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Children of Earth. Day Five...
Jul. 11th, 2009 10:18 amIt's now about 10:30 a.m. on Saturday morning. Day Six, as it were...
Yesterday I sat and watched all through the evening and far into the night as the episode downloaded. (Oddly, as I am not particularly religious in any way, it felt a bit like sitting shiva.)
At 3 a.m. I finally hit "play."
At 4 a.m. I surfed around looking at other people's reaction posts to see how they were wrapping their brains around this last piece. I needed to wrap myself in other people who were suffering along with me. It was good to know there are others out there as gobsmacked as I am by this season/series/story. Thanks guys for your presence in my life ... even if I don't know you and you don't know me, really.
At 5 a.m. I went properly to bed -- the first time since about Wednesday.
At 7 a.m. I woke up having dreamed of Russell. About Russell. Something. It was nebulous, as dreams often are, but it rather seemed like I was hearing someone read a fanfic (a sort of fictional RPS if there is such a thing) about Russell, narrated by an OC, and saying something about how over the course of his DW helmsmanship he's watched every surviving episode of Old Who at least twice.
Now I think if heard/read somewhere that he's got copies of them all, and watched them, but not sure of the facts, and for the purposes of my waking epiphany about Day Five it doesn't really matter. (And how much do I love that I'm dreaming in fanfic?!)
But I woke realizing what would have made Day Five ... well... I realized what I wanted from Day Five that I didn't get.
I wanted, when Jack is in that security warehouse, and they hack into the Torchwood servers or whatever to see what they can do to best the 456. Round about the point the nasty scientist is dripping with contempt about "hacking into Torchwood years ago..."
I suddenly knew what would have given some purpose to the events of Day Four.
Jack should have found some piece of information meticulously filed, or cross-referenced by Ianto in the database that led them to their solution.
It could have been easily written. It would have given some purpose for Ianto's time at Torchwood Three. It would have allowed him to help Jack one more time. Bonus points to lessening the grimness if it would have saved Stephen.
It would have been one pure moment justifying Jack's team before it all crumbled away. It would have made me feel better.
BUT
At the end of the day, that's not the story Russell wanted to tell. And I'm cool with that. His story isn't my story. It doesn't need to be. It shouldn't be. And all those people who feel "betrayed" somehow... well I get that this was a hard story to witness. It was. Days Four and Five have gutted me. Headache. Nausea. Lack of sleep. Crying. All of it.
But I think of that. That one guy halfway across the world sitting down and writing a story can have that effect on my life. Examining that power...
How five words ... "our father worked at Debenham's" ... five simple words shoved into the middle of a much larger narrative ... well those five words are either the cruelest piece of character assasination or the cleverest piece of character development I ever saw. I'm still not sure which. But as I dozed in my bed, thinking about Russell and research and meticulousness... it gave me all the backstory I may ever need about Ianto Jones.
A boy and his Father who always wanted MORE. A boy and his Father who watched movies about people who were larger -- grander -- than the life they saw around them. So the boy idolized his dad into something MORE than he had been. And as he grew up, the boy searched his whole life for something MORE...something or someone larger than life... someone he could love and respect and maybe even fear, just like his Dad.
And I think he found him. For a while.
"And it was good, yeah?"
Hell yeah, Ianto Jones. You might have been the smoke to Jack's fire ... but without the smoke, sometimes you can't see the fire.
So there is a lot to process. There's a lot of sleep to catch up on. I am not sure how I am going to get through the next two week's performances of the Emily Dickinson piece that is so much about death. There will be more tears.
And there will be more stories.
Yesterday I sat and watched all through the evening and far into the night as the episode downloaded. (Oddly, as I am not particularly religious in any way, it felt a bit like sitting shiva.)
At 3 a.m. I finally hit "play."
At 4 a.m. I surfed around looking at other people's reaction posts to see how they were wrapping their brains around this last piece. I needed to wrap myself in other people who were suffering along with me. It was good to know there are others out there as gobsmacked as I am by this season/series/story. Thanks guys for your presence in my life ... even if I don't know you and you don't know me, really.
At 5 a.m. I went properly to bed -- the first time since about Wednesday.
At 7 a.m. I woke up having dreamed of Russell. About Russell. Something. It was nebulous, as dreams often are, but it rather seemed like I was hearing someone read a fanfic (a sort of fictional RPS if there is such a thing) about Russell, narrated by an OC, and saying something about how over the course of his DW helmsmanship he's watched every surviving episode of Old Who at least twice.
Now I think if heard/read somewhere that he's got copies of them all, and watched them, but not sure of the facts, and for the purposes of my waking epiphany about Day Five it doesn't really matter. (And how much do I love that I'm dreaming in fanfic?!)
But I woke realizing what would have made Day Five ... well... I realized what I wanted from Day Five that I didn't get.
I wanted, when Jack is in that security warehouse, and they hack into the Torchwood servers or whatever to see what they can do to best the 456. Round about the point the nasty scientist is dripping with contempt about "hacking into Torchwood years ago..."
I suddenly knew what would have given some purpose to the events of Day Four.
Jack should have found some piece of information meticulously filed, or cross-referenced by Ianto in the database that led them to their solution.
It could have been easily written. It would have given some purpose for Ianto's time at Torchwood Three. It would have allowed him to help Jack one more time. Bonus points to lessening the grimness if it would have saved Stephen.
It would have been one pure moment justifying Jack's team before it all crumbled away. It would have made me feel better.
BUT
At the end of the day, that's not the story Russell wanted to tell. And I'm cool with that. His story isn't my story. It doesn't need to be. It shouldn't be. And all those people who feel "betrayed" somehow... well I get that this was a hard story to witness. It was. Days Four and Five have gutted me. Headache. Nausea. Lack of sleep. Crying. All of it.
But I think of that. That one guy halfway across the world sitting down and writing a story can have that effect on my life. Examining that power...
How five words ... "our father worked at Debenham's" ... five simple words shoved into the middle of a much larger narrative ... well those five words are either the cruelest piece of character assasination or the cleverest piece of character development I ever saw. I'm still not sure which. But as I dozed in my bed, thinking about Russell and research and meticulousness... it gave me all the backstory I may ever need about Ianto Jones.
A boy and his Father who always wanted MORE. A boy and his Father who watched movies about people who were larger -- grander -- than the life they saw around them. So the boy idolized his dad into something MORE than he had been. And as he grew up, the boy searched his whole life for something MORE...something or someone larger than life... someone he could love and respect and maybe even fear, just like his Dad.
And I think he found him. For a while.
"And it was good, yeah?"
Hell yeah, Ianto Jones. You might have been the smoke to Jack's fire ... but without the smoke, sometimes you can't see the fire.
So there is a lot to process. There's a lot of sleep to catch up on. I am not sure how I am going to get through the next two week's performances of the Emily Dickinson piece that is so much about death. There will be more tears.
And there will be more stories.
