I can't talk about the other thing right now, not even a little bit. ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
happydork and I are sort-of obsessed with The Magnus Archives, though, which is a super fun time! We are both at the beginning of season 3 and texting each other grisly things. I really love it: I love how imaginative and well-written it is, but also utterly familiar it all is. Like, it's all terrible creepy horrors all the time, sure, but they're my creeping horrors. Nasty deaths happen next to my house by Finsbury Park, and on Elthorne Road (I was in Elthorne Park when I got to that!) and up towards Tufnell Park and Archway. I used to live just down from Hilltop Road in Oxford back in 2010. The Magnus Institute itself is by Millbank, just along from my department, and my office looks out on the same stretch of the river. I love that it's a story about eldritch terrors but also about the London rental market and section 31 of the Freedom of Information Act and being signed off for workplace stress and going to see live music in Soho and being freaked out on the Night Tube. The writer and some of the cast were at uni with me and we're all on that terribly middle-class trajectory of Oxford-then-London, which explains why everything feels unearthly and marvellously, painfully close. It's such a gift in these times.
Anyway. Rather than do any of the other million things I should have done today, I wrote this completely conflict-free story. It's embarrassing. it's very embarrassing. I just want people to look after each other in these terrible times, ok.
(also - please do not spoil me. I'm on ep 81, "A Guest For Mr Spider".)
your ghosts could be angels from here
3000w, The Magnus Archives, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood.
“Do you want tea,” Martin says, leaving off the question mark for once. Jon might still be Martin’s irritable, forceful, kind-of-a-dick boss, but even he seems softer outside the confines of the Institute. As though the sharp edges of paper and spools of magnetic tape are for him, skeletal; without them he can’t quite hold himself up.
happydork and I are sort-of obsessed with The Magnus Archives, though, which is a super fun time! We are both at the beginning of season 3 and texting each other grisly things. I really love it: I love how imaginative and well-written it is, but also utterly familiar it all is. Like, it's all terrible creepy horrors all the time, sure, but they're my creeping horrors. Nasty deaths happen next to my house by Finsbury Park, and on Elthorne Road (I was in Elthorne Park when I got to that!) and up towards Tufnell Park and Archway. I used to live just down from Hilltop Road in Oxford back in 2010. The Magnus Institute itself is by Millbank, just along from my department, and my office looks out on the same stretch of the river. I love that it's a story about eldritch terrors but also about the London rental market and section 31 of the Freedom of Information Act and being signed off for workplace stress and going to see live music in Soho and being freaked out on the Night Tube. The writer and some of the cast were at uni with me and we're all on that terribly middle-class trajectory of Oxford-then-London, which explains why everything feels unearthly and marvellously, painfully close. It's such a gift in these times. Anyway. Rather than do any of the other million things I should have done today, I wrote this completely conflict-free story. It's embarrassing. it's very embarrassing. I just want people to look after each other in these terrible times, ok.
(also - please do not spoil me. I'm on ep 81, "A Guest For Mr Spider".)
your ghosts could be angels from here
3000w, The Magnus Archives, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood.
“Do you want tea,” Martin says, leaving off the question mark for once. Jon might still be Martin’s irritable, forceful, kind-of-a-dick boss, but even he seems softer outside the confines of the Institute. As though the sharp edges of paper and spools of magnetic tape are for him, skeletal; without them he can’t quite hold himself up.