About nine months ago on March 7th, I started a weight loss journey. I weighed 326lbs. My health was failing, I was far more depressed than I was happy. I could not sleep. I’d wake up with pain. I used food to cure everything, and instead it gave me more problems. Every day, I’d wake up and the war would start again. I’d tell myself that I could have a good day. That everything would be fine. That I could get through the day without going insane with food.

I finally started to do something about it. I started a meal replacement plan. I figured that the only way to fix myself was to wipe the slate clean. To retrain myself and rewrite habits. It was and continues to be the hardest thing  to face every day. I fail. A lot.

Today, I weighed myself. I am 281.7 lbs.

Some of you who don’t know the background are probably thinking that 45 lbs is damn good in 9 months. And it is. But, the sad truth is that 281.7 is up from where I was in September.

I returned home from Worldcon in Chicago at 274. I proceeded to get sick(unrelated to weight loss) and was in the hospital for 14 days. I had pieces of me taken out. I lost more weight and was down to 258. I had to start everything from scratch. My eating habits were broken. They did not let me have anything to eat for 12 days and pumped me full of fluids. Naturally, the first thing I did when I got home and started recovery was eat like a pig.

I couldn’t exercise either, which put a damper on my mood and spirit. I ate more to compensate for those feelings. See the cycle?

So I made a deal. Yes, another deal with myself. You see, people like us make constant deals to circumvent progress.

“I’ll start tomorrow.”

“One cookie (which turns in to 10) won’t hurt.”

“I’ll work doubly hard tomorrow.”

I made a deal that I’d start the diet again and the exercise regime after the holidays. Until then, gluttony was totally okay because everything would be fixed come January 2nd, 2013 . That would be the first day.

I regret that decision a lot. (People like us do that a lot too.) I have a lot of ground to make up. However, the first day has been okay. Hard, but okay. Despite the appetite suppressant and following the diet and the moderate exercise I did, my stomach wants more. It’s angry and hates me. It tells me so.  A side effect of training it to want and demand more.

At 326, I made a video as to why I was doing this. What I wanted to accomplish. Perhaps I will share that with you some day.

At 281.7, I made another video that I am electing to post. As a reminder of how far I’ve come, how far I’d like to go, why I am starting again and where I’d like to be.

Say what you will, but recording the video has not only sparked the desire once again, but my fingers  have been too busy typing  and not shoving shit in my mouth.

So here I am. From me to me at 281.7.

It’s not for you to enjoy, but to listen, understand and for those of you who are struggling with the same thing, to emphasize that you are most certainly, not alone.

From Me to Me at 281.7 from Kate Baker on Vimeo.

Tonight, my family and I attended a vigil remembering the victims of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting.  I had spoken to my twelve year old daughter and sixteen year old son about the event as I was sure they’d hear about from friends in their own schools. I needed them to know that they were safe. Perhaps telling them so made me feel just a little bit better as I prepare to send them back to school tomorrow. Yet I couldn’t bear to tell my youngest. As we are all aware, we grieve not only for the adults lost but for the smallest of voices silenced on Friday morning.

Allyson is the same age.  I can’t take that innocence away from her. Not yet. I can’t tell her news that would possibly make her feel unsafe or heighten her anxiety. It’s hard not to pull her into a hug at every moment, and I couldn’t share with her why we had gathered on the steps of the Church in town on a cold, rainy evening. Yet she stood there, quiet and respectful, whispering softly whenever she needed to speak with me. She sang in her boldest voice, though she did not know the words of the songs, and bowed her head though she has not been formally taught to pray.

A crowd of around one hundred  hugged and held candles that swiftly blew out due to wind. We prayed for the victims and spoke of forgiveness. We listened and cried  as each name was read complete with age, inciting anger and sorrow within our hearts.  We stared in awe as the last name was called and a small table stood beautifully bold and full of the fire of lives snuffed out just two days ago.

The candle that Allyson held in her hands quickly flickered out due to the wind. Unable to bear her disappointment, I gave her mine and held her darkened tea light. Lexie’s flame faded and was quickly followed by the light Will held in his hand. Allie found all of this quietly amusing until her candle once again succumbed to the weather. My father quickly remedied the situation, offering our family’s last light to her which held for the remainder of the ceremony.

My heart  is with the victims and the families of Newtown, CT. I reflect in silence and respect of the first and last responders who waded through hell and will forever remember the horror of that day.  As people, we grieve for those who were lost, whose lights were so quickly dimmed and smothered. As parents, unbelievable grief touches us in our souls and stomachs, wishing that no one should experience the void of a lost child, or mother, or son or daughter.

I stood there on those steps, watched my breath dissolve with each syllable of song and thought about all of this. This moment, these last few days, the passing, so thoughtfully of a flame from grandfather to granddaughter, so that she could cup that light in her hand. There was no thought to these actions. It was immediate, just as sure as the intentions of  teachers who selflessly stepped in front of bullets to protect their students.

To me, Allyson represented all those little lights tonight. She held them and protected them all in the last candle that didn’t go out.

I have always been a believer in fate. That sometimes, we need to hear or see or experience moments that put everything we’re dealing with into perspective. It might be the words from a dear friend at 3 AM in a strange city, who tells you that everything is going to be okay. Or ideas from a movie or song or story that help you work past a difficulty.  I believe we often find ourselves in the right place at the right time. Some of us see it. Some of us don’t. I know that on more than one occasion, I have muttered to myself that things couldn’t have happened any other way.

Ever since coming home from the hospital, I’ve been struggling with a lot of different issues. Slowly finding ways to cope with the major surgery and recovery. The bouts of emotional craziness that follows when you’ve been opened up and pieces of you are taken out. Fretting on the  night before surgery that should something happen, your kids who just came to visit and wish you luck, may never see you again. Writing emotional letters for them to find on your hard drive should your fears be substantiated. Realizing shortly after your surgery is over that you are powerless on your path. Neil Finn sums it up brilliantly in the song, “Anytime.” (I hope you can infer the subject of the song without having to look it up.)

These thoughts and feelings mess with you on a daily basis until you learn to accept them. Initially, I found myself angry at my inability to be normal. Intermixed with periods of depression and bouts of crying, I just desperately wanted to feel like me again. I didn’t want to give in to idea that something in me changed during those fourteen days.

Having a particularly rough couple of days, tonight, I went and saw my son perform in “Our Town”. While I wanted to celebrate his success, I arrived and took my seat with the attitude that I was about to waste three hours of my life watching a bunch of high-school kids traipse around the stage and overact.

I was horribly wrong.

I don’t think they truly get it, these sixteen and seventeen year old children. How fleeting life is, how full of passion and anger and triumph and failure. As the third act started and the lump in my throat finally subsided as my son exited stage left, successful in his part, I finally understood the meaning of the show.

Death has taken Emily, one of our lead actresses in the play. We grow to know her in act one as a child. As quickly as the curtain rises in act two, so has she grown into a young woman in love. The whirlwind of life continues until shortly after we find out that a spot in the town cemetery has been saved for a woman who has recently passed away. The empty seat facing the audience has been held for our Emily.

In denial of her current predicament, she begs to go back and relive one, painless day in her life only to realize that she missed it all as it was happening. Full of regret and resignation, she returns to her plot and offers this revelation to those who’ve passed before her. Unsurprisingly, they all nod in agreement only after some of her new companions give up their own long-held self-resentments for their behavior while alive.

I am crying buckets by this point in the show and no matter how much I try to compose myself, I can’t.  Emily told me what I needed to hear — death is inevitable. Worrying about it only steals time from the people who matter most in our lives. We do not get to relive the happy and sad days after the curtain has closed. We are  doomed to only see the things we did not do, the people we didn’t appreciate, the places we never got to visit and lament the love we will never feel again.

I brought my two daughters to this show. As we walked back towards the exit, I asked Lexie to distill the meaning of what she saw. At the innocent age of twelve, she turned to me and said, “Don’t be afraid to live life to the fullest.”

The tears I thought I had under control surfaced again.

“It was only a play, mom.”

“And what about you, Allie?”, I asked my youngest, biting my tongue in protest of my rising emotion.

“The last part made me sad.”

“Me too, hon. Me too.”

Perhaps I am wrong. Maybe each on their own, the seven, twelve, sixteen and seventeen year old kids do get it on some level. I’d like to think that as we mature, what was raw emotion experienced by a young child evolves into understanding and further grows into action. Perhaps one has to be in the right place at the right time to really understand what it is to truly live a life.

I can’t tell you how to spend the remainder of your days, short as they may be. Time passes in the blink of an eye, after all. The only thing I know is that I will be far more focused on the living part of life than the dying.

It is so much more than a play.

*waves* Hello there.

You might remember me. I used to write to you all the time on rice paper with rich indigo inks. On brightly colored stationary, in journals both electronic and old world. Every day, in fact.

I am so sorry for neglecting you. I feel incredibly bad that for every time I got the urge to come visit, I would instead procrastinate. I had things to do! Important things. On days you made the journey home, you would sit right in front of me and stare. There was no malice behind your multi-colored eyes, just hope and a need for understanding.  Instead, I chose news sites and comics, videogames and TV over you. I chose the mundane.

You’ve gift-wrapped yourself numerous times, begging me to tug on that sexy, satin ribbon. I remember the last time I pulled off the bow. Do you? Do you recall the magic that ensued?

You’ve even visited me in dreams, only then to wake me with fevered kisses that made me sit up in bed wishing I had the energy to wrap my arms around you.

Do you even miss me? I miss me. I miss you terribly. I miss the times we had together, dancing upon the ink and page to artfully chosen music. Letting the mood carry us to worlds both known and un. Reveling in rebirth from the ashes of burned and unworthy creation, pulling something from nothing. Loving every.single.moment.

All I find now, is pretentiousness and I am lost as I traverse this world without your caress. Will you take me back? Dance with me again, whisper sweet nothings in both my ear and in my dreams. Bring me the wines of creativity and the pears of substance. Be with me again through my mercurial moments and laugh with me when I find the sun.

My muse, my love, my world.

                                                                                                   (Excellent photo by Warren Schultz)

I had one hell of a weekend.

Got to Reno on Thursday night and proceeded to walk the distance from the Peppermill to the convention center as the bus never showed. Apparently, the driver refused to clean up vomit from an earlier passenger. Carrying a large load of SFWA t-shirts, I was a bit flustered when I got there, only because of the heat and the higher altitude. I could not breathe but as I found out on Saturday night, high altitude and a stuffy nose isn’t the only thing to draw away your breath.

After a badge mishap was rectified and a new one created, I was able to finally settle in. I wandered to the SFWA table where I dropped off the shirts and hugged Steven H. Silver. If you ever get a chance to hang around this man in a non-stalker type way, please do. He is wonderful, charming and a great conversationalist.

I headed over to the Chesley Awards and met Neil Clarke and Sean Wallace. Although none of our artists won the magazine category that Clarkesworld was in, Julie Dillon who offered up a magnificent piece for one of our covers won in another category. She is an extraordinarily talented person and I highly recommend you check her out.

I am pretty sure I crashed a bit early that night.

The rest of the weekend is kind of blurry. I know I ended up taking multiple taxis to and from the hotel only because the bus service was non-existent. I also remember having mild seizures in the Peppermill buffet due to the “lightning effects” or due to the food. Not sure which.

My one panel on creating a successful podcast was a blast. I started off the hour really nervous then finally settled in. In the very excellent company of Howard Tayler, Rachel Bloom, Mur Lafferty, Eric Zuckerman, we had some really great things to say about getting started in a field that continues to explode in popularity. Also, if you are lucky to get Howard Tayler as your moderator, you will have an awesome panel. He’s one of the best out there. He kept the conversation focused, asked all the right questions and was extremely interesting. You should definitely check out  Writing Excuses and his excellent graphic novel, Schlock Mercenary.

I know I met and hung out with a ton of wonderful people, which I will now name drop because it was totally awesome and really, how often do you get to name drop like this? Mur Lafferty, Patrick Hester, Jeff Macfee, Warren Schultz, Christie Yant, Christopher Kastensmidt, Peggy Rae Sapienza, Steven H. Silver, Steven Gould, George R.R. Martin, John Scalzi, Kim Stanley Robinson, Paul Cornell, Sheila Williams, Stu Segal, Steven Segal, Rachel Swirsky, Nora Jemisin, Mary Robinette Kowal, Yanni Kuznia, Jake Lake, Lynne Thomas, Tara O’Shea, Howard Tayler, Rachel Bloom, Eric Zuckerman, Aliette de Bodard, Saladin Ahmed, Rajan Khanna, Jaym Gates, Wendy Wagner, Lawrence Schoen, Taylor Anderson, Neil Clarke, Sean Wallace, Nick Mamatas, Jeremy Tolbert, Bud Sparhawk, Chris Hansen, Lee Martindale, Bob Howe, Jim Fiscus and Doug Cohen. (forgive me if in my jet-lagged state I missed a name!)

Special thanks to Vylar Kaftan who went shopping for a Hugo Awards necklace with me. Although we didn’t find one on that trip, Vylar has a amazing eye for beautiful things.

Speaking of Hugo Awards, you might have heard that Clarkesworld won for best semi-prozine. Before the ceremony, Sean Wallace asked me if I wanted to say anything if we won. I had a speech all set to go in my head.

“Are you sure you don’t want to write it down?” Sean asked incredulously.

“Nah. I’ve got it right here,” I say as I point to my addled brain. “Besides, we’re not going to win anyway. ”

As David Hartwell was announcing the winner, Neil, Sean and I looked at each other and were convinced it was going to someone else. They had mentioned in the practice that they were only going to bring one on stage, but hell, I got caught up in the moment and forgot.

I will tell you one thing about winning something you’re not expecting. Reality sort of fades as adrenaline starts flowing through your excited body. I had to keep whatever wits I had left to manage coherent thought. I don’t remember practically shaking with glee and saying “Oh My God!” on stage. I don’t remember how just only a few the words snaked their way out of my memory to the microphone.

What I truly wanted to say was this:

Let me tell you a story of thanks. To my children who were my first and most critical audience in their pajamas as the sun was setting, thank you. To my best friend in the entire world, James Seals who allowed me to narrate some of his works into a $12 microphone, I wouldn’t be standing here without your encouragement. To the wonderful Mary Robinette Kowal who offered my name to Neil Clarke as a reader, I am forever in your debt. To Neil, Sean Wallace, Cheryl Morgan, and the rest of the staff at Clarkesworld, I could ask for no better friends and colleagues.  I wish you were here to celebrate with us, Cheryl. You are missed. To the nominees in the category, you have set the bar in excellence and I am extremely proud to stand with you. Finally, to the fans who voted for us — thank you so very much for allowing me to be the voice of Clarkesworld Magazine. It is truly an honor and a privilege to narrate some of the finest stories by some of the best authors in the field every single month.

Instead, as I stood upon the stage looking into the utter blackness of the room with my heart leaping out of my chest, I got only the gist. But one thing remains true as I type this recap. I am truly thankful for every single moment in this community and for the votes we received. You have made me a very humbled woman.

Now — onto next year.

Chloe was recently made to wear the cone of shame after being bitten by some unknown vampire while outside one night. The cone was so that she wouldn’t nip out the stitches or drainage plug. Right around this time, SETI was shut down for lack of funding. Hopefully, they can secure the money through alternate channels, but in the mean time, Chloe takes on the daunting task.

More often than not when I read Neil Gaiman’s writing, I end up blubbering at the end. This week’s Doctor Who episode penned by the master storyteller was no exception. There is humanity and truth in Gaiman’s tales and most importantly a reminder of how precious our lives are beyond the books we’re holding and the TVs we are watching.

This episode spelled redemption for the Doctor. After hundreds of years of carrying around the guilt for stealing the TARDIS, it is the heart and soul of the living entity that claims to have stolen him. It was “her” wish to travel the universe and no other man was brave enough to accompany her.

This wasn’t about the thing that ripped the soul from the body and stole it. This wasn’t even about Amy and Rory getting lost in the depths of the blue police box. This episode was about the whispers heard and felt within the joined hearts and minds of two soul mates.

This episode was about finishing each other sentences, feeling passion for each other and working together to solve a crisis. A romance that was wholly embodied in a warm and brilliant script. Above all else, this was about love, about not wasting opportunities to tell someone how much you feel, to cherish each moment you have and to truly live your life as it is as fleeting and fragile as each passing heartbeat. (In this case, a double rhythm.)

Well done, Mr. Gaiman. Only now is the color of both sadness and hope draining from my cheeks.

Doctor Who is bordering on an obsession for me. Oh hell, I can’t lie, there are only about three times where I’ve been this into a show or a movie. The first was Twin Peaks when I was in junior high. The second was the movie Titanic. Usually, this immersion consists of buying everything I can possibly get my hands on that reminds me of said obsession. I bought Laura Palmer’s diary, the Twin Peaks cookbook and the Dale Cooper tapes.

Titanic was a different monster. I wanted to know everything there was about the ill-fated ship. I researched both the history and what Cameron used in the film.

With Doctor Who this fun has spread throughout the family. The youngest in the family insists because she has red hair like Amelia, that we call her “Pond”. We were also walking through Target and came across a shirt that looked similar to what Amy wears in the season 6 opener. She insisted we buy it. We all own sonic screwdrivers, and the girls even bought me a USB Tardis for Christmas this year. I still want the Tom Bakker scarf and a remote control Dalek. My ten year old on the other hand could probably tell you how the Tardis works and sits rapt and loves every episode no matter what happens.

I wish I could be as forgiving. I both cursed and sang Moffat’s praises with the first two episodes of the season. I was terrified and wanted to crawl beneath the covers during parts. The Silence is probably the most disturbing enemy the Doctor has faced since the Weeping Angels and the episodes were cleverly written pulling in elements of season five.

My Top Five, err… Eight Matt Smith Episodes:

“Vincent and the Doctor”
“The 11th Doctor”
The Time of Angels / Flesh and Stone
The Pandorica Opens/The Big Bang
The Impossible Astronaut/Day of the Moon

So I’m cheating there. But those two parters were pretty amazing.

I find when the cast includes River Song, I tend to enjoy the episodes even more.

And this brings me to the third episode of series six, “The Curse of the Black Spot”. Again, the youngest daughter loved it, hiding her eyes behind her hands and peeking when the evil mermaid/AI/futuristic sickbay doctor came on screen. The 10 year old just sat and stared and loved every minute. “It.was.awesome!”

Unfortunately, I did not. Sometimes I hate myself for growing up. I can’t help but pick apart the issues with this filler episode. Everything from why the “siren” would physically attack people who got in her way or endangered her patients. Didn’t make much sense. I could have seen her placing them in an unbreakable cage instead. I also wondered why despite having the ability to move time/space and teleport the sick and injured to her sickbay, why she did not have the ability to fix them. Lots of unnecessary irony in this episode to build tension I guess.

Granted, I’m not saying Doctor Who is sound scientifically, but usually when the story sucks me in, I can forgive the little or rather large things that don’t seem quite right. There is something about Moffat’s writing that allows me to relax into the tale he’s weaving and emotionally invest myself. I hate to say it, but despite having pirates and some fun moments, there wasn’t any real emotional connection for me. Although to give some credit, I will say the last five minutes were extremely moving and despite knowing that Rory survives, I was worried for him. That right there is the strength of Matt Smith, Karen Gillian and Arthur Dorval.

Good news though – this episode isn’t my least favorite. I still think that goes to the Spitfires in space/Dalek third episode from last season. Too many WTF’s there.

Next week, one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman writes the episode. I hear from numerous sources that this is the gateway drug to get non-Whovians to believe. I hope so and I can’t wait.

I am so glad I don’t have a real social life. This allows me to indulge in science fiction and fantasy shows and for the last few weekends, it’s been heaven. Fringe Fridays, Doctor Who Saturdays and Game of Throne Sundays.

Unfortunately, this past Friday marked the end of the season for Fringe so I guess I’ll have to do something else that night now.

*****
Spoilers Ahead
*****

So lets start with the season finale of Fringe. From what I’ve read on the intarweebs, this was to be a series finale had it not been renewed for season four. Had it been the former, I would have broken all the glass items in my living room, including my TV. I’ve never been so upset with an ending since the Twin Peaks series or the false earth episode of BSG. Those two masterpieces illicited an amazing emotional response. Fringe was the same.

Losing Peter to an inter-dimensional abyss on the premise that he never existed made my blood boil. “He served his purpose.” What? I can possibly understand him disappearing after connecting the two worlds, but to never have existed doesn’t make any sense. It creates the ultimate paradox. Granted, I know it’s a TV show, but really, I spent my three years with this show only to be told the entire product was a lie? There was no payoff. If Peter had never been born, how did Walter start the events that lead them to where they are today? Is the season opener in September going to show Fauxlivia, Walternate, Walter and Olivia staring at each other witnessing the very first fringe event? If Peter never existed, how did Walternate start the machine if he and Fauxlivia’s baby never existed. Not to mention why bother having the observers prepare Walter to let go of a son he would never remember. It’s so messed up.

Stupid.

The only thing that could possibly make sense is a really interesting theory that states we create yet another world when we time travel. An off-shoot of the multiverse theory, every choice leads to a time line branch. No paradox is created because we start each world with a blank slate. So while Peter is erased from these two worlds, perhaps he exists in another.

What I would probably guess is that we’ll be spending a lot of time in the future with our cast, possibly with a Peter who still exists but who is not Peter. Hello, mind games. Regardless, I am very curious as to how they’ll solve this one.

Massive world-changing plot holes aside, John Noble needs an Oscar. I know, they don’t have Oscars for television, but he still deserves one. At the very least, he should get an Emmy and a Golden Globe for best ensemble cast. He plays what, six versions of himself now? The range of that man is incredible. We also saw very strong performances from Joshua Jackson, Anna Torv and Jasika Nicole. although, I will confess I was a bit taken aback at the aging. Joshua pulled off an older Peter, but the believability factor was just not there with Anna as almost 50 year old Olivia. Unless of course, there is just fantastic Oil of Olay products in 2021.

One of the more interesting questions the episode was whether or not I would procreate in the face of certain death. My initial answer was that if I knew the world was ending in my lifetime, I would not have children. It would weigh too heavily on my heart to know they would not have a full life and it would constantly be tinged with fear and imminent danger. Yet, this morning as I write this, I think my mind has changed.

A lot of the world complained we were offering so much media coverage of the Royal wedding a week ago. Even I rolled my eyes, but as I watched the union of two people who actually look as though they love each other, it softened the horrible things that have been plaguing the news headlines of late. It actually brought a happy tear to my eye. I’m not saying we should forget or push tragedy under the carpet, but its in those moments of happiness and joy that hope springs forth and propels us to continue.

Having children in the future world of Fringe would be a comfort and a continual driving force to try to change the future for their benefit. It also makes the strong point that as bad as we think this real world is right now, things can be exponentially worse. We create fear and are a fatalistic race of beasts. Imagine if there was certain proof that world was to actually end in our lifetimes.

Regardless, I will be tuning in come September to see where JJ and the crew decide to take me.

On Facebook, I posted brief thoughts on my initial WTF reaction to Fringe last Friday. The majority of the episode was entertaining, but the last five minutes of the show made me cringe.

Warning: Spoilers ahead.

I’ve read in various places that the show finally jumped the shark.  I don’t view it as such. Fringe is the type of show where if you have any intelligence what-so-ever, you realize the science behind the plots is pretty bad. Sure, there are stable concepts on which things are built, but you pretty much have to take anything with a grain of salt. If I wanted a show based on real science, I’d watch Discovery or the Science Channel. I don’t tune into Fringe for the educational value. I faithfully watch every episode because it’s fun. It’s a great story.

It’s a show that relies on its viewers to suspend belief in reality, while still utilizing their core intelligence.  I admire it for that purpose. I wouldn’t know what the hell Walter was doing or saying if I wasn’t a well-read individual. Sure, it would look cool, but if I weren’t a fan of those basic and much expanded on theories of science, I would miss half of the show.

Where the writers ruined it for me was Bellivia. If you’ve watched last week’s episode, Walter is desperate to bring William Bell back. He feels stunted in his current role to help save his version of the universe. Long story short, William worked on a project called ‘soul magnets’.  According to the ‘conservation of energy’ theory, energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Working upon those principles, Bell and Bishop theorize that human souls are made up of that same energy. Therefore, when you die, your soul remains somewhere in this universe. They then hypothesized that if there were some way to draw that energy back to an object, you could re-awaken the consciousness of said person, technically bringing them back from death.

See, the concept based on scientific principle and yet stretched for entertainment purposes. That’s what I love about the show.

Bishop rings a bell and he and Nina wait patiently for William to show up. Meanwhile in Olivia and Peter land, Olivia pauses as Bell’s consciousness is drawn into her body. Again, one of those, “He must have set this up when she was a child,” moments. I could have lived with this. I knew what was happening. I am not stupid. Yet, the writers felt they had to take it a step forward and have Anna Torv act out Leonard Nimoy’s voice as well, just so that the audience was sure it was his.

I could see this as a necessary step in a radio play. You don’t want to confuse the listener. However, Anna Torv is a pretty versatile actress. She could have pulled it off without resorting to vocal histrionics. My bullshit detector immediately went off. It was something I wasn’t willing to forgive. For everything that Fringe relies on me to believe, this was one thing I just couldn’t. Pulling in a floating consciousness would probably result in odd mannerisms, but the voice is part of the body. A body which no longer exists. Speech patters would definitely be there, but the voice really bugged the shit out of me.

Perhaps it comes down to one simple fact — Since Fringe relies on me to be intelligent to fully enjoy the show, why did the writers think I wasn’t smart enough to get that Olivia was instantly transformed into Bellivia? Please don’t lump me into the same demographic that finds Jersey Shore appealing.

Anyway, I usually give forms of entertainment a three strike policy. That episode for the reasons explained above was the first disappointment. Hopefully, it’s the last.