Name of The Lion
Voltron (he who is the Legendary Defender) has no less than his fifth season on Netflix. I have been waiting quite patiently for it, at least since the moment I finished watching season four in a single, seizure-inducing sitting.
Unfortunately, I fear I am somewhat late to the party this time round as for some reason, none of my usual information brokers deigned to mention it even in passing. There wasn’t even a splash page on the viewing portal, I swear. These lions were made for splashing and it’s not like the gatekeepers can’t pay rent, aka ‘afford a suitably verbose marketing machine’. It’s hyper vivid and I suspect it demands watching with something approaching immediacy. All fourteen of my phantom appendages are itching in their respective dimensions.
One of my new regulars at my weird little shop comes complete with his very own basset hound, named Rupert. I’m not even kidding. He came from a rescue centre and not just any rescue centre - a specific rescue centre for abandoned basset hounds. Apparently that’s what some people do: they abandon basset hounds. I mean, I guess you have your priorities and life is a bit of jigsaw sometimes but…really? I can’t begin to fathom how anyone walks away from something so inherently lovable as a basset hound, let alone one named Rupert. Give him his own franchise and kids book by all means but don’t leave him by the side of the road in a cardboard box, waiting for the RSPCA to come shoot a b&w ad for daytime TV. Paddington ain’t got snout on this dog.
Having finally cleared most of my current mountain, I decided it was finally time to head back to Earthsea. Like many, I grew up with these books - devouring them in great, dragon-shaped swathes - long before I went to Hogwarts. I'm fairly sure I walked in at the end, which was wondrous because I could binge those tomes from island to the void and back again. And you know, she'd like, finished them. Well, there was that one in 2001 but at least the whole thing was...whole. Relatively. I never felt like she was threatening to pull the rug, turn me back on my ass or hold the whole fracking thing to ransom. I'm looking at you Pat.
I understand a whole bunch of origin stories start small, go away, get smart then return like the big swinger for their end. That is the form. Ged quite literally ran goats ragged on a little island that could, in a universe partially parallel have been the village where I germinated. Le Guin didn’t just forge a great work of fiction; in that world and that story, she discovered something timeless. Not to rob the author of her craft - shouldn't, wouldn't couldn't - but it does feel at times as though she simply pushed away the clay to unearth the fossil within. It's masterful.
You don't have to agree with me. It's just something, ya know? Like home: Much in the same way that we all have to go home sometimes (something far oft more easily said than done), I needs must make this pilgrimage back to Gont. I need to pay my respects.
JD - TACOCAT