a fool's musings
Fool, said my muse to me,
look in thy heart and write...
Warning: Adult Content
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09.04.02 - 4:23 p.m.
slash, men, manliness, and why I love DevilDoll
Stuff I'm thinking about, cobbled together from my responses to other people's posts....
And I think the same fannish resonance applies in other types of stories, too. Any random man in a wedding dress may not be funny and/or sexy, but the one the writer or reader is fannish about? Sure. In that context, the identification is in the fannishness. If someone is fannish about A and has a kink for wedding dresses, and writes a story about A in a wedding dress and it gives her the right kind of fannish thrill, then that's a story about A, for her, not a story about a random man in white lace.
I responded:
Hmm...
I think the key words in this snip are for her (meaning the author, Jane Q Fan).
Stories, by their very nature, are meant to be shared and told. They're a form of communication and shared associations between and among people.
*Written* stories, even more so, because when you read, you generally don't have the author sitting with you, voicing all the characters as s/he heard them in her head.
Writing is about communication, and if this hypothetical story about Character A in a wedding dress resonates *only* with its author, then I'd say it's a failure as a story.
It may fulfill the need of Jane Q Fan to see A in a wedding dress, but if she doesn't make that image somehow *work* for readers other than herself, she shouldn't post the story. Or, rather, she shouldn't be surprised when other fans of Character A get all het up about her "mis"characterization of him.
The thing is, in fandom, those shared associations already exist, so when Jane Q Fan presents her view of the character, everyone who reads that story is going to have already formed an impression of him, what behaviors he will and will not indulge in, etc.
With original fiction, obviously, an author has more freedom to roam (as long as the character remains internally consistent within the story. Life doesn't make sense, but fiction should), because before Jane Q Fan hasn't met Character B before, and thus has no preconceived notions about his behavior.
I'm not advocating that fandom-wide consensus need be reached on characterization in order for fic to be considered "good", but I do think that there needs to be enough recognizable about the character at the start and that the author has to do the work to make the connection between the character on screen and the one in her story, regardless of the leaps she later makes with him (or her), and that those leaps, if not grounded in canon, must be grounded in the fic itself.
Also from torch's LJ ...
On the wussifcation of men in slash, I wrote:
Don't these trends in manliness have to do with not only our (as the writers) images of how men *ought* to behave, but how we *want* them to?
I mean, I'm turned off by the Sensitive New Age Guy (SNAG) schtick.
I don't want Alan Alda in my fiction, I want the Wolverine. Perhaps as a reaction against the softening of men in real life (which is a *good* thing, to an extent), I prefer my men in fiction (both fan and pro, both het and slash) to be ... manlier. To be Gary Cooper or Gregory Peck or Humphrey Bogart, rather than, say, Tom Cruise or Matt Damon (though I bought him as stoic and manly in Bourne Identity, which was a surprise).
I write and squee over behavior from Lex and Logan and Xander that I would abhor in any man I really wanted to be with. But that fantasy is there, and while I don't care much for jocks, I like a guy who likes sports and drinks beer, because that's what *I* like.
So the whole "weepy wussies" thing is just... urk. *I'm* not that feminine (that often); I certainly don't want the men in my fantasies to be more femme than I.
If (and it's a big if, that I don't know that I agree with, necessarily) some women write slash to remove the female from the picture, what purpose is served by turning one of the men *into* the stereotypical woman?
I don't get that.
Of course, I also don't get men in drag or blood play or any number of kinks that get other people off...
And I don't have to, as long as I believe the *characters* get it, which is tying back to my earlier comment about how the characterization in a fic has to resonate and relate to the character onscreen, or the fanfiction itself won't work.
Regarding slash and why we like it and read it and write it:
In the same discussion on torch's LJ, Reenka wrote:
to me, the "gay" thing was always incidental. after all, it's not like the reason i `ship het ships has anything to do with straightness, or heterosexuality, or whatever. it's just that homosexuality is... "different" and striking, that people need to pay attention and go, "ooh, you're being all transgressive and daring" and what have you. is it possible that slashing two characters is just... one being old-fashioned and romantic and wanting to see romance in unlikely places? now, not contradicting that i probably wouldn't, personally, if i didn't find boy-on-boy lovin' hot. but i still, probably wouldn't, if i didn't love those two particular characters together, be they male, female, alien, or ducklings....
Yes. That's exactly it.
This is what I wrote in FayJay's LJ on the topic of why I like slash:
There are a number of factors for me, but most of 'em have to do with the "one boy good, two boys gooder (sic)" theory of slash.
I find men sexy. I find men doing erotic things to each other sexy.
While I don't find the visual depiction of anal sex or rimming sexy, I do find it erotic when it's well-written.
There's the idea that I'm silently interposing myself between them (usually with Bayliss/Kellerman).
There's the fact that I find the fight for dominance between two alpha males arousing (Scott/Logan, Xander/Angel).
here's the fact that two people just seem destined for each other, and they both happen to be male (Clark/Lex, Wes/Gunn).
I also find the occasional femslash sexy, depending on the pairing (Cordelia/Faith), though I have no particular interest in being with a woman myself. I don't mind watching.
I think tying it up in issues of queerness and gender identity can be limiting, at least for people like me, who prefer lit without politics attached.
I mean, I also love the novels of Salman Rushdie and various other Indian writers. I don't think that makes me a cultural imperialist. It just makes me interested in good writing about different cultures.
For me, slash is just shipping with two people of the same sex. In the end, it's about romance. It may reveal more about my sexuality/preferences/identity than het fic does, but I doubt it.
But I think you'll find the reasons people read and write slash are as plentiful and varied as the reasons why people do anything else, but I'm willing to wager it all comes down to one thing in the end - it feels good and they like it.
It's like asking why you like chocolate? Why question something that basic and primal? Just enjoy it while it lasts...
This thread also tackles RPF, but my thinking capacity is not up to that at the moment.
*This* is why I love DevilDoll
This is the post she's repsonding to.
And, so I have 'em for easy reference, the links to torch and Fay Jay:
I may return to these topics after I've thought more.
~victoria
[current mood: drowsy]
[current music: Babe I'm Gonna Leave You - Zeppelin]
[random quote: \"He thinks I have an eating disorder and a fear of rectangles. That's not weird, is it?\" Josh Lyman, WW]
~*~
09.04.02 - 12:32 p.m.
"There's a Plan B?" "There's *always* a Plan B."
I could write about all sorts of things, from RPF and the fallacy of the "victimless crime" to the political nature of fanfiction, to the whole "why isn't there more gen fic" thing.
All three are interesting topics and are rearing their ugly heads yet again around blogland.
But I'm sleepy, still, and I can't eat lunch 'cause I'm having bloodwork done this evening (cholesterol etc.), and so I probably won't do much waking up, despite the rapid ingestion of caffeine.
Plus, my webmail is acting up again, timing out every time I try to send an email. This happened for months, then suddenly went away, and yesterday afternoon it popped up again sporadically, and now it's an all the time thing.
Grrr...
Anyone know how to fix that?
What I can give you is this, the next section of the watch fic:
Rogue blinked at Logan's retreating back, as if unable to believe what had just happened.
He'd touched her, *kissed* her, and then walked away.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she forced them back, refusing to cry.
Instead, she got angry.
She strode back to her room, fuming. She was mumbling to herself when she brushed past Jean in the hallway.
"Rogue, are you okay?"
"Who the hell does he think he is, anyway? " Rogue growled, doing a fine impression of the man she was cursing.
"Did he not like the watch?"
"Oh, he liked it all right. Liked it so much he--" she broke off, the anger draining away as she felt the other woman's concern wash over her.
"What did he do?" Jean's voice held a militant note that usually crept into it only when Scott had pissed her off. She took Rogue's arm and led her into the kitchen.
Rogue leaned back against the big, stainless steel refrigerator, trying to cool off her still-raging hormones. "He just -- he kissed me and he walked away! Just like that. 'You're too young, Rogue. You're just a kid, Rogue.' Bah!" She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly.
Jean settled into a chair at the table. "I was hoping that wouldn't be a problem. "
Rogue pushed herself off the fridge. "What do you mean?"
"He's -- he's leery of the age difference, Rogue. He has every right to be. You're only eighteen, and--"
Rogue laughed bitterly. "Look, I realize that I look like a regular teenager, but I'm not. I mean, deadly skin? Not to mention a few decades of memories that I'm not going to forget anytime within this lifetime." She slumped into a chair next to Jean. "I've seen things that no one could see and stay a child."
"I understand." Jean reached out and patted Rogue's hand. "I'm not the one you have to convince."
"You don't think, you don't think I was wrong about him, about his feelings, do you? " Rogue asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
"He kissed you?" Jean asked. Rogue nodded. "Well, with all those years of experience in your head, was it the kiss of a man in love, or the kiss of a man thanking a friend for a gift?" Rogue felt the blush flare in her cheeks. "I see. Well, then, we were correct in our assessment of his feelings. It's just a question of whether he'll admit them or not."
"Logan? Admit to his feelings?" Rogue snorted. "That'll never happen."
"Well, we already know how he feels--"
"Do we? " Rogue pushed her hair out of her face and blushed again, recalling some of his less -- nightmarish memories. "I mean, this is Logan. He's just as likely to have sex as he is to shake hands with a woman. Maybe--"
"He wouldn't have stopped if he didn't care," Jean said confidently.
Rogue opened her mouth and closed it again, thinking over that statement. "How's that work?" she said after a few moments passed.
"He doesn't want to screw things up. He's -- afraid that he'll lose your friendship if he pushes you. He's afraid people will call him a cradle robber at best and a pervert, at worst. He's afraid that it's just a crush on your part, or that you'll meet someone you like better when you go back out into the world--" Her eyes took on a faraway look and Rogue understood.
"That's what happened with you and Scott."
"Something like that, yes," Jean confirmed. "So, I understand why he's hesitant. You have to give him some time, and he'll come around."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we'll move to Plan B," Jean said darkly, rising from her chair.
Rogue stood as well, trying not to get her hopes up. "There's a Plan B?"
"One thing you learn as an X-Man, Rogue, is that there's *always* a Plan B." Jean put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. "If we can't figure it out, there's always Scott." Rogue opened her mouth, but Jean wasn't finished. "And if Scott can't do it, we'll call in the secret weapon."
"Secret weapon?" Rogue was almost afraid to ask.
Jean nodded decisively. "Jubilee."
"Oh, God."
"Exactly. But let's hope Logan comes to his senses, so it doesn't come to that."
***
Next, I believe it's Jubilee's turn.
Heh.
Poor man ain't gonna know what hit him.
*eg*
~victoria
link
[current mood: drowsy]
[current music: Shine On You Crazy Diamond - Pink Floyd]
[random quote: we're just two lost souls living in a fish bowl, year after year]
~*~
09.03.02 - 9:00 p.m.
Scott's getting shagged tonight!
Scott/Logan.
Diebin's X2 Trailer Fic Challenge.
Unbetaed, empty smut calories and oh-so-very bad for you.
Picture number 27, because the first words out of my mouth on seeing it were, "Ooh, Scott's getting nailed."
***
Don't Turn Around
"Don't turn around," Logan growled, pushing Scott toward the counter. Scott did as he was told, his breathing already ragged at the feel of the larger man behind him.
Logan nudged Scott's legs apart with his knee, one claw at the ready to slit the back of Scott's leather uniform open.
Scott felt his muscles clench involuntarily as cool air blew over his now-bare ass. He inhaled sharply as Logan's fingers caressed him, feathering down the cleft between his cheeks. He swallowed hard and braced himself for what was next.
Since Jean had left him to go do charity work amongst the poor in Calcutta, Scott had unexpectedly found solace in the arms of the Wolverine. These quick fucks in the locker room after missions had become almost routine, but there was nothing routine about the feelings Logan aroused in him.
It wasn't about love, or power or even dominance, though that's what it might have looked like to anyone who happened to see them. No, it was about comfort and lust, and losing himself pleasure. In the feel of Logan's solid bulk pressed against him--
All the air rushed out of Scott's lungs as he felt the warm tip of Logan's tongue brush over his cleft.
"God," he gasped. Logan hadn't done that before, and it was warm and wet, and so good.
Logan spread Scott's cheeks a little wider, flicking his tongue in and out before sliding a finger in up to the second knuckle.
Two fingers, then, and a tongue, and it was all Scott could do to remain upright. One hand clenched the edge of the counter while the other unzipped the front of his leather suit so he could get to his cock.
Logan reached around and covered Scott's hand with his own. "Wait," he said, rising.
Scott heard the zipped of Logan's suit and looked back over his shoulder.
Logan's cock was hard and already glistening with a drop of precome.
Logan removed his hand from Scott's cock and thwapped him on the head, not quite hard enough to sting. "I said, don't turn around."
Scott turned back to face the counter, and Logan spat into his hand and began stroking himself, and Scott in the same rhythm.
Then he pushed into Scott, slowly in and in, and--
"Logan!"
"Come on, Cyke," Logan grunted, both his hands on Scott's hips now, drilling into him, long, hard strokes that made Scott quiver with pleasure. Scott resumed jacking himself in time with Logan's thrusts. Logan changed his angle slightly, seeming to know exactly how to fuck him, exactly how to hit his prostate, and Scott didn't last long.
The orgasm exploded out of him from the base of his spine through his belly and cock. He came all over the counter, shouting Logan's name. He was still shuddering in pleasure when he felt Logan come inside him, a rush of warm wetness that made him swallow hard.
Logan leaned against him, breathing heavily.
"Fuck, Summers," he growled. "You've got the sweetest, tightest ass this side of the Rockies."
Scott allowed himself to enjoy the heat of Logan's body and the compliment, crude as it was, for a few moments.
Then Logan pulled out and away, murmured, "Don't turn around."
And they were team leader and rough-edged warrior again.
Scott closed his eyes and waited for the sound of the shower before he cleaned up the counter.
They never spoke, never faced each other, afterward.
It was better that way.
By the time he finished, Logan was out of the shower, and he had it to himself. He took his time, languid from satisfaction, and marveled, once again, at how strange his life was.
end
***
My slash muscles are atrophying. I need a new season of Slashville to get me going again. I can't even tell if it's hot.
All comments gratefully accepted.
Ice cream now, I think.
~victoria
link
[current mood: loopy]
[current music: Come What May - Kidman & McGregor]
[random quote: \"We're still looking for either a naked man with huge eyes or an emu.\"]
~*~
09.03.02 - 3:50 p.m.
oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire...
I'M ON FIRE
Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire
Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you all the things that I can do
oh no, I can take you higher
Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire
Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby
edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley
through the middle of my soul
At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet
and a freight train running through the middle of my head
Only you can cool my desire
Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire
::shivers::
Logan song, most definitely.
::melts into a puddle at the idea::
~victoria
link
[current mood: melted]
[current music: I'm On Fire - Springsteen]
[random quote: At night I wake up with the sheets soakin wet & a freight train runnin through the middle of my head Only you can cool my desire]
~*~
09.03.02 - 10:21 a.m.
Unrequited, an atypical fic
So, I got offline a little early last night so I could bang out that At Seventeen plot bunny.
It's not pretty.
It's also not L/R friendly. Maybe I just wanted to prove I could do it. I dunno. It's hard to write something you don't really believe in though, and I think it shows up in the writing. It's very... half-hearted. Also highly atypical of my stories. Consider yourself warned.
But, it's done; at least, the second draft is done (written last night, edited on the train this morning).
And hey, look on the bright side - at least Rogue doesn't die.
*eg*
Unrequited
"We need to talk."
I try not to wince.
I know, from watching endless hours of bad TV, that those words never lead to anything good.
I'm biting my lip, and I force myself to stop. I'm trying to show him I'm an adult, someone he can want and love, someone who loves him.
He takes my hand and leads me outside, to a bench in the garden. It's a little chilly, but I don't mind. Just being near him warms me up. We just sit and stare out at the horizon for a while.
Or, he stares out at the horizon. I keep sneaking glances at him. I can't help it. He's so handsome. I'm so happy he came back.
I mean, I knew he would. He said he would. I touch his dog tag, hidden beneath my turtleneck, snug between my breasts. I think of his hands touching me there, even over my shirt, and I'm finding it hard to breathe.
He notices. Of course, he notices. He notices everything about me, and I do the same with him.
He glances at me, and then looks back out at the sun setting beyond the trees.
"Look, Rogue," he starts, and he plays with my hand, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fingers of my glove. I lick my lips, as my mouth has suddenly gone dry. "I, I know you've been through a lot. And, well, a lot of that is my fault--"
"No! How can you think that, Logan? You saved me--"
His hand tightens around mine, and I can feel the adamantium in his grip. "If I hadn't screwed up in the first place, I wouldn't have had to. But the thing is," he takes a deep breath, "the thing is, Rogue, that you think I'm some kinda hero.
"And I'm not."
"Logan--"
"Let me finish." His voice is sharp and I snap my mouth shut. "You had a rough time. And yeah, I helped you out. And Xavier -- he wants to help you, too.
"These guys, Cyke, Storm, Jean -- they're the heroes, not me."
"But--"
"I'm just a guy who tried to do the right thing. And--"
"Logan, I love you." I've been feeling it forever, but even I'm a little shocked at how I just blurted it out.
He closes his eyes and his forehead crinkles, as if what I said hurt him. "No, Rogue, you don't. You just think you do. It's okay, it's... we can deal with it--"
"Deal with it?" My voice gets a little shrill, and I need to take a deep breath to calm down.
"You're young, you're a kid. You've got a crush--"
I can't take it anymore. I jump up, pulling my hand away, leaving the glove behind, in his grip.
"A crush? Is that what you think? Logan, I have you in my *head*. I thought you understood. I thought you felt the same."
He looks down at the glove and then up at me again. His mouth moves but no sound comes out.
"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me," I challenge, feeling more confident as he can't meet my gaze.
He stands then, and holds the glove out to me, but I let it drop to the grass. "I'm sorry," he says. "I care about you, kid. You mean a lot to me. You do. I wouldn't have risked my life for you if you didn't.
"But I don't love you. Not like you want."
He shoves his hands in his pockets, and walks away.
I rush after him and grab his arm with my bare hand. He doesn't flinch from that, though when he looks into my eyes, I can tell he's unhappy. I know he hates heart-to-heart talks. I know he doesn't do well with emotional scenes. He probably thinks he's doing what's best for me, but he doesn't understand how much I need him, how much I want him.
He's lying. He has to be lying.
"Prove it," I whisper.
He raises his arm toward his face, his eyes locked on mine, and I know. I don't even have to touch him to see it.
Oh, God.
It's my turn to run away. I'm such an idiot.
He doesn't love me. I don't want to believe it, but I can tell.
It's the truth.
end
***
Yeah.
Don't yell at me. I warned you.
YOu'll notice me playing with the "I don't love you" "Prove it" trope a bit. It shows up in Liar's Poker, and I think I may also use it, inverted, in The Fifth Wheel.
I'll tell you though, the Rogue muse is giving the Logan muse the cold shoulder bigtime. The Logan muse is once again annoyed with me.
I'm thinking it might be a bit before the watch fic gets done.
Sigh.
It's Tuesday. Don't expect anything good. Tuesdays suck.
~victoria
link
[current mood: cranky]
[current music: Beast of Burden - the Stones]
[random quote: \"We are all doomed to pay for the biggest mistakes of our dumbest competitors.\" Jerry Reinsdorf]
~*~
09.02.02 - 9:54 p.m.
the last hand
I did not, it must be noted, win either of the games of May I played today.
I did, however, win the last hand of the second one, and thus upheld my honor.
See, the last hand is the hardest. You have to get three sequences (straight flushes, for those of you who play poker, and they have to be in three different suits, and you can't turn the corner) and you have to put the cards down with no discard - every card in your hand has to fit into one of the sequences.
So yeah, I have a history of losing everything but winning the last hand, and I did so again today.
Little Anthony managed to win most of the hands in the first game, but he got stuck in the last hand, so my sister won that one, and then Alyssa won the second game.
It was a lot of fun.
After everyone left, I watched the remake of Sabrina, which isn't great, but it's not horrible, and the part where Linus tells her the whole thing was a lie always makes me a little teary.
Plus, the whole, "David sent me" scene sparked fic ideas. *g*
Guess I'll try to answer a little email now. The comments are still down, so use the guestbook or the LJ to leave comments.
Cheers.
~victoria
link
[current mood: headachy]
[current music: silence]
[random quote: you've got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run]
~*~
09.02.02 - 11:58 a.m.
more watch fic
Apparently my comments have disappeared.
Weirdness.
So, prepping for the family May I tournament.
Back in the day, we used to play May I every time we got together with my Aunt Elizabeth, but somehow, over the last ten-twelve years, we got out of the habit.
It's a long game, and if you start it at 7pm, you'll probably still be playing at 11. Well, finishing up, any way.
But as the kids got older, we taught Alyssa how to play, and she loved it, so my sister started playing with her (and my sister is like the May I champion. She plays cutthroat, though she'd deny it. She's down and out and you never even knew what hit you) and eventually they taught Mary Ellen how to play.
On Saturday, at the big rainy end of summer bbq, Alyssa rounded everyone up to play cards and they ended up playing... poker, which she didn't participate in.
So today, they're all coming over to the parents' to play.
We keep promising Aunt Elizabeth that next time we get together we'll play, but it hasn't happened yet. However, since the 'rents now live only about half an hour from her instead of over an hour, I think it probably will happen.
Anyhow, I got offline early last night and attempted some writing, so, here, without fanfare, is the next bit (and it is small) of the watch fic:
She pressed a soft kiss to his mutton-chopped cheek, where it was safe, and he inhaled sharply.
She pulled back, but not far enough. He could taste her breath. He slipped a hand around her slim, gloved wrist, pinning her in place, and leaned forward. His lips hovered over hers, breathing her in. A shiver ran through her, drawing his eyes down to her chest, which rose and fell rapidly. The chain of the dog tag shone dully against her skin, and again he traced it with the tip of a finger.
Then he slid his lips along the white streak in her hair, close, so close to her skin. She gasped in shock, and froze. He could smell fear mingled with her desire.
"It's all right," he murmured against her ear, but he moved his mouth away from her bare skin, pressing kisses to the tops of her breasts through her tee shirt. Her hands slid through his hair, mapping his skull as he caressed her with his lips and tongue. She arched into him, offering herself without a second thought. And he took what she had to give; his hands cupped her breasts, thumbs rubbing her peaked nipples before he brought his mouth to them.
Her breathing was ragged now, and she made soft, wordless sounds that spurred him on. Sucking eagerly at one breast, he used one hand to lift her into his lap, settling her legs on either side of his. His hands roamed her body, learning the feel of her, loving the sounds she made under his eager touches, the way she responded. He was working on instinct now, rational thought lost in the rush of feeling. So many sensations to absorb -- the silken fall of her hair over his hands when he stroked her back, her scent as arousal replaced nervousness, the husky tone of her voice, and the warmth that had nothing to do with their bodies and everything to do with his feelings for her.
She rocked into him, and the feel of her against his groin made him growl. There were too many layers of clothing between them. He wanted to touch her, to be inside of her. He *needed* to be inside of her. He fumbled a little at the fly of her jeans, hands trembling like a teenager on his first date.
"God, Logan," she whispered, his name rising like a breathless prayer in the late afternoon stillness.
"Marie."
He only called her that in his fantasies, and this was playing out like one of the better ones.
And that thought hit him like cold water in the face. He leaned back against the tree trunk, and she followed, pressing kisses to his chest.
He swallowed hard and gripped her shoulders; using every scrap of willpower he could command, he pushed her away.
This wasn't a fantasy. It was reality. And he couldn't do this to her. It wasn't right.
"Mar- Rogue." That was good. He was in control, reining in the beast inside. He pushed the hair off her forehead, hesitating at the hurt, confused look in her eyes. "We can't do this."
"But--"
"No buts." He lifted her off his lap, gently, and deposited her on the ground. He got up before she could do anything else. "You're just a kid."
And he walked away.
***
So, there you have it. Idiocy on Logan's part. *snerk*
But don't worry. It's all worked out. Jean and Jubilee to the rescue!
I just have to write it.
But probably not today, 'cause, you know, cards. Gambling. The thrill of going down and out and leaving everyone else with a fistful of high cards.
*nods*
Oh yeah. I'm ready.
*eg*
Since the comments function appears to be down, go here if you have something to say.
~victoria
link
[current mood: reckless]
[current music: Pachelbel's Canon]
[random quote: I'd join the movement if there was one I could believe in I'd break bread & wine if there was a church I could receive]
~*~
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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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