'Why are you wearing gloves? Are you sick?' 'Why are you wearing a skirt? Don't you have any work to do?' 'Why are you wearing heels? Are you trying to get some boy's attention?' 'Why are you wearing red lipstick? Do you want to be a lady of the night?' 'Why are your nails long? why are they painted? Do you do any work or are you just some prissy girl that thinks she's better than everyone?'

'You like dresses - you never do any work.' 'You like makeup - obviously, you're just throwing yourself at men.' 'You like books - you can't tell what's reality. No wonder you're so messed up - you're a drama queen.' 'You let boys hold doors open for you - obviously you want them to turn us all into their servants again.'

What's so wrong with you in this modern time? Corsets are instruments of torture made to imprison women - don't you know that? Are you just so lazy you don't want to excersise? You know, if you really wanted to fix yourself, you could. You're just too lazy to try. You're backwards, and ignorant, and stupid - and why do you give yourself airs? Pretend you're better? Look down on us other modern women?

So, it probably is all in my head. One of the best times of my life was when I found out that there were other people that wore and lived vintage fashion and lives. That I wasn't the only person. That I wasn't fighting against something no one else did.

so yes. Please. Tell me I shouldn't do this. that I'm backward - ignorant. I'm sick of it. This is something I actually enjoy. Even a little bit.

I really don't think I'm better than anyone. I don't think I'm pretty, or entitled, or....anything. It makes me feel pretty - makes me a part of something that I can actually fit in with. Barely - but I can try.

It's rather like I'm self destructing.

I don't want to hope or dream, but if I don't I'm breaking myself apart. I want it all to stop, but I want to survive, I want to escape, to spare everyone else - but I don't want to hurt them any more. I don't want to fail, but if I don't try I'll fail anyway.

And yet, I can't try. Half of me wants to curl up beneath the duvet as tightly as I can, to cover my ears and listen to my heartbeat and pretend that there's nothing outside. Half of me wants to ignore life and work and food and family and friends and school and whatever else seeks to call me out.Half of me just doesn't care what happens anymore.

The other half of me? Fears failing. Fears being mocked, being looked down on, being pitied, being condescended to, being hurt....  It fears hurting others - failing others....

and the two sides fight. I want to give up, but I have to fight. I don't care if I win, but if I lose I'll break. I don't know how to fight, yet part of me screams that I must.

And yet, I don't really feel anything. Not often. A flash of anger occasionally - but it's here then gone. It's just....Surrender. There's no point.

"For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come must give up pause."

I can sit down and tell anyone that they matter, that they're priceless. That life isn't so bad. But I can't sit myself down.  And how many others have I failed then? If I can't convince myself of that, how do I convince another....

But there's....a buffer. Between me and any feelings. I will regret this in the years to come - maybe, if I ever get well - but now? I can't care. I hid my scars so they're easy to repeat and shield - I moderate my speech to hide what I'm thinking, I try to do school and work - but grades? They don't matter.

Nothing matters.

Everything matters - and I can't do anything about it.

Feeling sick, as if a weight is pressing down on my, on my stomach.

Nothing hurts enough. I want to hurt someone. I want to hurt them until I hurt - and I can't bring myself to do that. I hurt myself then, hold myself back.

Better never to hope than to hurt.  And yet, that's not true. At least if I tried then I'd KNOW I couldn't have suceeded, rather than be haunted by the 'what ifs'.

How does one tell what's real and what's not? how does one tell if the fear and the hate and the nothingness is earned or not? How does one tell if anything is half as bad as one thinks?

I certainly can't. I never could.

But if I just tried harder. If I just worked more. If I was just more obedient. If I followed God's will. If I kept hope. If I wasn't so cynical. If I was more helpful and supportive. If I wasn't such a liar. If I wasn't so messed up.

If. If. If. If. If.

Stevenson wrote a poem titled If once....

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, or watch the things you gave your life to broken, and never breathe a word about your loss, if neither foe nor loving friend can hurt you, and so hold on when there is nothing in you except the will which says to them 'hold on'.

That's a bunch of separated lines of course - but it does sum it up. if. If I were better, stronger, more in control of myself.

AND I KNOW I CAN'T DO IT!!!  I've tried and haven't tried - but I don't know how to give up either.

But, dear Reader - do you know what the worst part of this is?

I'm not an idiot. Certainly, I'm not so good at interacting with the modern world, and I can be incredibly flighty and scatter brained, and I can't remember anything - but I'm not a total idiot.

When I watch films or series, it has to be complicated. If it doesn't have enough in it to occupy my mind, I go crazy and get incredibly bored and start nitpicking and tearing apart the production. I do the same in life too - just not audibly.

I look at the world from history, and from observances. When I do the same thing, I notice it in others.

She has deeper scars that I, and I can see them. And she's hiding more. And I'm terrified that one of these days I'm going to go in there, and I'm going to find her on the ground. I'm afraid she's either going to make a mistake and cut too deep, or that she'll do it on purpose. and I'm going to be too late to do anything.

I know myself. And I can see myself in others. 

And that scares me to death.

I'm sure that at some point I will change the background again. I'm also well aware that it's dark. Thus why I will likely change it at some point. But for now? It does an excellent job and I like it so - in the absence of my ability to make a proper film noir background at this moment - this will suffice quite well.

Dear Reader,

I will speak specifically to you. Why? I've really no idea..... Just as I've no idea why I'm doing this now! Or at least not one I may articulate.

A lot of life is that way - things I don't understand, can't explain, don't feel, don't have....  Many things I know - but knowing does not automatically equate understanding. Likewise for doing.

Yes, I'm rambling. I doubt there's another Reader here - so you have my full and undivided attention! More or less so.....  I'm not known for making sense save when expounding at length on something dear to me.

Made by Angelique

What rare and precious gift is this I see?

Such purity and innocence can't be

More than just a cunning mask - arrayed

That none can see within the soul depraved.

Mark how with shock and pain at the hard fall

Can cunning sin cover itself withal -

Mark how just like an untouched maid she stands.

Mark how she holds out trembling, pleading hands.

I would believe save for what I did see -

Would I could take her hands in purity...

So take her back this rotten orange you give!

To flee and die is better than chain live.

I will not look on her again - begone!

To close my eyes upon her sin is wrong.

None other took her light from her, she lay

It down right willingly: it's gone away.

No rare and precious gift here do I see:

Such worth and value no more than fantasy...

None can bismirch a perfect, guarded name -

But she that scorns allows to do the same.

The walls were built for her protection and

For her comfort and freedom in her land.

Such seeming beauty and innocence must fail;

Such masks before such evidence must fail.

Answer now the charges laid again' -

Only the one can blot oneself in sin.

Wherefore doth one breathe in again at last?

Is such dishonour wiped away so fast?

So then fall back! I charge thee: do not live.

Better you took the pardon Death can give

Rather than stay despised in all men's eyes:

Virtue alone can kill all evil's lies.

On the subject of Shakespeare.....  It is rather amusing how that - hen I was looking up the fourth act to refresh my memory on Claudio's and Leonato's words - I know so much more of the words than I suppose......  I think I've read that scene only a hundred times. And seen it half as much. There's something about it - a tragedy in the midst of a comedy, a moment out of the light-hearted banter that dominates the majority of the rest of the play. Of course, there's the underlying thread that leads up to this moment - but on the whole, hardly noticeable.

And the odd thing is, that scene is one that I should by all rights hate. I certainly do in other stories. Not so much the 'accusations from the evil toward the innocent' but that specific accusation. It is....too familiar. And Leonato doesn't believe her either! He tells her to die - 'Hence from her! Let her die.' - and at least for him it is as much to spare HER shame as it is to spare himself. Save that he feels none of it for himself, really, but for her. 

So that I still have an abiding love for that scene and what comes of it surprises me immensely.

That, and the sherriff.......  Nevermind Fillion is stuck in my head as him - but here! Pause yet a moment....

Marry, sir, they have committed false report;
moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily,
they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have
belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust
things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.

....yes. That all boils down to the same thing. Yes. the numbers are completely off. But what else can you expect from people that - should they find a thief robbing a house - would pass by and thank God that they were not so. AND THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE POLICE BASICALLY!!!!!

And let's not miss Don Pedro's answer:

First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I
ask thee what's their offence; sixth and lastly, why
they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay
to their charge.

In the words of Claudio: by my troth, there's one meaning well suited.

You told me to rant......

And as long as we're on the subject of Shakespeare yet, let's move on to my other adored play: that of the Danish Prince. That of the prince that mourns his father and despises his uncle, and takes vengeance for his father on his uncle when bid so by his father's ghost. He pretends to be mad, cuts capers throughout the play until he convicts his mother and accidentally kills Ophelia's father. (Spoilers for the ancient story....)

"What is the matter?"

"Between who?"

"Will you walk out of the air?"

"Into my grave."

Such fun to read, honestly - but was he truly faking it? Or, perchance, did he really go mad? And then I adapted his Soliloquy for a book, studying it.  'Perchance to dream', indeed......

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

It's not about dreaming. It's about death. It's about someone being so tired  and questioning everything. In the silence, when all is gone.... Putting on a show for everyone else, working for everyone else, and then when the lights turn away and the crowds are gone....   "Be all my sins remembered." "The evil men do live after them, the good is oft' interred with their bones."

When looking at it in that light, it certainly gives a new tack to 'Cheer Up Hamlet'. Because isn't that just what everyone says? "Cheer up. Buck up. Chin up. Stop sulking. Stop pitying yourself. Get ahold of yourself. So your life is terrible - it could be worse, that's no excuse. There are others you need to think about."

There is Ophelia, and there is Horatio. There are the friends we are well aware watch and follow us - those that try to shelter and help us, to hold us back from the worse actions. But life killed Hamlet, and madness killed Ophelia, and guilt killed Claudius, and collateral killed Gertrude, and sorrow bid Horatio live.

And they are all for one and one for all - different shards of the same thing.....

.........and that got morbid even by my standards and didn't say half of what I meant.....

And, seriously??  wherefore doth all of the best lines of Shakespeare go to the men?????? Because I would LOVE to play Shakespeare - it is amazing. Extremely morbid, sure - but amazing. So....challenging and fun and MEMORISING!!!!!!  *grins* "For within that hollow crown keeps Death his court - and there the antic rests."

And now I really want to watch Hamlet again - I'd forgotten how much I love that thing.....  How much I love Shakespeare in general - but I can't find Hollow Crown at the moment....

Although.....That is still an idea. What if someone ran a Shakespeare troupe and left the plays as they were, but just changed most of the parts around? Change the names as need be, and obviously  not all parts would change....  But still.

But Shakespeare wrote it out that way (in a time where women did not act) and Shakespeare is the honourable Bard..... And that idea in us doth seem ambitious....