(remus out loud)
Oct. 14th, 2004 07:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
reenkaOn a random note, one of the things that bother me most about being part of fandom is the knowledge that by the time book 7 comes out, I'll certainly be long gone from active fannish duty & probably not posting on lj, so I'd be completely unaware of anything and everything, fandomwise, and yet. And yet I'm equally certain that I'd totally cheer when (fine, if) Ron/Hermione becomes canon-- and not even because I care all that much, man. In fact, without fandom, I probably wouldn't care about any ship whatsoever, really. It would just be to spite everyone who didn't want it to happen. It's because I'd know that so many people were like, 'grrr, argh' and that would give me some sort of perverse satisfaction. *sigh* On the other hand, I'd probably enjoy it if H/Hr happened too, in an even more perverse and messed up way, 'cause I can't stand the pairing and yet the very 'omg no!!1' nature of them being canon would amuse me. Besides, I read Derannimer's post on HPfGU about how Ron & Hermione don't banter and rather it's that Ron teases while Hermione bristles, and I've gotta say, she has a point (though that says nothing at all about the glory of H/Hr... or the fact that I like bickering too). I think the only outcome I can't possibly enjoy is Harry dying (and even that... the perversity lurks). I'm secretly an evil person, aren't I? ...All right, I lie. I'd be really upset if anything ...er... permanent happened to Harry or Ron.
Perhaps it's just that R/Hr isn't an OTP after all, if I go by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
musesfool's definition, where it's all about "that Oh god when it doesn't work, I want to cry". That's a great definition, because I do think that for me, an OTP doesn't necessarily mean I can't bear to imagine either of them with anyone else-- it just means that I'm painfully, ridiculously invested in the couple so that their happiness is my happiness and their pain is my pain. And even when-- especially when-- they seem doomed to fail, that's when I care about them the most. And not because of irrenconcilable differences or a falling out-- the worst (best?) is when they seem doomed to fail because they love each other so much, so much, but love isn't enough.
My most intense OTPs have always been about love making you real-- loving in spite of despair and hoping against hope and needing the impossible enough to touch it even once. And those times that one touches happiness like that-- they would be so much more precious, wouldn't they? Because the happiness lives in the midst of ruin, the way fearlessness could live in the midst of dying.
I think part of the reason I love Sirius/Remus is that they start out at polar opposite ends of the spectrum in so far as responses to fear and how one's ego works to conceal/preserve vs. project oneself onto others-- eventually greying since Sirius had to pull in on himself in Azkaban and Remus was a teacher, reaching out to others. Death may be the destination, but their journey is full of loops and shifts and turns enough to make these things more than the sum of their parts, it seems.
So to me, Sirius is the wild, untamed part of a whole that isn't afraid of living at all, and sees itself through others' reflections-- so he needed James, his brother, the one next to him-- and Peter, the one beneath him, looking up, and Remus, who-- Remus who needed him and reflected without stealing any thunder. Remus who was calm and calming, who wouldn't have gotten in the way, whom he could... use even as he helped. It's sort of complicated, now that I think about it.
Remus would be the hidden part of the ego that condenses and hides and eludes definition like it would burn, making them complementary aspects of the ego's drive to communicate. I'm much more like Remus, probably. And this really hit home when I was readingmusesfool's post on hope and saying and not saying what one means and failing and trying again. I was especially thinking about the walls between those two, and the idea that after Azkaban, Sirius would take what he can get of Remus because he "knows how easily and how thoroughly Remus can shut him out when he chooses", and that's just a lot like the way I function. Like, I let people in over and over, but the more they hurt me, the less deep they can go, even though I wouldn't leave them first. Remus would never really -leave- as much as he'd be there and not there at the same time, because that's what Remus does.
This reminded me of a story I'm working on (sort of), which is what gave me my first real insight into Remus of any kind-- that there are all these things he doesn't say, for many reasons. Not because he's repressed, precisely, but because he is so enclosed within himself that he just doesn't feel the need to say them. And all those unspoken words accumulate, weighing him down like stones, turning him grey and tired and exhausted, but he wouldn't ever let go all the way because there's this fear behind the hoarding of oneself-- the fear that if one lets go, one would float away and never get oneself back again. This ties in with Remus' need to be liked-- because he's so desperate for it, and yet he has to keep something of himself, something that doesn't depend on other people. I can just -believe- that Remus loves Sirius more than Sirius could ever imagine and more than even -Remus- bothers to imagine because as long as you don't think about it, it's bearable, and he could eke out his existence and not break. Because that sort of strength-- when one separates parts of oneself from each other, as in, 'this is Moony, who needed Sirius and James to be all right' and 'this is the werewolf, who is a monstrous disease and not me' and 'this is me, Remus, who doesn't need anybody'-- it is brittle. It succeeds only as long as one maintains the necessary illusion that one can do it and one will not fall and will not be touched. And that sort of belief is the stuff of fairytale princesses who never laugh or weep-- they always do in the end, don't they?
In the end, it seems I'm just fascinated by the love-affair between hope and despair. It's not that one wins over the other-- just as the urge to communicate and withdraw goes in cycles. This all reminds me of circles, and becoming the person you need to be because that's what life teaches you. Both Remus & Sirius are the people they need to be to deal with their circumstances, right-- and the question is whether their identity is still in there, somewhere, after all that. It seems like Sirius makes everything too simple, too focused on one driving need-- to protect, to remember, to punish. And Remus overthinks things and everything becomes scattered and fragmented and complicated, so any word or expression of himself has to be weighed and balanced and compared to a countless number of other possibilities.
Not that I'm saying there are any answers here, but oh, I just love the chase after them. Who are they-- who are we, really, when we don't have to do anything, and only -want- to?
Perhaps it's just that R/Hr isn't an OTP after all, if I go by
musesfool's definition, where it's all about "that Oh god when it doesn't work, I want to cry". That's a great definition, because I do think that for me, an OTP doesn't necessarily mean I can't bear to imagine either of them with anyone else-- it just means that I'm painfully, ridiculously invested in the couple so that their happiness is my happiness and their pain is my pain. And even when-- especially when-- they seem doomed to fail, that's when I care about them the most. And not because of irrenconcilable differences or a falling out-- the worst (best?) is when they seem doomed to fail because they love each other so much, so much, but love isn't enough.My most intense OTPs have always been about love making you real-- loving in spite of despair and hoping against hope and needing the impossible enough to touch it even once. And those times that one touches happiness like that-- they would be so much more precious, wouldn't they? Because the happiness lives in the midst of ruin, the way fearlessness could live in the midst of dying.
I think part of the reason I love Sirius/Remus is that they start out at polar opposite ends of the spectrum in so far as responses to fear and how one's ego works to conceal/preserve vs. project oneself onto others-- eventually greying since Sirius had to pull in on himself in Azkaban and Remus was a teacher, reaching out to others. Death may be the destination, but their journey is full of loops and shifts and turns enough to make these things more than the sum of their parts, it seems.
So to me, Sirius is the wild, untamed part of a whole that isn't afraid of living at all, and sees itself through others' reflections-- so he needed James, his brother, the one next to him-- and Peter, the one beneath him, looking up, and Remus, who-- Remus who needed him and reflected without stealing any thunder. Remus who was calm and calming, who wouldn't have gotten in the way, whom he could... use even as he helped. It's sort of complicated, now that I think about it.
Remus would be the hidden part of the ego that condenses and hides and eludes definition like it would burn, making them complementary aspects of the ego's drive to communicate. I'm much more like Remus, probably. And this really hit home when I was reading
musesfool's post on hope and saying and not saying what one means and failing and trying again. I was especially thinking about the walls between those two, and the idea that after Azkaban, Sirius would take what he can get of Remus because he "knows how easily and how thoroughly Remus can shut him out when he chooses", and that's just a lot like the way I function. Like, I let people in over and over, but the more they hurt me, the less deep they can go, even though I wouldn't leave them first. Remus would never really -leave- as much as he'd be there and not there at the same time, because that's what Remus does.This reminded me of a story I'm working on (sort of), which is what gave me my first real insight into Remus of any kind-- that there are all these things he doesn't say, for many reasons. Not because he's repressed, precisely, but because he is so enclosed within himself that he just doesn't feel the need to say them. And all those unspoken words accumulate, weighing him down like stones, turning him grey and tired and exhausted, but he wouldn't ever let go all the way because there's this fear behind the hoarding of oneself-- the fear that if one lets go, one would float away and never get oneself back again. This ties in with Remus' need to be liked-- because he's so desperate for it, and yet he has to keep something of himself, something that doesn't depend on other people. I can just -believe- that Remus loves Sirius more than Sirius could ever imagine and more than even -Remus- bothers to imagine because as long as you don't think about it, it's bearable, and he could eke out his existence and not break. Because that sort of strength-- when one separates parts of oneself from each other, as in, 'this is Moony, who needed Sirius and James to be all right' and 'this is the werewolf, who is a monstrous disease and not me' and 'this is me, Remus, who doesn't need anybody'-- it is brittle. It succeeds only as long as one maintains the necessary illusion that one can do it and one will not fall and will not be touched. And that sort of belief is the stuff of fairytale princesses who never laugh or weep-- they always do in the end, don't they?
In the end, it seems I'm just fascinated by the love-affair between hope and despair. It's not that one wins over the other-- just as the urge to communicate and withdraw goes in cycles. This all reminds me of circles, and becoming the person you need to be because that's what life teaches you. Both Remus & Sirius are the people they need to be to deal with their circumstances, right-- and the question is whether their identity is still in there, somewhere, after all that. It seems like Sirius makes everything too simple, too focused on one driving need-- to protect, to remember, to punish. And Remus overthinks things and everything becomes scattered and fragmented and complicated, so any word or expression of himself has to be weighed and balanced and compared to a countless number of other possibilities.
Not that I'm saying there are any answers here, but oh, I just love the chase after them. Who are they-- who are we, really, when we don't have to do anything, and only -want- to?
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no subject
Date: 2004-10-15 12:49 pm (UTC)... or a beard, and that makes everything alright.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-15 12:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-15 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-15 12:58 pm (UTC)Er. I think it's mostly stuff Remus & Sirius had said about how James got 'better' in seventh year? After Lily as all down on his ass in the Snape-knickers scene and I'm sure many other times? Whereas Sirius remained in possession of his bike and his badass ways and so on-- didn't James become a Prefect or Head Boy or something? Anyway, I'm not sure whether Sirius or Remus actually -said- that whole respectability drive in seventh year (and the Aurorship, etc) were for Lily, but for me it seems obvious, since they -did- get together and Lily -did- have standards, apparently-- since she took Snape's side, kinda.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-15 01:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-15 01:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-15 01:20 pm (UTC)WHY OH WHY.