a fool's musings

Boreas by Waterhouse
Fool, said my muse to me,
look in thy heart and write...

Warning: Adult Content

achromatic

unfinished fic graveyard

recs journal

new stuff

recent stuff

my back pages
January 2004
December 2003
November 2003
October 2003
September 2003
August 2003
July 2003
June 2003
May 2003
April 2003
March 2003
February 2003
January 2003
December 2002
November 2002
October 2002
September 2002
August 2002
July 2002
June 2002
May 2002
April 2002
March 2002
February 2002
January 2002
December 2001
November 2001


the five Ws, or, all about me

profile

e-mail victoria

my livejournal

the original P&R

comments

current mood: current mood

"pathological and unbalanced"

Items of Interest

    Music
  • Walk On - U2
  • Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen
  • If I Can't Change Your Mind - Sugar
  • Sick of Myself - Matthew Sweet
  • Town Called Malice - The Jam
  • One - U2
  • The Space Between - DMB
    Books
  • Lord of the Rings
  • Catch-22
  • The Neely Trilogy
  • Absalom! Absalom!
  • Possession: A Romance
  • Foucault's Pendulum
  • Dreamhouse
  • LA Confidential
  • I Capture the Castle
  • Sandman
  • Waking the Moon

    Shows
  • Angel

    •
  • Buffy the Vampire Slayer (in reruns)

    •
  • Alias

    •
  • West Wing

    •
  • The Simpsons

    •

webrings
< ? fanfiction ! >
< ? writers ! >

diaryreviews.diaryland.com

NYC Bloggers

Comments by Haloscan.com

all links, if I haven't screwed up somehow, should open in a new browser window

2001-12-31 - 10:13 p.m.

Happy New Year!

D'oh!

Or, actually, dough!

Finished off the dough I made on Saturday, and still have most of the fig left [as usual], so I attempted to make more dough tonight.

Against my better judgement [and yeah, I like the "e". Sue me], I split the recipe and attempted to do half at a time.

With very bad results.

It smelled right - and if I told you how much of cooking I do by nose, you'd either freak or laugh. But with Aunt Jean's recipes, it's all very vague on measurements... "salt - a little in hand. two spoons melted butter." Is it two tablespoons? And is it measured before or after you melt it?

I mean, I remember how we did it as kids, so I've managed to write up the recipes in workable form, but I've still got at least two fig cookie variants, with different measurements for everything.

So, tomorrow, back to doing it my way.

Real exciting New Year's, eh? I'm baking cookies, watching the Rangers get their asses kicked in Phoenix [still not over the idea of a hockey team in Arizona], and writing in my online diary while waiting for New Year's Rockin' Eve to come on.

The very definition of *loser*. There's a big "L" on my forehead, though you can't see it.

Maybe this will inspire me to get back to Consumption as I watch all these wackos out in Times Square while it's 24 degrees out.

I dunno. It just never appealed to me - big crowds, freezing cold, amateur night. I don't like lots of drunk people who don't know how to handle their liquor.

So, glass of champagne tonight at midnight and then probably answering email.

Sigh.

Kids, don't grow up to be an internet addict like Aunt Victoria, ya hear.

Anyhow, here's an excerpt from the new story I'm all excited about. I still have to get the beginning worked out, and then cover a few years before I can get to the interesting stuff, but this is a little bit - it's very rough, so comments are indeed welcome.

I think it's going to be angsty, and somewhat different from my usual L/R story...

Insert usual disclaimers here. I own *nothing*.

Remember Me [or possibly Time and Tide... haven't settled on a title yet]

I didn’t want to do it. I tried to talk her out of it. Running from your problems -- forgetting them in some artificial oblivion -- that's just not a healthy way of dealing with things.

Then again, having dealt with a head full of unwanted voices myself, I understood her desperation. And I could feel her pain.

At first, there had just been hints of melancholy -- normal for a girl who’d been through what Rogue had. The trauma of her mutation manifesting, eight months on the road, absorbing Logan twice and then Magneto -- she had a lot to deal with for a seventeen-year-old girl. The restrictions her mutation forced on her were just an additional burden.

Absorbing Carol Danvers so completely was the final straw.

The melancholy and pained acceptance disappeared, replaced by wild rage and hatred -- of herself, for allowing Carol to use her, of Carol, who’d tried to take over Rogue’s life when her own was bleeding away before our eyes.

Being invulnerable hadn’t prepared her for her own death. She couldn’t face her mortality, didn’t understand the pain and the cold and the huge gaping wound in her chest caused by the explosion. The fact that she’d die a hero -- she'd thrown herself on an exploding bomb, absorbing the force and the radiation -- didn't seem to comfort her.

She latched onto Rogue and didn’t let go until every bit of what made her Carol had transferred itself into Rogue’s head.

Now, Carol was a good friend and she’d fought beside us many times before in battles with the Brotherhood and the Friends of Humanity. But even as she was super-strong physically, she was -- weak-willed in her personal life. Alcohol, drugs, sex -- Carol had never learned how to say no to anything that made her feel good, and that mindset forced itself in on Rogue, driving her to do things the girl we’d known would never have attempted.

Drugs, sex, violence -- we tried to deal with all of them. Charles, Betsy and I worked with her, and we thought we were making progress. We thought we were getting through to her.

The pain and anger were still there, but she was learning to fight through them, realize they were a natural reaction to having her life taken over by an outsider.

Until Logan returned.

We thought it would be a good thing. Logan was her touchstone, her North Star. She lived for his approval, and while I might think it was a little sad that she looked for happiness in a man, rather than within herself, I understood it. She was young and he was her hero.

After his first trip north, he’d come back and settled in here, teaching self-defense and joining the team full-time. They were inseparable.

It drove Scott nuts. He was sure Logan had some nefarious plan in mind, though when I pressed him, he could never articulate it beyond, “He’s going to break her heart.”

I always laughed. I knew Logan was as much in love with Rogue as Rogue was with him. And I knew that someday he’d realize it, and they’d be a very happy couple. His flirting with me was just a smokescreen, done more to get a rise out of Scott than out of any real feelings for me.

I knew that the moment I saw him stab himself in the chest to get to her at the Statue of Liberty.

For such a straightforward man, Logan has an amazing capacity for lying to himself when he needs to. So I never popped his bubble. It was safe and comfortable, and he didn’t have to deal with all the wild feelings Rogue roused in him.

And no, I didn’t go poking around in his head. He projects very strongly when they’re together. His mind is like a storm, and in the center, keeping him safe and calm, sits Marie.

I didn’t learn her real name -- her full name -- until moments before we took away her memory. She wanted someone else to know it, she said, so that at least one person would always remember her.

Anyhow, Logan still traveled fairly frequently, taking trips to his beloved Canadian Rockies and no doubt doing a lot of shady things he didn’t want any of us to know about, under the pretense of looking for his past.

He wasn’t here when Carol died, and Rogue begged us not to tell him.

He was away for a long time that time; he’d gone to Japan, where he discovered he’d lived at some point in his extraordinarily long life.

After Carol, his phone calls and letters were sometimes the only things that got Rogue through the night.

I kept that from Scott. He would have been wild had he known how close she’d come to killing herself sometimes, when it all seemed like too much. I held her, and when I couldn’t be there, Ororo or Betsy filled in. We were sisters, and there were some things the men didn’t need to know.

Anyhow, he called and said he was in the city, and he’d be home in an hour. Rogue dressed herself carefully; her gloves and scarves hid the bruises and track marks she’d accumulated in the eight months since Carol had forced herself into her life. Then she sat on her bed and waited.

When he arrived, she didn't rush to meet him as she'd always done before. She hid in her room, and cried when he tried to see her.

He demanded to know what had happened and she couldn't stop crying.

And that's when it hit me.

Carol had been a close friend of Logan's -- actually, they'd been lovers for quite a while, from what I understand, when he'd first regained his humanity after his escape from the lab.

And Rogue couldn't stop crying. Logan came and got me, and she let me in the room, unable to even look at him.

"I killed her," she whispered. "He'll hate me."

"He could never hate you," I told her confidently. "That's Carol trying to make you feel guilty again."

After an hour of this, I managed to calm her down enough to see him, but it didn't go well.

He was bewildered, unable to understand what had gone wrong with his girl, as he called her. He sat outside her room all night, every night for a week.

Toward the end of the week, she at least spoke to him through the door, and I think she was preparing to finally let him in, when the team got called away. The Brotherhood had attacked a Friends of Humanity rally in Baton Rouge, and Logan, Scott, Storm and Hank went to help quell the riots in whatever way they could.

His abrupt departure triggered her final breakdown, I think. When I found her, she begged me desperately to end her pain. She projected it so strongly, I couldn't refuse. I called Betsy to help me, since I'm not that powerful yet, and together we wiped her memory clean, removed all traces of anything that would remind her of us. We locked Carol and Erik and Logan into their own little prison in her mind, and prayed they never escaped to torment her again...

Maybe I just can’t handle the fact that *I* killed Rogue as we knew her. I took her to that Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Chicago. I paid a stranger to check in under her name, and then slipped her into the room with the note she’d written herself and enough money in her bank account to start a new life.

I need someone to blame, and right now, it’s a toss up between Logan, Carol and me. Carol makes an easy scapegoat; she's the one who convinced Rogue that the only way to make Logan love her was to kill herself.

I know I’ll bear the full burden of what we did, even though I dread the moment I have to tell Scott, ‘Ro and Charles. Betsy and I have been arguing since we dropped her off in Chicago; she wants to take responsibility. She hasn't been at the mansion long, and has close ties only to Warren, who would surely take her in if she felt the need to leave.

But I made the final decision, as Rogue's physician, and I believe I did the right thing. I saved her body at the expense of her memory; I euthanized Rogue in order to save Marie, and if I were given the choice again, I would still do it. I just have to make them understand.

I just hope I can keep the truth from Logan. I don’t think he’ll understand. He loves her, and knowing that it had been in his name that Carol used to torment her would kill him.

***

So, there's a bit of the amnesiac!Rogue fic.

Happy New Year!

~victoria



[current mood: ]
[current music: ]
[random quote: ]

~*~

2001-12-31 - 10:45 a.m.

Auld lang syne

Another New Year's Eve, another auld lang syne.

And dear *god*, I'm quoting Dan Fogelberg. Just shoot me now.

I've been told I have too many thoughts. This is, in fact, the truth. If I could just *stop* thinking every once in a while, I think I'd be much happier.

But, that's not going to happen. I'm afraid I've been thinking [and here we sing along with Gaston and LeFou: "LeFou, I'm afraid I've been thinking." "A dangerous pastime." "I know." And you haven't heard Gaston 'til you've heard Hugh Jackman sing Gaston. *swoon*] about a lot of different things this morning.

Everyone's talking about their New Year's resolutions. I don't do resolutions anymore. I don't believe in setting myself up for failure. I believe I've mentioned my absolute abhorrence of even the *idea* of failure [and yes, I *am* working on that, and spending $125 a session on it, too], so I think you can see why this is something in which I do not participate.

I make resolutions like, "be lazier." "eat more." "get drunk more often." That way, when I fail, I'm actually supposedly a "better," if not exactly happier, person.

So, let's review 2001. Let's split it in the way it should be split. At first, I would say, unemployed/employed, but that all went out the window on 9/11. So, good and bad.

Good:
*Quit job that was killing me slowly.
*Learned html.
*Got Unfit for Society website up and running, with attendant subsites and mailing list.
*became an aunt for the fifth time [as if I had anything to do with that! but I did influence the name choice. I mentioned Julia then bitched when they were all set to use it, 'cause if I ever have a kid - a girl - Julia is top of my names list. Or maybe Marcella]
*Daddy survived being on the 91st floor of 2WTC.

Yeah, let's say that again. The *91st floor of the South Tower* and he got out. Thank god for quick thinking and that 18 minute interval between plane crashes. If they'd crashed simultaneously, as allegedly planned, well, things would be very very different, and not in a good way, in my world [and everyone else's, by extension].

After that, all these fandom debates seem utterly nonsensical to me. I mean, yeah, let's all get hot and bothered over the use of the word "bunny" or the proliferation of bad incest fic, or whatever. Let's also keep it in perspective that we're writing fucking fictional stories about fictional characters [and fictional characters fucking. Ha ha. I'm so funny *g*] and most of us are doing it for *fun*. Nobody ever died because of badfic. Though there are some people who deserve to have their fingers and/or keyboards removed. But that's neither here nor there.

Other good stuff:
*I got a new job, I had five glorious months of unemployment and *still* got to go to Lake George, even though I got the new job.
*I made some fabulous new fic-friends and even found a new fandom.
*Mommy and Daddy bought a house.
*Dom and Helen bought a house.
*Daddy's finally retired. So it didn't go down the way he wanted it to. ::shrug:: He survived two terrorist attacks, I say it's about time he packed it in. I realize that it may be personalizing things, but goddammit, how can you *not* take someone trying to kill you as personal? And that's what it was, both in '93 and on 9/11. ::shakes head::

Bad:
Duh. I'm sure there were other bad things [Nicole's pneumonia, the various fannish disputes that marred my fandoms], but they all seem to pale into insignificance against the deaths of thousands and the two hours I spent convinced Daddy was dead and I hadn't gotten to say goodbye.

So the only things that even get to make this list along with 9/11 are Vera's, Rita's and Diana's father's deaths. Because losing a loved one [even if it wasn't my personal loved one, "every man's death diminishes me," and they were people I knew and loved in a less intense way than immediate family, but still family, if that makes sense].

So yeah, 2001 in a nutshell... death and destruction, and the resulting pride I have in my city. I swear, it still makes me want to weep with joy over how people responded. When I was on line to give blood [after learning Daddy was still alive and hearing his voice on my voicemail], I spoke with more strangers than I possibly ever have before, outside of a bar, and one woman even offered me floorspace in her uptown apt. if I couldn't get home.

How can you believe we're a cold unfriendly people after that? I would stack New Yorkers against any people in the WORLD and I know we'd come out on top, in every category. And yes, all the world became New Yorkers that day, but goddammit, we only proved what I've always believed, that when you're in trouble, this is the best city to live in.

Yeah, I have more loyalty to my city than I do to my country, even now. I am a provincial, highly tribal person. Family, friends, city, country, world - that's how my allegiances run. Perhaps it's due to the Sicilian-Irish background and the belief that you have to help your own because no one else is going to do it for you.

And wow, this has gone places I totally didn't plan on.

I was planning to discuss fannish things, and also the fact that every machine [except my PC so far ::knock wood::] has gone kerplooey today as soon as I've touched it. I swear, it's PMS. Something about the body's magnetic field or something changes during PMS and menses, I'm convinced of it. I know that this is not the first time this has happened to me. And I know there are people who can't wear quartz watches because of their elecrtomagnetic energy, so I don't think, as a theory, it's all that wacky.

Of course, I also think the world is out to get me, so ... yeah, $125 a session [before insurance kicks in, anyway], people, and worth every penny. *g*

Now, all those people who feel that this live journal/online diary stuff reveals too much personal information are shrieking in horror at the revelation that I'm in therapy. Jesus, I live in New York City [oops, more personal info!]. The reason there are so many people crowded into the city is that there are really only 4 million New Yorkers. The other 4 million are their therapists.

Ba-dum-bum.

Anyhow, I think I have a different notion of personal and private than most people. I'm an open book to some degree, and yet very hard to get to know, according to people who know me. I'm not nicknamed "Moss" for nothing, people. "Cold and damp and kinda grows on you," were the exact words, I believe. And it's true. I do have very strict personal boundaries, they're just not the *same* as most people's.

So you may think you know all about me. And I *am* trying to share some things [because, god, doesn't *everyone* want to know about *me*? *g*], but you're only getting the top few layers. And I may change my mind tomorrow, and you'll never know.

'Cause that's the kinda gal I am.

And yeah, I still refer to myself as a girl most of the time, even though I'd probably be insulted if anyone else did so. More on the whole woman/girl/chick thing at some other time. I've blathered enough for the nonce.

Buon Capo d'Anni tutti!

~vittoria

Current music: Gimme Shelter - the Rolling Stones... *LURVE* this song. On my Top 10 Best Songs of All Time list... that riff, that mix of Mick's voice, the woman [who *is* that?] and Keith's guitar...grrr, baby! "Love, sister, is just a kiss away. It's just a kiss away. Kiss away... kiss away...."

[current mood: ]
[current music: ]
[random quote: ]

~*~

2001-12-30 - 4:00 p.m.

Consanguinity

Man, this Jets-Bills game is just filled with all sorts of miscues and turnovers.

Hope the Jets pull it out.

Bah. They just lost the game. Stupid play calling.

Hope the Giants do better.

So, last night I dreamt I was having a secret affair with Lex and I was getting tired of hiding it from everyone. There was some nice UST that, every time I tried to turn it into RST, got interrupted, which was quite frustrating. There was also a lot of driving in fast cars, being unable to see without my glasses, and pretending I didn't know him when we met in public.

Strange.

But not as strange as this little ficlet.

It's squicky and probably in very bad taste, but I couldn't rid myself of the idea. And, it gives me a good explanation for why I find L/J such an ill-making pairing.

And it is all about me, after all.

Spoilers for Origin, through issue #3.

Here 'tis:

Consanguinity

Jean smiled as she smoothed back her hair and checked her dress in the mirror one last time.

She looked fabulous.

Since her relationship with Scott had ended six months ago, she and Logan had dated a few times, each waiting for the other to take their heavy flirtation to the next level. She'd been surprised at his gentlemanly behavior, expecting to be thrown down on the bed and ravished the first time they were alone together, but that hadn't happened.

She finally decided that she wasn't going to put up with his unexpected dithering anymore. She was going to do it, and do it tonight. Hence, the little red number, the black fishnets and the fuck-me pumps adorning her feet.

Oh yes, she thought, Logan is mine tonight.

She knew he was having a session with the Professor right now, and she'd asked him to stop by her room when it was done.

They had made some slight progress in digging up some of his memories, and so he met with Charles daily to continue to piece together his past.

She was impatient, and a little nervous, so she found herself straightening up the room. She picked up a picture of her grandmother, dressed in the chicest fashion 1945 had to offer, and whispered, "You'd like Logan, Grandma. He really is a gentleman underneath all that macho bluster."

She checked her hair again, and decided on the perfume she only wore on special occasions -- Shalimar. She sprayed her neck and wrists, and then the backs of her knees, between her breasts and the curve of her abdomen under the dress. She wore no underwear.

She lit the candles when she sensed him coming down the hall, and leaned back casually on the bed when he knocked.

"Come in," she said, lowering her voice to a sexy purr.

He stalked into the room, his face creased in a half-grin. "Jeannie," he growled. She tilted back on her elbows and he leaned over her, kissing her passionately.

They were lost in the moment, tongues dueling as they quickly undressed each other, all the flirting and waiting of the past few months over.

Logan slowly slid the red dress off her body, following the silky material with his mouth. He frowned as he tried to place the perfume she wore. Mingled with the scent of her arousal, it was curiously familiar.

Jean was drowning amid the sensations Logan's hands and lips were producing as he kissed his way down her body. She flung one arm out, knocking over the picture she'd been speaking to earlier.

She raised her hips and he pulled the dress off and tossed it away, taking her left leg and slowly unhooking the garter and rolling the fishnet stocking gently down. He dropped it on the floor and kissed her instep, tickling her with his muttonchops.

"Mmm, Rose," he murmured, licking the back of her knee, his eyes closed as he reveled in the taste of her.

"What did you say?" Jean asked.

"What? Nothing," he replied, bewildered, running a hand up her silken thigh. He ignored her whimper as he repeated the process on her other leg, this time sucking on each of her toes and sending jolts of pure desire through her body.

Finally, he stroked the wet folds of her sex, breathing in her scent as she writhed in pleasure. "God, Rose," he growled.

She sat up suddenly, shoving him backwards. He landed on his ass, eyes wide.

"What did you just call me?" she demanded. "Who the hell is Rose?"

Logan sat, stunned, as the memories of his wife came flooding back to him. Red hair, green eyes, and the scent of Shalimar mingled with her arousal.

"Rose Howlett," he choked out, near tears. "My wife."

Jean ripped the sheet off her bed and wrapped it around her nude body. She looked at the nightstand, and saw the picture of her grandmother had been knocked to the floor. She floated it over to Logan and said, "This Rose Howlett?"

He took the frame and froze, staring at it, then looking up at Jean. "Jesus fucking Christ."

She chewed on her cuticles as he rose and began pacing. "This was nearly a Greek Tragedy," she said in horror. "That's my grandmother."

Logan stopped in his tracks. "Oh, God," he muttered. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"She always did say I was the spitting image of her," Jean muttered, pulling her dress on.

"But, but how?" Logan asked, resuming his pacing as he looked longingly at the photograph. "We only had the one son, John. He--"

"Uncle John, yeah," Jean said. "I heard a lot about him. He died of cancer in 1963."

"But, but--" He was crying now, over a son he hadn't seen in over seventy years. "The healing factor."

"None of us inherited it," she whispered, suddenly seeing beyond her own horror to what this moment must be like for him. "Apparently, you ... disappeared before Grandma realized she was pregnant again. She was older than they thought was safe, but my mother was born healthy in 1933. Mom was 37 when I was born -- a miracle baby, they said, because they'd tried for so long without any luck." She slumped back down on the bed.

"They took me. The government. Told Rosie I was dead. They knew what I was. They threatened to kill her if I tried to contact her. They'd been keeping an eye on me since the war -- the Great War. I -- I didn't know. Did she --"

Jean laid a hand on his arm. "No, she never married again. Uncle John took care of her, then she came to live with us until she died. She told me stories about the house you grew up in, and then about the Yukon, and living with the miners. I thought she was the coolest old lady ever."

"She was," Logan murmured. "She saved my life more than once. When the claws -- and my father -- and Dog... She took care of me when I couldn't take care of myself. And I loved her."

"Oh, Logan."

He jiggled the picture frame in his hand. "Can I--"

"Yeah," she said softly. "I'll have copies made. I --" She was startled to see him crying, though her own eyes were not exactly dry.

"I'm sorry about -- this," he said finally.

"Let's never speak of it again," she replied, shuddering. "Okay, Grandpa?"

He snorted. "Okay, Jeannie." He paused, then, "Let's go tell Chuck."

She nodded, and they went downstairs.

End

***

Feel free to tell me what you think. *g*

I *wanted* it to be funny, but... sigh. That didn't happen, though I think there's mucho humorous potential in this situation.

And no, I doubt Marvel would go this way, though it'd make *me* very happy, non-comics reader that I am. *g*

Hey, a girl can hope, right? Especially a sad little Logan/Rogue shipper like me...

~victoria

[current mood: ]
[current music: ]
[random quote: ]

~*~

previous - next

DiaryLand

Disclaimer: Reading this diary is not required by law. If you do not like or agree with the contents herein, or find them to be offensive on more than one occasion, please go elsewhere and don't come back. Management is not responsible for any adverse reactions to content within.

The painting is "Boreas" by John William Waterhouse. Again, not a muse, but I like her. She suits the color scheme.

The quote is from Sir Philip Sidney.

This site is best viewed with IE4+ | 1024x768 | true color | verdana | tables