stream of consciousness

Fandom and identity

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I remember during J.K. Rowling’s most recent (well, it might not be the most recent anymore) bout of biogtry I saw a tweet saying something along the lines of, “This wouldn’t have happened if you idiots hadn’t made a stupid wizard book a intrinsic part of your identity.” And I couldn’t understand it, and didn’t like it, because that’s what you’re supposed to do!

(Is this the probable autism talking?)

Then a few months after that Chadwick Boseman died, which was awful. Wealthy white film people had been having a go at Black Panther for ages (“not cinema” “despicable”) but suddenly it all stopped. I saw a lot of posts all over the internet saying things like “I feel like Black Panther was part of my identity” and “How do I tell my kids Black Panther is dead?” Black Panther wasn’t real, though… except of course he was.

Making a character or a film or a book part of your identity is, god, it’s such a bad idea. You always end up devastated or disappointed or hurt, for any number of reasons. A terrible idea. But we do it anyway. It’s hardwired into us.

Woodlice

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Every damn evening there’s woodlice on the tiles around the back door. I don’t know why they come in. I think they must see the lights of the house and mistake them for safety. They get the opposite, of course. When a woodlouse gets inside it pretty quickly dehydrates and dies.

I don’t like bugs of any kind but I try to put up with the woodlice constantly doing what’s worst for them. Some of them are lucky and I see them in time, crawling across the floor oblivious to the danger and oblivious to the disgust they’re causing. Then I get the dustpan and sweep them up with the many, many bodies of their fellow woodlice and put them outside.