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Date Posted: 10:44:02 02/21/09 Sat
Subject: Dollhouse 1.2 Target - Meandering Spoilery thoughts
And so we come to the second episode, Grr. Argh. And I write, nothing as long as in the days of old, and yet, it feels good to post even a borrowed bit of thought.
So, Target. Robin Hood being not as we left him. Echo in all her manifold slices of memory. The shards she has. The bits Boyd holds.
The Panopticon cannot save. Everything will not be all right now that the protector is there, but at least he brought two guns.
That interesting leveling that a gun brings. Social. Gender. There's training (or imprinting) required for ninja&bow&foo. Weapons that require strength versus weapons that require a finger and some aim. Not even all that much aim if going for the body entire.
Of a man, who isn't real. Of an organization that isn't real. People who aren't real. Treated as cups to be filled at whim. Be this. Do that. Become. Shape at external desire.
All those true love assignments. The girl who chatters about that man, who she never would have looked at, but she has to tell him how she feels. After her treatment. She's illusion. So was the man that she loved. He bought that moment, and now the memory of it is owned. Not by the cup, the liquid was spilled out, but by the cupboard. The Dollhouse.
Except we then come to the woods. True action love gone awry.
As an aside, my favorite of the hunting a man stories is from the Incredible Hulk tv series, because of that delicious expectation on the part of the viewer that the hunter isn't going to like the meek milk mild when they become angry. Become green in the woods.
This was almost the inversion of this. Caroline who became an Echo (who spoke to much, too little, and Hera had her way. Echoed the words of her love, scorned and became a breeze in a cave) didn't manifest mad ninja skills. Only the sisters of herself. All those women she'd been. All those women inside her, they stood in her mind. They stood in the liminal woods in their line echoing back, should be fainter as echoes, but only louder with time.
And so Echo. Drink me. Down the rabbit 'whole'. Through the looking glass darkly. She drank something strange. Perhaps something meant to provoke that response. Perhaps not, but it made her fall into the water. The rushing, rushing river. A place of birth. A place of change.
It was said once, thought not in Buffy, that vampires could not cross water such as that. They are unchange and the river is transformation itself.
Alpha cut once. In the shower. They always shower before bed, these children stolen from themselves.
Even though they send her to the Panopticon grave with it's milk-ice-plastic-glass cover, she has been in the river. The River Un-Lethe. They drain the glass. But though the cup went to the table a cup, it leaves a grail of itself. The person, each of us the grail, coated with the traces of who we've been. Passed encounters. Future shapes. Who she'll be.
Shoulder to the wheel. The wheel that is struggle. The spinning windmill. Ah, Cyrano. The great turning that dash some into the mud. Tosses others to the stars. She's got her shoulder to it. Her breezy shoulder. Compress water all you'd like. She's become the wind. Becoming. Traces. Echoes.
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