Sunday, April 15, 2018

Chocolate, Wine, and Two Tablespoons of Oil


Last week's quietly frantic effort ended in the climax that was yesterday. Not my father's birthday, though it was that, too, but rather the combined hit of two events that all but mandated I shift shape. Or should I say, shift Snape -- something I've been longing to do since October anyway.


I could not fully Snapeshift earlier, because of the commitment represented by my hair. It's all right for Alan Rickman to wear a wig, because not only did the man have too little real hair at the end, he also had other roles; he couldn't afford to walk down a normal sidewalk and risk people reacting to him as though he were still the character, because he so very thoroughly is that character and always will be. But me? I have that luxury. For me, it's permanent and nothing less. Worst I'll get is, "What, you going to a Potter party?"

Which I did, last night.

But first came the March for Science! As a science bachelors, I felt it was necessary to participate this year -- last year I either didn't catch it in time, or had other commitments. With scientific reason and fact continually under siege by blatant lies and denial ("alternative facts"? Are you, pardon me, fucking kidding me? Snape would grit his crooked teeth at this era of pure scumbaggery), I feel it's all but a sin to not be involved.

Repping all my respective, ah, fields at the March for Science. Down with the Dark Lord!

This year, the timing was perfect, and I decided to Snapeshift for the march, as well. Snape is the closest thing his little fictional world has to a "hard" scientist; he's basically a wizard chemist, and as I miss chemistry more and more and just as equally pine for actual space to make potions and brews without running up and down stairs or bumping my head on the ceiling --- not to mention, worrying about moving in two months --- I feel close to the spirit of someone who just wanted to be left alone with enough time, space, and money to experiment at his pleasure.


I raced to finish my new Snape accessories over the previous week's course. I finally got a frock-shirt (lightweight summer model!) sewn, altered from an existing shirt, and the pleasant grind of my Husqvarna sewing machine ran late into the evening.


Then it was back to finish what had taken even more time and work, but was worth it by its measure of sheer potions badassery: an "ammunition belt" of test tube vials, to be slung about the shoulders. Sewing leather by hand is a royal bitch, especially of a thick variety, so I'm very glad I discovered studs are strong enough to do the job alone, if you use a bunch of them; and why wouldn't you? They look fantastic. Because I am who I am, the belt had to be --- and is --- totally functional. And it is totally badass. How delicious it would have been, to see Rickman himself rocking a belt like this! On cue, Alan, whip out the one labeled "Veritaserum!" Now.

Me with new hair, frock and potion bandolier but sans makeup for the Science March and rally

The belt has a few details still yet to complete, and I want to create a couple of other small accessories, too. But it's an excellent start.



I wore the belt for the march, and the shorter and rattier of my black robes (for walking in!). I didn't bother with makeup; I'd save that for the party later. Turned out it was plenty, and people liked my getup and signs and requested photos. With parallels already drawn between Trump (or rather, the forces backing him) and the Dark Lord, and people like Betsy DeVos and Umbridge, my interpretation was a natch.

Signs for the Science March, rollable and reusable

Also joining us at the rally was a troupe of righteous, singing, "Raging Grannies" of the sort of old woman I'd like to be one day.

Don't mess with crones.
Take that, you science-doubting asses.

As I listened to them, an actual honeybee --- in the middle of downtown Portland --- landed, first on my sign, then my knee, and finally my bare hand. As though she knew the safest person to land on was this woman dressed like Severus Snape of all people, at a climate change oriented rally, who also happened to be writing a book about bees, and who did not fear her kind. I figured she needed a rest, so I let her sit on me for at least twenty minutes, watching as she cleaned her legs and face, and then either shat or dropped more pollen. I walked around carefully with her on me until, finally feeling perky again, the bee at last flew away. Factoring in circumstances, I considered the bee's presence a huge blessing. "Write that book," she also seemed to whisper.


After that totally cool incident, I partook of the other rally features. I got to handle a couple of real human brains, courtesy of Northwest Noggin --- and yes, I wore protective gloves! As a hardcore Snapeshifter and lover of creepy science and stuff in jars, how could I not take the plunge and get my paws slimy?


But I also marveled at the intricacy of those humble, firmly squishy, wrinkled lumps of flesh, the sheer power of them. They were dead now, but frozen somewhere inside still lay twenty billion neurons, and eighty years' worth of memories, fantasies, ideas and multitasking capability. We are fearfully and wonderfully made. Thank you, Creator, for my beautiful human brain, despite the torture of all its complex logic and twisted little thoughts!

Brains!

Finally, as part of the Noggin project, a man was leading a short activity of making black-ink prints on gel slabs, designed to convey a design like neurons. Mine came out great, of course, and we had a nice chat.

Black, of course. The teacher and I joked about it not mattering if I got this stuff on my clothes!

After the March for Science, back home I went to drop off my signs, so meticulously worked on until six o'clock this morning, resulting in a pitiful two hours of sleep. I ate a quick bite, then hurried to put finishing touches like labels on my costume. Never mind the makeup. I've done my own makeup since the beginning, and I knew just how to accentuate Snape's frown and disdainful sneer. Just the color and outline of lipstick to use to mimic Rickman's arch mouth. Damn, I thought, sizing myself up in the mirror, I look gooood.

In full-on "Sarkosian" Snape makeup. Soon to be loaded on caffeine, alcohol, sugar . . . basically, all the things you don't worry about once you tell fear- and guilt-based religions to sod off. Make mine black, please.

I'd anticipated all week that moment of arriving, fully kitted out, on my friend's doorstep. Because, you know. For me, being authentic Snape is a huge thing . . . especially when it's a breakout event after years of not channeling!

Want a taste of this?

I didn't get to enact some dialog threads I'd planned, since my friend's kids weren't there (alas, we were deprived of the presence of a dementor, and I'd packed a bar of Absolute Black chocolate for nothing?), and HP 7 Part 2 was nearing its end, so people were distracted. Confession time! I hate HP 7 Part 2. I hate how they overdid the pathetic angst and totally blew it in so many ways that could have been great, particularly at the end. The threat of Snape wasn't capitalized on nearly to its fullest --- Dumbledore's murderer is Headmaster, people! Play it up! --- and too much was rewritten to the point of cheesy. And I flatly refuse to watch Snape's end again, because it was a scene of such disturbingly veiled brutality, it still haunts me. Finally, Grint and Watson? Hell, all three of you? Puke. I never liked that shit even as a teenager. So I dicked around until it was over, feasting on food and serving myself the first of numerous servings of swill that night. And being, as much as a person without Rickman's vocal range possibly can, purely authentic Snape. "Wendy's not breaking character for anyone," my friend, posing as Bellatrix, noted, as I resisted my urge to drop that sneer and smile. Damn straight, I wasn't. Wendy was somewhere far, far away.

"YOU, you traitor to the Dark Lord!"
"Ah, but I still have an intact soul!"
"Ingrate! Goody-two-shoes! WIIIIITCH!!"
It's clear Bellatrix and Snape secretly dig each other. Sneering disdain at first sight.

Soon after, Lord of the Rings was playing, which oddly suited me fine. (Though this was technically a Harry Potter versus Lord of the Rings party, and I told my friend, "I am not doing 'versus'!" I've had it up to here with that competition crap. My focus is on being the best Snape, bar none, that I can be.) By then, we'd broken into the chocolate wine, and I was officially in debaucherous, fast-becoming-loaded, Snapeish heaven. I wanted that wine flowing over my tongue forever; I have got to find some and buy it!

Give . . . me . . . more . . . of this potion.
Now.

My friend Nemesis-a-la-Bellatrix and I ended up side-by-side on the sofa, rolling in our seats, cracking snarky comments and posing outrageously for selfie shots. It was all made more fun by the two of us trying to stay in character, what with Snape and Bellatrix's history together: She the fanatic loyalist, who suspects Snape (rightly) of being a slippery, traitorous double agent! And there is no one more slippery than Severus Snape. "Why does your hair look wet?" asked our birthday girlfriend's daughter, when I approached the table for yet another handful of jellybeans of the non-Bertie-Botts variety. "It's not wet," I replied suggestively, "it's greasy." As it was: Thanks to two entire tablespoonfuls of olive oil that night of Friday the 13th, my hair hasn't been so easy to comb in years. It feels silky and smooth and, dare I say it, nearly orgasmic.

Caught in the act! Deprived of decent snooky since the Dark Lord fell, one dirty-minded wizard chemistry teacher oggles a piece of tempting student. Cropped to protect identity. Merlin's pants, but we have a helluva bawdy time.

As the night bounded on, we put on Lord of the Rings' Two Towers and kept at it. Among my many Snapecessories, along with my potions ammo belt and wand and a bottle of ingredients or three, I'd brought my most serious piece of Snape pride and joy, Potus. Our friend the birthday girl had hoped to start an herb shop with her best buddy who'd recently passed away, and she hadn't seen The Tome yet. Now I took her hand, placed it on Potus's velvety brown cover, and wove a blessing spell of words over her while she soaked in the good vibes of nine years' worth of true passion for potions held in those pages. A sort of witches' version of a hand-on-Bible blessing, but so much more personal. I would weave a spell somewhere into that book, I said, that her dream would come to pass, as long as she still wished it (because we can and do change our minds). Because not only do I want my funny, bawdy and beautiful friend to be happy, the world can always use another apothecary! Bring on the herbs, the potions, and the healing. Someday, I told her, I plan to have my own as well. But not yet, while I'm still too mobile. And I want mine to have a tea cafe and, most importantly, a huge awesome lab where I can pass on the craft to the next generation. She broke down and cried, and shared feelings and thoughts and fears, and we talked. But the most important thing I did then was listen --- listen and be there for her. I hadn't known what to get as a birthday gift, so for now I gifted her my time, ears and heart.


Two Towers had ended and midnight loomed before the last of us felt like calling it a night. I felt tired but happy, and thoroughly sated, smug in my harboring of Snape's spirit, and charged by the bitchy, witchy time I'd had with my equally crazy witch friends. This is the stuff life is made of! And look at us all! Who can resist this nutty lot, and the fun we have? And amid all those giddy faces, who's that gimlet-eyed, implacable one sneering from the shadows?


Haters beware: The Bastard's back!




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