After sitting through yet another goes-to-11-on-the-emotometer episode of Dr Who (The Doctor’s Daughter — spoilers below), I find myself asking why I still watch a show that almost never fails to make me squirm at least once per episode, not from sheer, clean terror as I used to as a kid, but from embarrassment at some piece of incontinently squirting emo-ness. The answer is, of course, that both Christopher Eccleston and David Tennant were and are respectively charismatic enough to make even a badly scripted show watchable, and the aliens are usually pretty cool (I say usually; we were not well served by seeing the Sontarans, once sinister and as scary as potatoes in spacesuits can be, dancing a retarded imitation of a Haka).

Not that the new Dr Who is all badly scripted. But there is a godawful tendency for the writers to make the characters voice everything in their minds and hearts. One of the facts about film and television is that everything doesn’t have to be said, and in the case of strong feelings, a little script tends to go a long way. Moreover, with a long-running show like Dr Who, I think the writers must keep in mind the fact that hearts disclosed can’t be undisclosed. You can’t drop the same bomb twice. Viewers do remember what took place in previous episodes. New companions don’t have to be told, on camera, what we already know. We know the Doctor fought in the Time War. We know all the other Time Lords died. We know he carries terrible emotional scars from the experience. We also know that since the beginning of the series he has not been in the habit of talking about his personal problems. This is part of what makes him mysterious and cool. In the old series there was ongoing, never-released tension in our not knowing much about his past other than that there was some trouble in it. The Time War is an extra Big Bad, but as with most Big Bads in a character’s past that are not a subject of current investigation, the shadowier the details, the better. In this respect the Doctor is like the Man With No Name (yeah, I had to mention him…). You know the guy’s been through hard times. There’s dignity, and some pathos, in his preference for not talking about those times. The Doctor’s Daughter gave us an almost-but-not-quite Time Lord girl made from the Doctor’s DNA. With a restrained script, we viewers would have been able to imagine the Doctor’s feelings quite well. Instead, the Doctor is prodded into coming out of his shell for a few moments in which we get a reiteration of how he fought and killed and lost everyone; and to top it all off, the girl gets shot dead, seemingly just to provide a scene full of angst, which turns out to be disposable angst, since she gets better, Monty Python style, after the Doctor and Donna depart.

Part of the problem is, ironically, that in the one hour format there isn’t much time for chit chat, so that emotional explorations are always quickies–there’s no time for us to build up to the moment. Discussions of a personal nature get squeezed into gaps between action, ruining the tension. How worried can the characters be if they’re playing therapist between one firefight and the next? We get the worst of both worlds. And another gripe — what’s with the in-show squeeing? Why is Donna being made to fangirl over the Doctor, especially as she’s given to nagging him quite a bit about his faults? I hope it’s because he’s going to do something that will screw severely with her idea of him…
Christopher Eccleston said he wanted to add an emotional weight to the role, saying that a modern audience “turn on the television to look into people’s souls”.  That was a worthy aim, but one which the writers have thus far not done much to abet — or rather, they’ve added emotional weight, but mainly in the form of wobbly fat, not firm muscle. (I’m not the only one who thinks the new Who is a bit quivery.) This isn’t to say that characters should never disclose their feelings, but to have them do so every episode drags the show down to the level of soap opera. A long-running show requires some thought to the timing of the buildup and release of tension, even when each episode is self-contained. Where the writers do pay attention to this — as they did with the Rose Tyler arc — it works. And they didn’t over-script the emotionally heavy moments, either.

Also successful was, I think, the Doctor’s unexpected and brief reunion with Sarah Jane Smith. And I think it worked because the tension was already pre-built, at least for viewers of the old series (and Elisabeth Sladen played it perfectly, too). But too often the arrows are being made to fly without the bow being properly drawn. I think much could be improved if the series were taken back to a four hour format. The one hour format is conducive to rush and muddle of all kinds.

I will now go sit on the porch and glare lumpishly at the young folk.

This is my first attempt at all CG, no paper involved. For some reason, today, he thinks dandyism involves a velvet shirt and horn-rimmed specs.

Wass and Wan were here while I was drawing this. Wass asked if it was a boy or a girl; then they decided (I think) that it must be either a katoey (ladyboy) or a tom (butch lesbian). Stu found the Wiki page for “metrosexual” in Thai. Wan read it, curled her lip and firmly said “katoey”…

A few more. Tropical sunsets get all the press, but tropical sunrises have their moments too. Most of these were taken from the public balcony above our flat.

These are some photos taken out the window, mostly in the early morning.

And a fuzzy night shot. The bright light is the moon:

I’m out for my morning walk up soi 10, thinking about how much freedom I have and how little ambition, how much spiritual yearning and how little spiritual belief, and how existentialism is the atheist’s only refuge, and a cheerless refuge it is, unless you can find Nietzsche’s joy (fuck, I hate typing “Nietzsche”, it always takes me at least three tries), which I don’t seem able too — when, in the gutter on my left, I see a rat lying on its back, twitching convulsively. One of its hind legs is at a strange angle. I guess the rat was hit by a car or bike. It looks like it might take a while to die. It would be humane to kill it. But there’s nothing lying around to kill it with. I’d have to step on its head. Which I am too squeamish to do. Even if I went back home and got my tai chi sword, I know I’d pike when it came to actually doing the deed. I’ve only euthanised one creature in my life — a gecko, back in Australia, which had been pecked at by a bird and was losing its intestines. I put it in the freezer. No squicky crushing or slicing involved.

So I fail to do my duty by the rat, as does everyone else who goes past it. One guy spits on it, for some reason of his own. Its suffering is pitiful to see, and throws a harsh light on my wangsty thoughts. Never mind the vacancy and meaninglessness of life, the rat seems to say. You have vitality, freedom and health. These are good things. You are not in pain. This pleasant situation will not last forever. Make the most of it: tomorrow, you may get run over. What making the most of it means is, of course, up to you.

Half an hour later, as I come back, the rat is still there, and isn’t dead yet. I also find a toad, but the toad is, I think, dead; although not squashed, it is a funny colour on top, and I can see part of its insides glistening underneath it.

So I come back to this business of making the most of life. Which means…??? I know the wise and the good tend to say it means living for others. But I don’t know whether that’s a habit you can learn at 36. In the book I’ve just finished reading, A History of Orgies, by Burgo Partridge, the Greek recipe for happiness is briefly explained. One might suppose it to be as much sodomy as one (and others) can manage, but actually it was all about variety and moderation — having a varied curriculum in life, rather than devoting yourself fanatically to one thing. This contrasts with the modern Western preference for specialisation and our tendency to believe that it’s well nigh impossible to have it all, which probably arises from our other notion that having is not having unless it’s having in spades.

I find I don’t know what I think it means to make to most of life. It might be one of those things that actually can’t be pinned down to one answer. For part of it, I have to fall back on my one and only metaphysical belief, which is that we are the conscious organ of the universe, and if we have one responsibility that transcends out own lives, it is to contribute to the evolution of that universe. We are each unique. We might therefore say that from the transcendental perspective, to make the most of life is to make sure we put our uniqueness on the table and pass on our original memes — and be industrious pollinators for those memes of other people that appeal to us. In this way, we increase the universal mind’s chances of broadening and deepening its self-education.

But whatever you think of that, it’s the other part, the part that ends with our own lives, that I’ve really got on my mind. At the moment I’m thinking that it has to be a personal thing. The specialist’s path might be one way, the generalist’s path another — ditto the hedonist, the ascetic, the dandy, the social activist, even the selfish bastard, perhaps. Or maybe I’m wrong. Open floor –anyone have opinions, ideas, certainties…? Or what errors screw up any of those potential paths to making the most of life? How do failures fit into the picture? And is it even necessary to make the most of life…? (I have the feeling that the Zen answer to some or all of these questions would be “mu” (moo!), meaning that the question itself is flawed. But I get that feeling a lot. It might just be paranoia. Or branewurms.)

Vols 1-3, here. Click on the Patarillo link at the top.

(If you’re trying to access the doujinshi for sale page, note the page owner’s spelling.)

Phallus and vulva lovers, by the famous Hokusai. Have you ever seen anything cuter?

If you’re into shunga, the site it comes from has a great collection.

Mum and Dad: you might want to pass on this one.

I was impressed by the shunga (”spring pictures” — Japanese erotic art) in the book with the funny penises in it and this morning I had an urge to do one of my own. I’m very happy: I’ve discovered ebony pencils. They give a deep black tone and hold a point very well. I wish I’d known about these for, oh, the last 33 years? I did the lines on paper and the colour in Photoshop.

Anyway, Gwynn and his goddess. A bit ero-guro. Stu thinks it’s the feminist version of tentacle porn:

I don’t know what her leg is kneeling on — him, it looks like. Or maybe she’s levitating. His bathrobe might need some kind of pattern to visually balance the huge glowing twat. I’ll probably try a few and see how it looks.

I googled “vulva” to get an image for a picture I’m drawing, and found …

THE WONDROUS VULVA PUPPET

“Hand made in lush velvets and silk satins, Dorrie Lane’s gorgeous celebrations of feminine essence are soft, receptive and visually delightful….”
I think you can probably use them as winter slippers, too.

Gwynn and Marriott on the day they meet:

I’ve been wanting to draw this scene for a while. Readers of The Etched City will know, or might remember, that Marriott has drunk more than enough of the awful pseudo-Celtic hooch that’s in the bottle and is about to be sick.

I’m now going to try to turn this into a proper drawing. I think it’s a given that I’ll screw up the sled, but if I can make the figures look reasonable I’ll be happy.