a fool's musings

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

Warning: Adult Content

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    Music
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2002-05-14 - 10:30 p.m.

grrr... this really pisses me off

Buffy and Smallville thoughts are up in the LJ.

Okay, this is going to be a big whinge.

If you don't want to hear me whine, go away now.

This is something that happens to me all the time. It's always happened to me - in school, at work, online, and it shits me something fierce.

The thing is this.

I have an idea. I say something. I'm ignored, or told, "That's nice, dear." or even told I'm flat out wrong.

And then the next thing I know, someone else has the exact same idea (or near enough as to make no nevermind), and s/he's hailed as a freaking revolutionary, the Second Coming, and Elvis all rolled into one.

Grrr...

I cannot tell you how angry this makes me.

D. used to do it all the time. We'd be sitting in meetings and I'd offer a suggestion, get shot down, and ten minutes later, she'd say, "Why don't we do thus and so?"

And I'd look at Leslie and she'd shrug. Later, we'd go back into her office and I'd say, "Did D. not just repeat what I said ten minutes earlier and she shot down?" And Leslie would say, "She did, and you did."

The thing is this.

Why is it when I say something, it's devalued or dismissed, but when someone else says it, it's a great fucking idea?

What's up with that?

It's happened to me online, from posts on newsgroups and mailing lists, to thoughts I've put down this very diary.

Hive Mind is one thing, but this is something that just... I can't even articulate how much it pisses me off.

I don't care if something I said made you think of something and you talk about it. In fact, I think it's great. But for the love of all that's holy, don't act like you didn't read it here first when I know you did! Or you at least clicked through on your way to somewhere else. Give me some credit. I'm not an idiot. I do have a stats counter that tells me who's been here. Just give me some fucking credit, all right?

No, this isn't directed at anyone in particular at this time. It's just happened too frequently and I'm PMSing and my back hurts like bloody hell.

Grr... Arrgh...

~victoria

[current mood: annoyed]
[current music: Roots Radical - Rancid]
[random quote: Work is the curse of the drinking classes. Oscar Wilde]

~*~

2002-05-14 - 5:01 p.m.

The Sky Is Falling

Woke up this morning with pieces of ceiling on my bed.

Never a good thing.

So I called my boss and told him that I had to clean up the mess and stuff. He was like, "You need a roof over your head! Of course you should stay home."

Which was great.

This isn't the first time the ceiling has cracked like this. There's a leak in the roof, but my landlord thought he patched it. This is the third [or maybe fourth] time this has happened. He finally agreed that he must need a new roof.

Because water is a tricky thing. It finds the nooks and crannies and works its way down into the ceiling, even if you think you've patched the visible holes, there are always other ones, and the water takes a winding path to get to my bedroom. *G*

So I went back to bed for a while, then got up, did laundry, took my dry cleaning in, dropped off my comforter at the laundromat [sp?], went grocery shopping, washed the kitchen floor, and did the shoes.

The shoes.

It's a scary thing, how many pairs of shoes I've owned over the years. And usually, unless I wear them 'til they fall apart, I don't throw them out.

Since I'm contemplating moving, and since my room is a godawful mess, I decided that I would sort through the shoes today, and get rid of what I no longer want and what was no longer wearable.

I made two piles - one of shoes I didn't want but were in good enough shape to give away, and one of shoes so messed up or crappy that they had to be thrown out. I filled two garbage bags from the second pile.

::shakes head::

It's a painful thing, parting with shoes, even shoes I haven't worn for three-four years. But I did it. I'm so proud of me.

Next comes the wardrobe. I need to thin that.

See, if I really am going to move, I need to do all this shit *now*, so I can be ready to pack up and go when I find a new apartment.

The other thing I did, of course, was write a little bit.

A small scene for the psychokiller fic. Of course, it came to me when I had neither pen nor paper, and was at the empty parents' house doing laundry.

But I remembered it and typed it up when I came home.

Here 'tis.

It's a pivotal scene, so if you don't want to be spoiled, turn back now. *g*

She was in the back room at Harry's, playing pool, when the call came. She ignored it. They'd kept her off the first team for three months, and then only let her go on rescue missions since they'd reinstated her. She took a slug of beer, lined up her shot, and thought they could go to hell.

Ten minutes later, Logan and Scott, both looking angrier than she could recall seeing, stood in front of her. Logan's low growl cleared the room and he and Scott assumed identical positions, arms crossed across their chests, faces stony.

"You're supposed to come when the Professor calls," Scott said. His voice was calm, clipped. Only someone who knew him as well as she would know how angry he was, and how tightly he was reining himself in.

"I have a life," she answered flippantly. "I'm not just going to drop it when you call." She bent and sank the two-ball.

"No," he said furiously. "Newsflash, Rogue. You have no life. You have a *job*, and when it calls, you jump."

She glanced at Logan, who watched impassively. She'd get no help from that quarter, she realized.

"That's easy for you to say, Mr. Happily Married." She dropped the seven-ball in a corner pocket. "Don't be such a fucking hypocrite, Scott."

She could practically see the steam rising from his ears. "Do you think it's easy?" he asked, and even through the visor she could feel the weight of his stare. "You think it's easy knowing that I could order Jean -- or any one of you -- into a situation that causes her death? You think it's great that I could watch my wife die -- or she could watch me? Or that she could be sitting at home waiting for me, while I'm hurt or dead thousands of miles away? Is that what you want?"

"I want that choice. I want a life."

"Well you made the choice two years ago when you put on that uniform. You, of *all* people, know how dangerous what we do is, and how very necessary. If you want to walk away, fine. But make a commitment and stick to it. I'm sick of having to feel sorry for you."

She gasped. Outrage and hurt warred within her. No one had ever spoken to her like that, least of all Scott. "Feel sorry for me? I thought *you* of all people, would understand what it's like--"

"Yeah, yeah, never to be able to touch. I get it, Rogue. We all get it. And I'm sick of seeing you use it as a lever to get what you want, and an excuse for everything that goes wrong in your life. Jesus. Grow up, already." He stared at her for a moment, and she had to fight the tears burning behind her eyes. "You've been drinking, I see. So you couldn't come on the mission anyway."

He walked out, disgusted.

"Logan?"

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "You were off the team because you were a liability. But you signed up for it. That's true."

"But you don't -- you don't think the other stuff he said was true, do you?"

"Why do you think I live the way I do?" he replied, and then he, too, walked out.

She turned back to the pool table and tried one last shot. "Eight-ball, corner pocket," she whispered. She struck clean and the black ball rolled into the pocket, followed by the cue ball. "Shit."

She grabbed her coat and rushed outside, hoping Logan would still be waiting for her. Her senses screamed that something was wrong, someone was behind her, but she was too slow.

The last thing she remembered was the sickly sweet smell of chloroform on the cloth that covered her mouth. And then everything went black.

***

So, you get the first look.

Comments, as always, are welcome.

My back is killing me.

~victoria



[current mood: achy]
[current music: South Side - Moby and Gwen Stefani]
[random quote: love and darkness and my sidearm]

~*~

2002-05-13 - 11:59 p.m.

"she is so very worthwhile, while I'm just a waste of time"

Many thoughts, but not much focus to put them together. Merry has some interesting ideas regarding status, and LaT mentions the topic as well.

I think Bethy gets the final word in on the whole muse thing. There's nothing that can't be solved by quoting Cordelia as she used to be, before she went and got all demony/saintly.

As if I haven't tortured you enough, two poems I wrote many years ago, which seemed relevant to the whole discussion, and which are two of the few I consider actually *good*.

Flee now if you feel the need. *g*

Muse

She only speaks in symbols,
Portents full of meaning
She speaks of herself
In the third person,
Never I or me or mine
She is so very worthwhile
While I'm just a waste of time
She has no use for friendship
Or deep emotions she can't feel
But they gather all around her
I guess honey attracts bees.
And she chooses them
And uses them
But they will never see.
Their devotion blindly leads them
To take the poison that she feeds them
She doesn't know how much she needs them,
They can never break free.
That's the job she's given me.
She ties me up in metaphors,
In similes I'm bound
Her words come crashing over me
Never silence, always sound.
But sound that's without meaning
All her references are lost
In the lines of esoteric texts,
Lines only she can gloss
And still they gather round her
They come from near and far
She chooses them
And uses them
But they never see the scars
They have never fought her
They're like lambs led to the slaughter
But I have finally caught her
In the web of her own weaving,
In the void which is her heart
Now I have left her standing
Knee-deep in the symbolism
She herself created
And I am ever free
From words that have no meaning
It's all substance now, no seeming
I've woken, she's still dreaming
Of her portents full of meaning,
Of I and me and mine.
And all her very precious time
Is mine to waste in nonsense rhyme
Which takes the meaning from her symbols
And the reason from her signs.

5/14/91

The Queen of Words

Admiration rampant,
Undeserved
I speak my twisted thoughts
With stolen words
Revealing nothing which
Needs not to be revealed
Healing only those
Who come here to be healed
Who are healed through
No other power than their own
Although they glory me
A queen upon a throne
A throne of words, of thoughts
Half-heard admissions
Of a soul so dark and lost
In blind submission
Through which all others
Use me as a guide
To face the thoughts and feelings
From which they would rather hide
Admiration rampant
Undeserved
I speak my twisted thoughts
With stolen words
I've only voiced that which
We've all thought
And the only meaning to be found
Is that which you originally brought.
11/20/94

~*~

For those of you who made it through that, here's a special little tidbit: Moriarty from Ain't It Cool News allegedly saw a draft of the X-Men 2 script and this is his description. I don't know how reliable this guy is, but if what he says is true, it sounds pretty kick-ass to me.

Obviously, 'ware spoilers, but who knows if this is on the level, and even if it is, it could have gone through 8 revisions by now and be totally different. I'm just happy that it seems Rogue is front and center, and kicking ass.

~*~

Quick thoughts on Angel over in the LJ. By clicking on this link, you waive any right to complain about being spoiled for this week's or next week's episode.

Just wanna be clear on that.

Comments are welcome, as always.

~victoria

All poetry copyright © Victoria Pusateri

[current mood: musing]
[current music: Footsteps - Pearl Jam]
[random quote: I did what I had to do and if there was a reason it was you]

~*~

2002-05-13 - 1:55 p.m.

Charlie Delta Echo

I don't know what I hit, but it closed the window in which I was typing my diary entry and *poof* - gone.

Grrr...

I really need to be more careful, because that sucks major ass.

And this may be very disjointed, because I keep stopping to do actual - ick - work in the middle of it.

Just so's you know.

Anyhow, the title of this entry has nothing to do with the entry itself really. It's just the silly code name we ended up giving the project I was working on this morning. We do wanky things like that.

MS was saying, "I'm trying to think of what to call it," and I said, "Charlie Delta..." and blanked on the E word, and he said, "Echo." MS [I have three bosses whose first initial is M (two of whom have the same first name), so I have to use the last initial to differentiate, not that you know or care, but...] was in the army, in the 'Nam in fact, so he knows this stuff.

Which made me remember the Logan in 'Nam fic I've got started, and how I'd really like to finish that.

The thing is, in order to write a fic set in Nam [do I need the apostrophe? I'm not sure], it definitely needs to be realistic -- one, so that it doesn't dishonor the soldiers who fought and died there, and two, so the audience can believe it. Both of these objectives are encapsulated in a quote I'm fond of from Muriel Rukeyser: "the reality of the artist is the reality of witnesses" - the writer *bears witness* to events, even if those events are fictional, in order that the audience - whom Rukeyser also felt were witnesses - sees the truth.

"'the truth of the poem is the truth both of the poet and the reader' (31). Thus, we can see that the responsibility she associated with art obligated to witness was not limited to the artists alone but also extended in a much larger circle to include the witnessing audience. For Rukeyser, both artist and audience are inextricably bound together within a relationship of what she called artistic "exchange" (LOP 183)."
( Anne Herzog, from Muriel Rukeyser's Poetry of Witness)

So if I'm going to write about a seminal American experience like Vietnam, I have to be able to do so realistically *and* truthfully, even if I'm doing it from the POV of a fictional Canadian mutant.

A few people volunteered to help me when I mentioned this story, and I'm sure I will be calling on them when I get my ass in gear on it.

But the realism thing - sometimes it's not so necessary, as long as you get to the truth, right? (I'm not going to launch into a defense of fantasy as a genre. Others have done it far better than I could. As long as the internal logic of one's fantasy land works, knock yourself out writing it. Whether it's good or not will be judged by the same standard I judge all the other stuff I read.)

And then, there are times when the truth isn't really what you're after, either.

Case in point - still discussing Bab!Rogue with the betas, still trying to defend my choice to make it non-realistic in certain details, because well, the main reason I started writing it in the first place was to write a PWP in an exotic setting.

So I'm not exactly striving for realism, except possibly emotionally, which is the place it counts most in a story that's mostly erotica.

So the fact that Rogue's a virgin, and yet her first time isn't bad or painful or particularly awkward -- I'm not worried about that, though I can certainly make that a little more realistic. The point is, in a piece of erotica, I'm not sure you really *want* that kind of realism, do you? I know you don't want too much of it in a romance novel, which is sort of what I'm attempting with Bab!Rogue - one of those historicals with heaving bosoms and men with broad, bare chests and flashing scimitars, you know?

Yes, I want some authenticity in the types of money they used, and the names and some of the traditions, but I'm basically making up what I want it to be.

But this story leads to discussion of my whore fascination, and there *is* a difference between writing erotica where Rogue is a temple prostitute, and writing a story about Rogue as a hooker.

I haven't done the latter.

Wait!

I know you're laughing and pointing to Off the Corner, and those of you who've read Consumption are pointing at that, but neither of those is about Rogue's life as a hooker.

They posit that Rogue, in order to survive, turned tricks. And that the experience has shaped her and scarred her, but neither is concerned with depicting life on the street as it would be for a real life streetwalker in modern-day New York City.

I could write such a story if I wanted to. I could do the research, first-hand, if I really wanted to, and go interview the women and the shemales and the boys who are still hustling - they've just moved west from Times Square.

But the point of Off the Corner is 1. What could have happened to Rogue had Logan not been there to save her [Scott did, but not before Sabretooth mangled her pretty badly], and 2. Logan wasn't there to persuade her to stay at Xavier's.

Also, the eight months on the road thing - I think there's a lot more that could have happened that's *bad* to a 17yo girl on the road than I think would be good. Maybe I'm jaded or cynical or pessimistic, but I watch the news and... there are a lot of sick fucks in this country [and in Canada and Mexico, too, I'm sure] and young girls on their own are prime prey for those types.

Especially young girls in fear of their lives and on the run who don't want their parents [and possibly any authorities] to know where they are.

So, yes, Hooker!Rogue in both the Off the Corner series and Consumption, but like I said, except in some background details, that's not the main thrust of the story.

The main thrust of Hooker!Rogue is to see how that more jaded, hardened, *used* girl connects with a Logan who doesn't meet her as a stowaway in his trunk, but as a hooker, while he's a john. And it's about the tentative [and later, not-so-tentative] steps they take toward each other and toward a real relationship based on mutual caring and love, instead of money [and then protection] in exchange for sex.

Does it work? I think it does, but I'm very attached to Hooker!Rogue, I admit.

Consumption, the same thing, though I think Rogue is even more hardened and a little... warped by her experiences there, and the street stuff is a little more realistic, or at least I'm trying for more realistic.

Is it still a romanticized view of street-level prostitution? Yeah. Because Rogue's not emaciated, she's not hooked on crack or smack, she's not disease-ridden [though it's only through luck (and choice on the drugs side) that she's unscathed, as her lover *is* all those things], though she does have serious trust issues and the willingness to attack people she believes have hurt her without thinking of the repercussions or the right-and-wrong of the situation. She still uses sex as currency.

But again, there are a couple things to keep in mind.

One, I'm writing fanfiction, and two, I'm writing shipper fanfiction, which means that the thing I'm most interested in is seeing the couple I love, in this case, Logan and Rogue, together romantically. So I'm not going to harsh things up *too* much, and I know I'm doing that.

Is that bearing false witness?

To the facts, to *reality*, yes.

To the emotional truth of the story?

I don't think so.

But maybe I'm in denial.

Meg asked me why I never have Rogue rescuing Logan, and I guess I just see Logan as so physically competent that he doesn't *need* it, and the type of story that would put Logan in so much danger that he *does* need rescuing [and I do have one planned, though technically it's not Rogue who rescues him, and in fact she does the complete opposite] means a lot of action and technical stuff about drugs/stripping his healing power [either via drugs or mechanical means] and I'm not really into writing those kinds of stories.

Maybe I'm more dug into the gender paradigm of male rescues female than I thought, though I like writing a kickass Rogue who doesn't need Logan to come and rescue her as much as I like writing the romantic comedy Rogue who's smart and funny and just insecure about her looks and Logan is the dumbass who can't see what's right in front of him.

I think I write Rogue as the brains and Logan as the brawn, which is, I suppose gender-specific, though I have an absolute abhorrence of Dumb!Logan and Only Thinking of Sex!Logan [and Only Thinking of Sex!Rogue, and Weepy!Rogue].

My Logan quotes Shakespeare, plays chess, speaks Japanese, and reads biographies of Abe Lincoln. He's just a typical man when it comes to relationship matters. In fact, given his amnesia and the way he's lived the fifteen (plus) years of life that he remembers, he's even *worse* than the typical man, because he doesn't appear to have many close ties. I get the impression from the movie - and I think we're supposed to - that Rogue is the first person he's let into his heart [whether romantic or platonic is well, up to you, though I know where I stand] in a very long time.

The way Xavier describes his life, the state of the camper, his basic decency in second guessing himself and stopping to help Rogue - all this leads me to see a man who craves connection and yet fears it. He has all the physical connections he needs - fighting and fucking take care of that. It's the emotional connection that he's missing, and Rogue, who cannot make physical connections, slips right into that slot, much as he doesn't want her to.

And man, that was a long tangent on L/R after I pretty much said what I wanted to say about truth v. reality and the purpose/intent of fiction, even fanfiction.

Does it sound hoity-toity? To some, no doubt. Even I'm amazed at my pretension here, but I don't mean it like that.

I just think that art mirrors life, shows us how it truly is, and also how it could be, but either never was or will someday be.

And yes, I consider what I do making art. It might be low art. It might be pop art. It might be bad art, but it's art, nonetheless.

osservazioni?

~*~

I just scarfed my lunch down 'cause I've got the shakes. I *hate* when that happens.

~victoria

[current mood: thoughtful yet sleepy, and slightly shaky]
[current music: Take the Money & Run - Steve Miller Band]
[random quote: don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows]

~*~

2002-05-12 - 10:57 p.m.

"You must not come lightly to the blank page..."

Various people have jumped on the muse discussion, most recently, Andy, Jenn and Wendi.

Me, I have only this left to say and I'm beating a strategic retreat, since I've found that there are certain types of people who cannot have a discussion, and to try is just to beat your head until it bleeds, and I gave that up when I left Usenet.

So...

A direct response to Jemima, who claims she didn't insult anybody (whether she intended to or not, who can say?):

I'd say "they know not the muse" and "filtered down to the museless" are pretty dismissive ways of phrasing things, if not downright insulting, especially *after* one talks about one's own method of writing and how being "museful" is apparently the only way to take writing seriously, and that those who write for "fun" don't.

Maybe you should reread your own words more carefully, and make sure they're saying what you intend them to say. Because intent and outcome are not always coincident. And if more than one person is reading you wrong, then perhaps the fault lies not in the reader, but in the writer.

And words from someone else on the muse:

There is a muse, but he's not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He's a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. ...he's got the inspiration. It's right that you should do all the work and burn all the midnight oil, because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. There's stuff in there that can change your life.

Believe me, I know.

From Stephen King, On Writing, one of the few books on writing I've found both useful and valuable in all my years of reading and writing [that'd be about 27 for the vulgarly curious].

And my personal favorite quote from On Writing, just 'cause it's my diary and I can:

You must not come lightly to the blank page...

[I]t's writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can't or won't, it's time for you to close the book and do something else.

I take writing seriously. I also do it to have fun.

If that makes me museless or a Philistine or a purple people eater, I don't care.

I'm a good writer and I'm getting better all the time.

And that's all that really matters to me.

~*~

For my thoughts on the season finale of Alias, check out the LJ

~*~

Got something to say? You know what to do.

~victoria

[current mood: anxious]
[current music: Boys Don't Cry - The Cure]
[random quote: the reality of the artist is the reality of witnesses]

~*~

2002-05-12 - 2:02 p.m.

Happy Mother's Day!

Rushing out the door, but I wanted to say Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there!

Hope your kids treat you right!

~victoria

[current mood: rushed]
[current music: silence]
[random quote: If it's not one thing, it's your mother]

~*~

2002-05-11 - 8:18 p.m.

museless? isn't that a European breakfast cereal?

So I'm here contemplating my diary and listening to crapass "classic" rock instead of cooking dinner like a normal person.

I'll eat after I do this.

Spent my afternoon watching the Mets [they won finally] and making icons. Mostly Death and Dream icons. *g*

This is something I wrote in response to Jemima, who I am not going to quote, as she asked me not to, but you can go read her blog here:

Owning your opinions is great. It's the part where you don't seem interested in engaging in a discussion about them that baffles me.

I also disagree mightily with your characterization of the word "fun" as useless.

Words are not simply their dictionary definition. To say that they are is oversimplifying. They also have a connotative meaning, which changes with time and location. Language is not static, nor should it be. Why you have such a problem with colloquialism or the changing of the language, I don't understand.

Could people be more specific in discussing things, choosing their words better? Sure. But I don't think saying that sometimes I write for amusement or fun, and that I do it out of sheer enjoyment makes my writing any less worthy than that of someone who claims to sweat blood and writes only for some obscure yet allegedly pure motive that, at this moment, is still eluding my understanding.

Dismissing people or their work because they don't share your philosophy of writing strikes me as counterproductive if one wishes to *encourage* good writing.

Taking the craft of writing seriously doesn't mean that it can't or shouldn't be fun (as in something done for amusement or enjoyment or, in fact, that brings joy). That's the attitude that's killing "high" culture in this day and age. If it's important, it should damn well hurt or be boring, otherwise you're not learning anything and it's not worthy.

Feh on that, I say.

Oh, I forgot! Lori answered my earlier post that was in response to hers and Jemima's comments.

Addendum::
Both Wendi and Hope have weighed in on the muse discussion.

~victoria



[current mood: intrigued]
[current music: Sharp Dressed Man - ZZ Top]
[random quote: Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write.]

~*~

2002-05-11 - 12:14 a.m.

updated

Updated The Muse's Fool tonight, adding both the smut [Quick and Dirty] and the ChLark [A Little On the Side].

Go! Read!

~*~

So I'm reading Babylon by Joan Oates. We'll see if this stirs anything in the Babylonian!Rogue plot.

I've also got a book called Nebuchadnezzar and Babylon, but I don't have it with me.

Too unfocused to write at all today [yesterday now, I guess], but I did htmlize and so I feel productive.

~*~

Got some lovely feedback on the ChLark - I think it resonated with a few people. I know I've been in Chloe's position, and it's never pretty.

Never.

Ah well. Gonna try to answer some email, then go to bed.

Night!

~victoria

[current mood: productive]
[current music: Caught a Lite Sneeze - Tori Amos]
[random quote: if it's any consolation, I don't begin to understand...]

~*~

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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.

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