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

09.29.02 - 11:01 p.m. alias thoughts First off, DevilDoll truly is a doll. She did her half of the Fandom Impact Survey. My half is here. Also, my fangirly ramblings on tonight's Alias are here. ~victoria link [current mood: tired] [current music: I've Got a Theory - BtVS cast] [random quote: I've got a theory we should work this fast, because it clearly could get serious before it's passed] ~*~ 09.29.02 - 8:16 p.m. tired like a really tired thing My whole body hurts. I'm exhausted. The apartment is packed, and mostly ready to go. I'm sure there are a few last minute details that I've forgotten and will panic about on Thursday morning, but for now... done. Tomorrow the salvage guys come to take the old furniture out, and then I'll vacuum and wash the bathroom floor, and that's it. Of course, there is the saga of the table. I have this coffee table, see. Bought it 8 1/2 years ago when I moved into the apartment I'm in now. And an endtable to match. Beautiful pine, with Queen Anne style legs, light wood, natural finish - just a beautiful table. It's short - I'd call it squat if it weren't such a lovely piece of work. Except it's too big for the living room in the new apartment, which measures about 8'x13' - with the couch I bought, the pirate's trunk, a bookcase, the television and the stereo, the room is going to be full. So my parents were going to store it for me. After yesterday, in which we fit the NordicTrack into Daddy's trunk, and today, when Dom picked up the kitchen table and fit it and all the chairs into his hatchback, Daddy and I were optimistic that the coffee table would fit in the backseat of the new car. Oh, how wrong we were... So I had resolved to get rid of it - let the salvage guys take it. I mean, I don't even know if all the stuff I've packed is going to fit, let alone furniture I'd made no plans for. But my sister, as annoying as she can be (and believe me, she can be very annoying), said that it could be stored standing on its side, in a closet. The legs aren't that long, and it should fit, the legs just jut through between some hanging clothes. So I think I'll be taking it. I mean, I love that table. It's sad, but true. I don't have children, but I'm very attached to certain possessions. I'm a spinster lady. Which reminds me -- last night, for Sal's birthday, I was sitting at the corner of the table, since there were quite a few of us there, and my father turns to me and says, out of nowhere, "Switch seats with me." "Why?" "Old superstition - a woman who sits at the corner of the table will wind up an old maid." I burst out laughing. "Too late. I'm already there!" (Brief pause for first aid as the gash I opened up just above my ankle while shaving begins bleeding again. Exhaustion is a bad state to shave in. Trust me.) Anyhow, it must be an old Sicilian superstition, but one I'd never heard until last night. So to sum up my current condition: bleeding, single, exhausted. Also, ready to move. Dear god, I can't wait til Thursday comes. On the upside - Alias tonight. Syd/Vaughn goodness, I hope... I'm sure I'll comment in the LJ later on. ~victoria link [current mood: exhausted] [current music: Going through the motions - SMG] [random quote: crawl out of your grave you find this fight just doesn't mean thing...] ~*~ 09.28.02 - 9:54 p.m. almost... there... so ... tired... packing... almost... done... must... stop... typing... like... Shatner... talks... Things left to be done: Finish packing clothes Shoes Linen storage racks Disconnect stereo/dvd player from television; label wires for easy hook up in new apt. Back up rest of bathroom supplies Vacuum Wash bathroom floor Laundry - clothes Strip bed Tape bins shut; label them Pack lamps if possible Pack printer I think that's all of it... Happy Birthday, Sal! (a couple days late) ::crawling into bed now:: ~victoria [current mood: exhausted, yet Shatnerian] [current music: tv in the backgound] [random quote: her rage it burns like Chinese torture, she's just someone's favorite daughter..] ~*~ 09.27.02 - 3:05 p.m. HP and LD I had a Harry Potter dream last night. I was Harry's godmother (I wonder if I got together with Sirius at some point. Yum.) and I was protecting him from, get this - Hermione. Hermione was sick of being a Old Reliable Dog Geyser Person Sidekick. I think she pulled an evil!Willow and she was freezing the Weasleys, but Harry and I saved the day. Then I tried to protect Harry and ROn from a Frogman with an invisibility spell (Invisio!), but I unfortunately had one of Fred and George's joke wands, which wilted and melted when I tried to cast a spell. That was bad. But they outran Frogman and I stunned him. Then I sat Hermione down and told her that she couldn't be evil anymore. She didn't have to be good, but she had to stay out of my way or I'd have to petrify her or something to keep her from getting us in deep shit with Voldemort. Then I escorted her, Ron and Harry to class and got dressed for a wedding. Then I woke up. No, I don't know what it means. *** Leslie and I had lunch and I tried to convince her that she's got to move out of where she's living. The situation is intolerable, and I'm amazed she's lasted as long as she has there. Five years! And jesus, the rent she's paying for what she's getting is insane. For $300-400 more a month, she could be living in high style. ::shakes head:: She's scared of her roommate/landlady. And the woman sounds like a right bitch, but still... If *I* could get the nerve up to do it, Leslie certainly can. I mean, she moved to NYC from out of state, knowing no one, and did just fine. This should be a piece of cake compared to that. *** I'm exhausted. I have to start packing my bedroom. It scares me. *** I finished White Oleander last night. Did I mention that? I don't recall. It was good - a little purple in places, but good - but depressing as all hell. Jesus. I don't know what I'm reading next. I just deposited a whole load of books here in the ladies' room at BEMC. I still have a bunch more unclaimed ones at home, some of which will probably just wind up in the trash, sadly enough. Nobody wants 'em. I hate throwing out books. But I have four or five books here at work for emergency situations and... Crap! I forgot to wish Leslie a Happy Birthday and her b-day was last week. I'm a horrible friend. Double crap! Rita's b-day was this week and I didn't email her. Sigh. I need to do that. Anyway, the books I have here are The Blind Assassin by Atwood, Bel Canto by Ann Patchett, A Cold Case by Philip Gourevitch, Lost by Geoffrey Maguire, My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk, and The Fall of the Year by Howard Frank Mosher. I think I'm gonna go with Lost. Hell, how much more depressing could it be than Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister? Don't people write *happy* books anymore? ~victoria link [current mood: exhausted] [current music: Pride and Joy - SRV] [random quote: \"Hey, when was the last time this thing was defrosted? You poor, poor ice cubes. Daddy's here.\" ~Bobby Drake] ~*~ 09.27.02 - 11:59 a.m. access DENIED I currently have access to this. Don't know how long it'll last. No att mail, though. So if you need to reach me, use victoria at unfitforsociety dot net. Obviously with the @ and the . where they're spelled out. We'll see how long this lasts. Sigh. Stupid corporate firewalls. At least FNG got everything working again, 'cause I was waiting for the IT guys all morning. I'm meeting Leslie for lunch today. Should be fun, despite the craptacular weather. ~victoria [current mood: resigned] [current music: While My Guitar Gently Weeps - Beatles] [random quote: The hardest thing in this world is to live in it...] ~*~ 09.26.02 - 11:38 p.m. sigh... almost there As I was leaving work tonight, they were migrating me over to a new proxy server or something, and the IT guy mentioned that there may be limited internet access, that they've blocked even MORE sites, so I don't know if I'll be able to update here or LJ at work, or even check my personal email, anymore. ::sniff:: I managed to clean the bathtub and take down the good shower curtain tonight, and hang the cheap one. I keep looking around my bedroom, and it scares me. THis is the room I dread cleaning and packing, because god only knows what's buried in here, underneath all the old drafts of stories and the shoes and books. Well, I think I got most of the books packed, but still... there could be more in here. I guess that's tomorrow night's job. I wish the packing and moving parts of this could be over with. I really do. I'm sure everybody who's ever moved feels that way. Sigh. ~victoria [current mood: tired] [current music: Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley] [random quote: Love is not a victory march] ~*~ 09.26.02 - 1:05 p.m. lush or purple? It makes me proud that in addition to the smurf porn and Simpsons incest searches that bring so many of you to my diary, I also have people clicking here looking for "Cormac McCarthy literary criticism" and "Hemingway style" and "Faulkner 'Absalom, Absalom.'" As well as Sopranos fanfic (I don't think I want to know) and the typical Orlando Bloom RPS. So I did some writing yesterday, and stayed up late last night doing more, and this is what I give you (unfinished, unbeta'd): Liar's Poker He never should have touched her that last time, but seeing her in pain hurts him, causes him pain in ways his own wounds never do. He woke in the med lab to her eyes, shining with love and desire for him. He left that afternoon. When he came back the next time, he stayed for a month before his need for her became overwhelming and he had to leave before he acted on it. He's been back for three weeks this time, and he's already ready to leave again. He can't take it. He sees her watching him, knows that she knows, now, what he wants to do with her. And he's closer to breaking down and giving in than he's ever been before. He keeps his face neutral, ignores her at dinner, but he should have known that wouldn't faze her. She has a natural optimism, a belief in people that even extra doses of his cynicism can't quell. She believes in him, and that hurts, because he's done nothing to earn it. He goes out and finds other women, but all he can see is that they are *not her*, and his need goes unmet, his desire unslaked, no matter how often he couples randomly in dingy motel rooms and back alleys behind dive bars in the city. It makes him weak, and he hates his weakness. He hates himself, because he cannot hate her. It would be so much easier if he could hate her, make her hate him. Take the weight of her expectations and shirk it from his shoulders, loose the yoke in which she has him bound. He is out at a bar, another night of trying to hide from the truth, when it hits him. There's a blonde on his lap, another with her tongue in his ear, when he realizes he has to leave again, because neither of them smell -- move -- sound like her, and he can't take it anymore. Fighting, drinking, driving fast -- these no longer give him the pleasure they once did. Everything is tainted, filtered through the lens of his need for her. His determination holds until he stumbles into his room. And she's there. In his bed. She wakes at his entrance, sits up and blinks slowly, the soft scent of sleep, sweat and Marie wafting over him, unknowingly seducing him. Her hair falls in gentle waves over her breasts, and he closes his eyes, clenches his fists. "Logan?" Her voice, husky with sleep, glides over his sensitive ears like expensive silk. He swallows hard. "What are you doing here?" His voice is hoarse, tight with suppressed longing and all the words he'll never say. She shrugs and he feels his body tighten in response to the way her breasts bounce with the motion. "I miss you." "I'm here now." She pats the spot next to her. "Come to bed, Logan." He is frozen in place. All his wishes, dreams, desires are laid before him, his for the taking. And she wants to be taken, wants to take him, hold him inside the honeyed cage of her body. To her, it's love, and love conquers all. She ought to know better, with him in her head, but she still believes she can redeem him, that he wants to be redeemed. And tonight, he does. He stands upon the blade of a knife, thin and sharp and double-sided as one of his claws, and far more capable of breaking him. "Please?" And as easily as that, she has him. He moves forward purposefully; once the decision is made, once he's allowed himself to have what he wants, he won't waver, he won't regret. All that will come tomorrow. "We're not going to be sleeping." He forces the words out, his voice still rough and strange. It is the last out he will give her. Her smile is pure and wicked, knowing and innocent all at once, a woman's smile for her lover. "I know." She opens her arms and he falls into them, falls into her. She is the ocean that will drown him, pulling him down with her love and her hope. His hands are already moving over her, impatient, the consummation of which he's dreamed suddenly real - soft flesh over taut muscle, warm and malleable under his hands. "God, Marie." A whispered prayer as he lays her back, rubs his face against her silk-covered breasts, the slight curve of her belly, her strong thighs. She touches him, and there's no hesitation in her at all. She doesn't know, she *can't* know that this is wrong, that he will be punished for it, and she will hate him in the end. He pushes those thoughts away. He also knows that this was inevitable. From the first time their eyes slid away from each other in the bar, this moment has been looming, shadowing their every interaction. He covers himself in her scent, breathing her in and knowing he will never forget this, as long as he lives, and even after he's died, the scent of vanilla and sweat and Marie -- "God, Logan!" she echoes his words as his hands find the heat between her legs. She burns him even through the thin cotton of her panties, and it's enough -- he can forget that this is wrong, that he can't touch her, that he *shouldn't* touch her, when the evidence of her desire is so tangible. He breathes against her already peaked nipples. "Let me--" he begs, a supplicant worshipping at her altar, this goddess of love and hope and salvation, more real and merciful than any god he's ever heard of. She smiles again, eyes dark with desire, and fire rushes in his veins because he makes her look that way, he makes her body twist with want, makes her lips form his name. He suckles at one full breast, then the other, and she arches into him, panting. Her wordless cries of pleasure, the feel of her fingers clutching his shoulders, spur him on. He tells himself it's for her. "For you, baby, all for you," he murmurs, eyes feasting on her reactions -- she is wanton and free, and she is his, and he, hers, for all that he'll try to deny it later. She comes hard against his hand, her head thrashing against the pillows, her body arched and curved like a violin, her voice music that only he has ever heard. While she is still shuddering, gasping for breath, he pushes her knees wide. She meets his eyes boldly -- no fear now, just desire and joy in her gaze, in her scent, in her body -- and smiles again. She unzips his jeans, and he draws a long, shuddering breath as her silk-clad thumb flicks over the head of his cock. He fumbles in the drawer for a condom, aware that his desire to feel her, skin-on-skin, will be the death of him. Yet he considers it for a moment, selfishly. The foil packet is in his hand, then the condom is on his cock -- later, he will remember this in flashes, wondering how he got from point A to point B, but for now, he feels nothing but the blinding need to slide into her warmth. Pushing aside the material of her panties, counting on his jeans to protect him, he sheathes himself in her in one long stroke. Her eyes go wide, her body tenses, and he realizes that this is her first time, and he's already screwed it up. He stills, buries his face in the crook of her neck, and whispers, "It's okay, baby. It's going to be okay." "Promise?" she asks, but this time, he can't give her the words. He pulls out and slides into her again slowly, letting her feel every inch of him. The words form unbidden in his mind, though he swears he will never speak them. 'With my body, I thee worship.' She is silk and velvet to his adamantium and flesh, and she grips him tightly, learning his rhythm. She bares her throat to him, and he nips at it, the flutter of her pulse attracting his attention. His lips brush her skin for a second -- once, twice, three times -- and he's found the secret to touching her. Butterfly kisses on deadly gossamer skin. He's working almost solely on instinct now. His body knows this is right, and won't let his mind get in the way. It begins low in his belly, the slow, spiral build of release, uncurling like a snake. The only time he can leave his body behind and be free. His hips piston into hers; his elbows bear his weight as his hands tangle in her hair, forcing her eyes to meet his. He doesn't speak when he comes. He growls low, and she tightens her muscles around his cock, pulling him in deeper. He never wants to leave. He wants to fall into her completely, body and soul, and he knows that she is the one woman capable of taking in all of him. He's floating back down to earth, the world making itself known to him again when she convulses around him, her hand finishing the job he started. He takes that hand, brings it to his mouth and licks each finger slowly, memorizing her taste, the flavor of their love, salty and real and inevitable. She licks her lips and he again risks the danger of losing himself in her by brushing his mouth over her cheek, her nose, her lips, quickly and carefully. He knows that in all the ways that matter, he is already lost. She owns him more completely than ever, and he begins to hate himself for giving in when he knows it's wrong. He has never been a cuddler, never spent the night sleeping with a woman in his bed, but he gathers her to his chest as she drifts off, content. *** Obviously, a different style for me -- I think that's why I find reworking old ground interesting, and yet comforting. The story isn't that important here, it's the same story I always tell; right now, I'm more interested in the how right here. I'm going for fervid, lush, a fever dream of love, lust, want, need and fear. I'm afraid it might be too purple. I'm also afraid I've been heavy-handed in my descriptions, and I'm going to have to work all the various motifs in as the story progresses -- music, water, cages, snakes... I tend not to do that consciously when I write, so this is new ground for me, recognizing what I'm doing as I'm doing it (or not, really, but as I'm still writing the story, rather than after it's finished and going, 'hey! I didn't know I put that there.'). I hope it works. Comments, suggestions, brilliant perceptions are, as always, welcome. Also, is it hot? It's definitely a more, well, just *more* approach to writing sex for me. Also, up in the LJ, my answers to Min's survey. DD will have her set out sometime soon, as well. ~victoria link [current mood: creative, erotic] [current music: Going Through the Motions - SMG] [random quote: Will I stay this way forever? Sleepwalk through my life's endeavor?] ~*~ 09.26.02 - 1:00 a.m. more boring moving stuff Burying the Dead is up. Dark and, if I did it right, funny. West Wing ramblings in the LJ. Met with the moving man tonight. Things are set for Thursday morning. Good god, I'm moving in a week. Moving into the city. I still can't believe it. (As an aside - good lord I hate banners that blink and flash and scroll. Why must people do that?!?) Things left to be done: Laundry: +towels +sheets +clothes Packing: +clothes (already filled two suitcases) +entire kitchen (pots, pans, silverware, dishes) +cleaning supplies (but not til after cleaning is done) +entire bedroom... this is the biggie. I have to clear out the trunk - all my juvenilia is stored in there, my attempts at the next LotR etc. I have to trash it all - the maps, the lexicons, the made up language grammars. Is painful, but necessary. +Lamps towels and sheets and comforters (will store in trunk when emptied of papers) +shower curtain, everyday bathroom supplies (toothpaste, Noxxema, etc.) +liquor cabinet +fans (the oscillating kind, not the fandom kind) Cleaning: +Bathroom - scrub tub, put up cheap shower curtain, wash good shower curtain to pack, clean toilet +vacuum all rooms +dust coffee table and end table +clean blinds Other: Find out how I'm getting the coffee table out to the parents'; discover if Dom wants the NT and the futon. What am I forgetting? I know I"m forgetting something, but gah - I can't figure out what it is. I need to sleep, I guess. Night all. ~victoria link [current mood: sleepy] [current music: ooh, ooh, my baby's got a secret] [random quote: ] ~*~ 09.25.02 - 11:38 a.m. Lex and guns! Just posted Burying the Dead. (Even to Silverlake. I don't know if anyone over there reads XMM, but we'll see, I guess. Best not to think about it.) Wonder if anyone will get the joke. My betas didn't, but then, they haven't been subjected to the endless litany of "Rogue and Logan do the most horrid things to each other - and everyone else - but once they realize They're Meant To Be(TM), everything is okay" stories. Eh, people will find it funny or they won't. I'm not going to label it humor or satire or parody. That just takes the fun out of it. If people take it seriously... not my lookout, you know? I've probably already said too much. I dislike it when an author tries to spin the text by saying "It's this" or "It's that" - let the reader decide what it is. I know what my intent was, and we'll see if I was successful. To people not in the L/R fandom, I wasn't. To people in it -- well, I know a couple people got it without my explaining it, and if I have to explain it, it's no fun. Still haven't figured out the Gontish Slayer, though the Slayer in Istanbul made me think (And am I the only one who immediately started singing, Istanbul was Constantinople / Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople / Been a long time gone, Constantinople / Why did Constantinople get the works / That's nobody's business but the Turks? What? Don't tell me it didn't cross your mind!) about her. Her name is Fin, I think. Her use name, anyway. I'm hung up on the mist. The fog enshrouding the mountain of Gont, and the werelight softly glowing, leading her to Ged. Oh well, when it comes, it comes. Still reading White Oleander. God, could it BE more depressing? That's what I don't get about these Oprah books -- they're always about such depressing things. Dwarves in Nazi Germany. Uneducated pregnant teenager. Survivors of incest. Foster children shuffled from one home to another. Whatever happened to the happy childhood? I know it's not a myth. I had one. Interesting things can happen to not-fucked-up people, too. Why is our culture so fascinated with victimhood, with wallowing in it, with turning everything into a trauma so acute that it requires anti-depressants and years of therapy to deal with? I have that in my life - I don't necessarily want it in my fiction. I certainly don't want to wallow in it. As far as I'm concerned, the sooner I get out of therapy and off medication, the happier I'll be, and as soon as I'm settled into the new apartment, the weaning process is going to start. I'm determined. I know many of my problems were work-related, or rather, the depression hit hardest in the work arena, and that's not a concern anymore. Do I still have problems and 'issues'? You betcha. Do I still have a hard time getting out of bed? Damn straight. But now it's because I've been up late writing or reading or chatting, not because I dread the idea of facing another day, of going into the office and seeing the red light lit on my phone. I'm just *tired*, not depressed. I really have to start taking vitamins again. And I measured my mircrowave last night. With an inch to spare, it should fit on the kitchen counter. Leaving no space for anything else. Unsure about what to do. Buying a new one doesn't seem like an option, unless they make them even smaller than the one I've got now, which is only 8 years old anyway, and still works fine. Hmmm... Oh, and one last thing: Lex and guns! Bonnie and Clyde Chloe and Lex! Shooting shit up and stealing stuff, just because they can! (you know you want to, Molly. Or Jenn. Or both.) Okay, that was two things, but can you blame me? I mean, Lex and guns! Can I get a witness? ~victoria link [current mood: giddy] [current music: The One I Love - REM] [random quote: You never know just how you look in other people's eyes...] ~*~ 09.25.02 - 12:20 a.m. until the real thing comes along Until the real thing comes along, this will have to do. Thank Jenn for the link. Dear god, check out those hands... Buffy and Smallville premiere talk over in the LJ. So I went to measure windows in the new apt. after work. Got on the bus at 5:45 pm. Took ten minutes to go from 53rd to 57th Street. I walked into the apartment at 6:15. God, I can't wait to move. Tonight while watching teevee, I packed my CDs and my tapes, the ones I'm taking, anyway - which is all the ones I've made, and a few I never replaced with CDs. Also packed up all my bags... well, some of my bags. I'm a big fan of buying bags. Backpacks, purses, cute little handbags that I never use... Yeah. It's an addiction. So I have a whole tub full of purses and handbags and tote bags and leather bags and ::looks around room:: they're not all packed yet. Tomorrow - clothes. I'll start packing clothes in the suitcases, since I don't have any tubs left. And also, the moving guy is coming to do the estimate. And maybe I'll clean the tub and put the cheap shower curtain up. We'll see. West Wing starts tomorrow night. Just discussing the SV premiere in chat, and damn... Lex as president and Chloe as his CJ... I still want to see someone tackle a CJ/Lionel story. *nods* I will get that, as well as Bonnie and Clyde Chlex. Oh yes. Plus, working on wringing some Angel/Smallville crosses out of people. It's all coming together now. ~victoria link [current mood: sleepy] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ previous - next DiaryLand Disclaimer: Reading this diary is not required by law. 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