a fool's musings

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: "pathological and unbalanced" Items of Interest People LiveJournal folks Baraita bishclone claritylit Jintian Kat Allison Kit Mason metablog mix-tapes Neil Gaiman Nestra Sarah T. Seema Shrift Sundry Mourning zendom 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

09.24.02 - 5:26 p.m. can't quite get to it Urk. Another beginning scratched. Third person? First person? Ged's POV? The Slayer's? I'm stumbling. I can see the scene in my mind, but I can't *get* to it. And that's bugging me. Maybe she shouldn't be on Gont, just from Gont? And they could meet in some obscure place? Osskil? Osskil probably has lots of vampires. It seems like the kind of place that would. Sigh. This is one of those times where I feel like I'm just banging my head against a brick wall. I can see it - Ged with the werelight on the end of his staff, sharing his dinner with the hungry young girl whose watcher has just been killed. Not believing her story - knowing the rumors from Roke but wary of them. Then, an attack, the vamps that killed her watcher, and a fight. Then he believes. Or no. I originally started with a weakened slayer, ala "Helpless", but would Gontish slayers have to undergo the Cruciamentum? Arrrgh... This is harder than I expected. Earthsea is a much harder world to slip into than Middle-Earth. Or maybe just because it's been so many years since I've been there. Ah, me. Gotta go measure windows now, then watch season premieres and pack. Ciao, belle. ~victoria link [current mood: irked] [current music: Money - Pink Floyd] [random quote: ] ~*~ 09.24.02 - 4:16 p.m. A Slayer on Gont? Hmm... Christ, could this day get any longer? Going to measure the windows tonight so I can buy blinds. The day is dragging. Am pondering a Slayer in Earthsea. Already wrote and scratched one beginning. Wrong POV. I don't think I can write a Ged POV. I want to include him, 'cause he's so dang cool, but hmm... Also, I can't find a good fansite about Earthsea. The one that's listed as having a glossary and history etc. is 404 Not Found. Anyone know of one? I haven't been brave enough to visit FF.net. I'm afraid of Mary Sue swooning into Ged's arms. Ged was one of my earliest fictional boyfriends, and even then I knew he belonged with Tenar (stupid rules about magecraft and celibacy notwithstanding - and allegory much for Catholicism there?) and the idea of dewy-eyed teens with damask-rose complexions and lustrous raven curls breaking the spell and loving Sparrowhawk just... ::full body shudder:: However... Oohh.... I know... ~victoria link [current mood: thoughtful] [current music: Promises in the dark - Pat Benatar] [random quote: Never again isn't that what you said You been through this before and swore this time you'd think with your head] ~*~ 09.24.02 - 11:13 a.m. White Oleander and emotional blackmail I'm reading White Oleander. I did not want to read White Oleander. I've been avoiding Oprah books for a long time now. I mean, yeah, I read She's Come Undone, which would have been more impressive if she'd stayed fat and got a man, or got thin and didn't, but whatever. For a man writing his first novel, I thought he did a decent job with the female voice. I really liked Rapture of Canaan - read it in one sitting on a plane from Atlanta to NY. But I'm giving away Songs in Ordinary Time unread, and I avoided most of the others I'd heard she'd recced, just because I can only take so much female angst-and-empowerment fiction. Sometimes I need a good thriller or something. ANYhow, I saw the trailer for the film adaptation of White Oleander, and while it looked all right (Michele Pfeiffer as a psycho-mom? Renee Zellweger as Jesus-loving white trash?), I wasn't amped about it. But I come in last Wednesday after being out sick on Tuesday, and the book is sitting on my chair with a note from C. "This is one of my new favorite books!!! Read it so we can go see the movie together when it comes out!!!" Then she comes over and starts raving about the book and how awesome it is and how much she loves it and she's recced it to everyone she knows. Now, I don't know if you've picked this up about me, but I tend to be stubborn. Ornery even, sometimes. I do NOT like to be pushed into doing things, or made to feel like I *have* to do something out of obligation. I'll go to the mat for people I consider friends, but that's because I *want* to. That's what being a friend IS, to me, so it's just inherent that I would do it. It's not a question of "Do I have to?" and if I even *ask* that question, then well, I probably don't consider that person much of a friend, in the end. So any form of emotional blackmail or appeals to "our friendship" or "bonding rituals" tends to backfire with me, making me even less interested in deepening the friendship. I had enough psychotic, co-dependence with J. I finally scraped that off after years of drama, and I'm happier for it. I don't need it at work or elsewhere. Not that that's what this is (though C. has definite J.-like tendencies, which makes me *very* wary). But it was just one of those things where someone says, "Read this book! You'll love it!" and my instinctive, knee-jerk reaction is, "No! And you can't make me." So I've been carrying it around all week, and finally last night on the subway I opened it up and started reading. It's good. A little ishy (no matter how well-written the bits with Ray are, it's still ishy), and a little purple in some places, but good. I like Astrid, think the mother is a psycho, am squicked by the thing with Ray, even though I understand it, and am now wondering if Olivia, the next door neighbor, really is a hooker. 'Cause hooker fic, man, that's my thang. *snerk* On the apartment front, set up Con Ed and arranged to close my Keyspan account. Apparently they don't cover Manhattan, so I have to call Con Ed back to get gas set up. ::shakes head:: You think they could have told me that on the phone. Jeez. So last night I purchased, online, a couch and a chair and a lamp. Go me. Of course, like the bed and dresser, they'll take 10 weeks to arrive, so the apartment will be furnished with two folding chairs and an air mattress until Christmastime when, all the furnishings show up. At least I'll have my tv and dvd player. And digital cable. Woohoo! 7 HBOs to not watch. For only 30 cents more than what regular cable is costing me now. I'm revising my budget spreadsheet now, taking out the night table, adding in the lamp and the more expensive dresser. Luckily, the couch and chair I bought are cheaper than the Ethan Allen ones. It'll all work out, and I'll be in debt til I'm forty (which is, dear GOD, only 8 years away. *sob*). I'm still waiting to hear from the other real estate agent, about the $500 I put down on the first apartment. I want my money back. Of course, they're not calling me back. Bastiches. I'm also contemplating editing numerous stories, but that won't get done. No. The only time that will happen is when I'm supposed to be packing or something. Tonight, I'll pack up the stuff in the living room as I watch the first hour of Buffy and then the Smallville premiere. Daddy's taping BtVS for me, so I can see the whole thing (it is two hours, right? If it's not, there's no conflict.) this weekend. So there may be fannishness tonight, depending on the eps and how the packing goes. There is still much to be done, and sometimes fandom takes a backseat to real life. ~victoria link [current mood: busy] [current music: Gimme Shelter - only the greatest rock-n-roll song of all time] [random quote: love, sister, it's just a kiss away...] ~*~ 09.23.02 - 4:33 p.m. Burying the Dead This may not be to everyone's taste. I dunno. It's unbetaed. I just finished typing it five minutes ago. Comments and suggestions are welcome, but I have very specific aims for this story, so there isn't much I'm likely to change. But it would be interesting to know people's reactions. I could be off my nut. Or I could have done what I intended. I'm not sure yet, myself... Just so you know, DD, Rogue doesn't die. *** Burying the Dead "I had control, Logan. I swear I had control." She took a deep breath, tried to calm down. Her palm was hot and sweaty against the cool plastic of the phone. "It's okay, baby," he said soothingly. "Where are you?" "Uh--" she closed her eyes tight and let the guy's memories surface. "Sixty-sixth and Third. Apartment 4E. I'll tell the doorman." "Jesus, a doorman?" "I didn't," her voice dropped to a whisper. "I didn't mean it." "I know, baby. It's all right. I'll be right there. *Don't* tell the doorman." She heard the click as he broke the connection. She surveyed the scene. Her latest boyfriend, one Roger Jones, was laid out on the bed, his tanned skin waxy and ashen against the rich emerald of the comforter, and his dark eyes open and staring blindly at the ceiling. Rogue forced herself to take deep breaths. She'd had control. She'd perfected it. It was like the other times -- she shivered and shook her head. Best not to think of that. Logan was coming. Logan would clean it up. Logan would make it all better. He was still keeping his promise to take care of her, and she loved him all the more for it. She pulled her clothes and gloves on, occasionally stealing glances at the bed. "He's not going anywhere," she told herself. She wondered if this time, she should just call the police, tell them he'd had a heart attack in bed. No, that wouldn't work. He was young, healthy, the starting second baseman on his company softball team. Shit. With shaking hands, she wiped down every surface she could recall touching, and a few she knew she hadn't. She could hear Logan's voice in her head, "No prints -- that's the first rule." Also, no hair and no fibers. She found the dust buster under the sink and was vacuuming the sheets when a tap on the window made her jump. Pushing back the window guard and peering out, she saw the gleam of Logan's teeth in the darkness. She opened the window and he climbed through, a black, canvas bag in his hand. He wore black karate pants, a black turtleneck and soft black leather gloves. "Oh, thank God." Logan raised an eyebrow. "Where is he?" "The bedroom." He stalked through the one doorway in the small apartment, Rogue hard on his heels. He looked at the body on the bed, still fully clothed. "Didn't get very far, did you?" he cracked. "Logan!" "I'm just saying--" "Don't." He heaved a put-upon sigh and said, "Why don't you just call it in anonymously? He had a heart attack during sex, you got scared and ran--" It was funny how their minds ran along the same track. She licked her lips, unsure. "I--" "Who knows you were dating?" "You, Jubes and Kitty. Maybe Scott and-- Shit. Jean introduced us. She's bound to know--" She could feel herself beginning to hyperventilate. "Jeannie's not going to know," Logan said, grabbing her shoulders. "And even if she did figure it out, she wouldn't say anything." "But, but--" "No one's asked about the last three, have they?" She winced. She hadn't meant to kill them. Her control was just a little spotty when she was excited. "Sorry," he murmured. "No, no. You're right." When she'd discovered, after years of meditation and research, a way to control her skin, no one had been happier for her than Logan. Until she'd broken up with him because of it. It wasn't that she didn't love him. She did. In fact, she sometimes thought she loved him too much, which was why she'd had to let him go. She was afraid he'd stay with her forever, just out of his sense of obligation, and she didn't want that. She wanted him to *want* her, not to feel sorry for her, because she couldn't touch and nobody wanted her. So as soon as she was able, she set him free. He hadn't seemed upset, which made her think she'd done the right thing. After all, he could have anyone he wanted, and in those first few weeks after the break-up, she was sure he had. He'd gone out every night and not come back until dawn, looking as drunk and haggard as his mutation would allow. Hiding her irrational hurt over his response -- wasn't that what she *wanted*? For him to be happy? -- she'd started to date a guy she'd met at a local pub. Until, the first time they'd tried to have sex, she'd killed him with her skin. Hysterical, she'd called Logan, who calmly and efficiently disposed of the body. She hadn't asked where he'd taken it, and he hadn't volunteered any information. Twice more over the last six months they'd repeated the scenario, and now Roger made four notches on her bedpost, she thought, somewhat hysterically. Each time she was sure that her control would hold, but it hadn't yet. She wasn't sure it ever would, no matter how much she kept telling herself she could do it. And she wasn't sure she could take any more accidents, though Logan's rock-solid presence whenever she was in trouble made it a little easier to bear the deaths on her hands. "He didn't do drugs, did he?" Logan asked hopefully, his voice bringing her back to the situation at hand. She shook her head. "No." "Damn. I've got some coke we could have left, made it look like an overdose." He sighed again, and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, heart attack it is." She nodded. Technically, it was true. She'd sucked the life out of him until his heart had seized up. "Did the doorman see you?" "Yeah, I-- we told him it was our one-month anniversary when we came in." "Jesus, Rogue, whatever happened to discretion? Keeping your mouth shut? Not letting people into your business? Haven't you learned anything?" She closed her eyes and leaned back, sliding down the wall until she was seated, and put her arms around her legs. He knelt next to her. "I'm sorry. I just --" He sat back on his haunches and stroked her cheek with one gloved hand. She could feel his warmth and strength through the supple leather. "Why'd you leave me?" She blinked. "I, I--" She swallowed hard against the hysteria threatening to overwhelm her. "I thought you wanted to be free. You know -- stay out 'til four a.m., see other women... I didn't want your pity, and once I could touch, I didn't need it." "Pity." His voice was hard and disgusted. He shook his head and rose in one fluid motion, turning his back to her. She closed and opened her mouth, the enormity of her mistake hitting her all at once. "Oh, God." She ran for the bathroom and vomited. He was right behind her; he held her hair back so it didn't get in her way. He wiped her clammy forehead gently and handed her his hip flask when she was done. The whisky burned going down, but it overpowered the taste of bile and settled her nerves a little. He ran his thumb over her lower lip, and she found herself mesmerized by the green and gold depths of his eyes. She swayed toward him almost imperceptibly, but he shook his head. "Let's take care of your friend, first." She shook her head, suddenly knowing what to do. "Let the dead bury the dead." He stared at her for a moment, then nodded once, decisively. They went over the apartment one last time, removing all traces of their presence, before he helped her out the window and down the fire escape. On the street, she found a working payphone a few blocks away, and dialed 911. "The guy in apartment 4E isn't moving," she said. "I think he had a heart attack." She clarified the address and hung up before the dispatcher could ask her any other questions. When she was done, she slid onto the motorcycle behind Logan, and wrapped herself around him, pressing her face to his back and inhaling deeply. She understood now, that this was where she belonged. end *** I am now going to eat a donut. Glazed. Yummy. Mmm...donuts.... ~victoria link [current mood: creative] [current music: Oye Como Va - Santana] [random quote: Let the dead bury the dead.] ~*~ 09.23.02 - 11:54 a.m. prepare ye... I feel good. Things I did this morning: Called super, left message introducing myself as the new tenant and asked them to call me back about whether the apt. will be ready to move into next week. (After all this preparation, it better be.) Arranged the following: Salvage guy - coming Monday at 10:30 Moving guy - coming Wednesday at 5:30 for the estimate Moving date - tentatively set for 10/3 Cable - arranged for disconnect and hookup (Digital cable for only 30 cents more than I'm paying now. Go me!) Phone service (and long distance) - arranged for disconnect and hookup. Sadly, I do not have a gas or electric bill here at work, so I'll do those important things tomorrow. At lunch, a trip to the post office to get a "I'm moving" form so I can have my mail forwarded. And possibly a trip to Pottery Barn to sit on the couch I want to buy, but can't until I check out the measurements of the living room, which is in my notebook, which is, you guessed it, at home. Still. I mentioned it yesterday and it was home, and obviously, since I haven't been, it's still there. Yes, I am obsessing about it. I'm very annoyed with myself. Perhaps 4 hours of sleep is not enough. I did write a story this morning on the train. It's... well, let's put it this way, I had to bite my cheek to keep from giggling, but I don't know if other people will find it funny. I have to type it up, so watch this space! Speaking of watching and space, Joss in the New York Times Magazine, on Firefly, mostly, but the author gives the J-man his props for Buffy, too. Why does it suddenly smell like fabric softener in here? And why hasn't the other real estate guy called me back so I can get my money back? Grr... ~victoria link [current mood: accomplished] [current music: Rain in the Summertime - The Alarm] [random quote: \"Work is the curse of the drinking classes.\" Oscar Wilde] ~*~ 09.22.02 - 10:59 p.m. linkage Bright Shiny Objects has been updated. Yes, one day I will get back to updating my own recs page. Sigh. knee-jerk review of The Sopranos is up in the LJ. I'm also very happy that John Spencer won an Emmy. Leo rocks. And CJ! Allison Janney RULES! That's it really. I have lots to say, but I've been asked not to say it, so I won't. But jesus, people, act your age. We're not in high school anymore. You ought to know better. ~victoria link [current mood: irritated] [current music: silence] [random quote: In our interactions with people, a benevolent hypocrisy is frequently required - acting as though we do not see through the moti] ~*~ 09.22.02 - 4:46 p.m. it's not you, it's me Not dead yet. That's the only reason I keep posting (what must be for you) boring stuff about my move. 'Cause I don't want y'all to think I'm dead and gone. I'm not. Just dealing with big real life things. Bought the bed I want today, and a dresser. Bed was on sale, dresser was not. Mattress was allegedly on sale, but not a name brand (Ethan Allen's house brand) and still $1000 (boxspring included). Eep. So, the bedroom is furnished. Now, when I get home tomorrow night, I have to check the measurements of everything. I'm very annoyed with myself, that I went specifically on Friday night and measured the damn apartment, and then didn't bring the notebook with the measurements with me. Grrr... Because of that, I didn't buy the nighttable, 'cause I don't know if it will fit. And I can't tell if the baker's rack will fit. Mommy says that keeping the rack in the living room if I keep linens on it will look weird, so I'm thinking that, depending on the depth of the pirate trunk, the linens can go in there. Well, I was planning to put the unused comforter, blankets and pillows in there, but we'll see. I think there might be enough space on the shelf in the closet in the living room (in front of which I may put one of the Chinese screens I got from Dom; little Anthony can have the other, for the Oriental motif he's got going on in his room now). I also think I'll have more space in the closets because I have almost nothing left that's hanging up. The old dresses and suits are all gone. *sniff* I still can't believe this is happening. I mean, I'd always dreamed of living in Manhattan, but I'm a borough girl, and we don't do that. We laugh at the people who come from Indiana and Illinois and Alabama to live in NYC and pay the outrageous rents. But my rent, considering the market, the neighborhood, and the size of the apartment, is not outrageous, relatively, and I just love this apartment, no drawers in the kitchen notwithstanding. I figure I can buy one of those picnic silverware caddies and put it on the shelf. I also need a new toaster. There's still so much to do, and I'm not even taking most of my stuff with with - most of it's going out. I need a new floor lamp for the living room, and a new table lamp for the bedroom. Ooh ... Back. My sister had a lamp she was going to get rid of, so now all I need is a new floor lamp. Go me. Ethan Allen has a table and floor lamp similar to the fish lamp (and if I ever find a pic of it, I'll point youse at it, 'cause I lurve my fish lamp), but they want $279 for it. For a LAMP. That's INSANE. So if I owe you email (Catlin, if you read this, I sent you feedback today, finally, and it bounced - your mailbox is full), please be patient. The next two weeks are gonna be craaaazy, but then I should be okay. In other news, Jenn talks about definitive Smallville fic, and to my shame, I've read almost none of the stories she's listed. I think that tells you something about my (lack of) devotion to Smallville. I like it, I do. But it's not overwhelming me, and while I read the fic that strikes my fancy, I don't go nuts about it. A lot of it starts to fade and run into each other, like the way when you paint with watercolors, and you're bad at is (as I am), all the colors start to run and pool in the center? That's how a lot of the smaller, quiet SV Clex stories are for me - they all fade, because they seem really similar, and it's only an author with a distinctive style who can break out of that. Now I know this is not most people's impressions of the fic in the fandom, but it is mine. The factors involved include my take on the characters and how far I'm willing to move from that and let an author take me for a ride, my own style preferences, and the proliferation of short, character-based vignettes. So yeah, it's not you, it's me, and for once, that's actually the truth. ~victoria link [current mood: sleepy] [current music: Giants-Seahawks on tv] [random quote: \"Don't taunt the fear demon.\" “Why, can he hurt me?” “No. It's just tacky.”] ~*~ 09.21.02 - 9:03 p.m. nothing of interest here Not home. Nothing earthshaking to share. My back hurts. Packed a lot of books. Cleaned out my wardrobe. One dozen bags to be given to the St. Vincent DePaul Society. No, you did not read that wrong. Twelve bags of clothes I'm giving away, because they don't fit anymore, or I forgot about 'em, or I never liked them in the first place. Another list of books I'm giving away is up in the LJ. email me if something strikes your fancy. I have a feeling I had something to say, but I don't. Just a headache, as I listen to my brothers-in-law quack like ducks to entertain Tricia. Anyhow, the packing is going pretty well. Maybe email later, but maybe not. Ooh, I remember. Missed FIrefly, but watched John Doe as I packed. Ye gads, the acting was bad. That guy reminded me of David Boreanaz in first season Buffy. Wooden. Unbelievable. Pretty to look at, but nothing there. Not a show I'll be making time for. ~victoria [current mood: mellow] [current music: mets game] [random quote: she holds the hand that holds her down / she will rise above] ~*~ 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