a fool's musings

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

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10.28.02 - 10:38 p.m. Cranky McCrankypants You know, I'm really working hard on getting the watchfic done here before Nov. 1 so I can feel all right about doing NaNoWriMo. [whine] But it's not working! [/whine] I mean, I think the actual ending L/R scene will work (I can always make the mushy romantic stuff work), but the getting there... waaah! Logan is not helping me. I've tried kidnapping DD's Logan!Muse, since mine is basically as useful as a bump on a log lately, but DD's Logan is so happy I'm not ordering him to paint my toenails and cook spaghetti that he's been drinking all the beer and watching football instead of whispering sweet nothings in my, er, Rogue!Muse's ear. Not helpful at all. So I've got a rough patch and then the beginning of the end. And since I'm so aware now of the 'rushing the ending' problem, I'm trying to take this slow and it's driving me crazy. Grrr... Am not even supposed to be home tonight, but plans to go meet firemen at MNF at some local sportsbar were scuttled. Instead, we're supposed to see The Ring on Thursday night. I don't even *like* scary movies, but since I'm not going to be seeing Mommy (Halloween is her birthday), I may as well go out and do something fun. Meanwhile, my connection is dropping every 3 minutes, and I can only connect at 31.2. WTF? I'm in NYC and I've got 8 different access numbers, and all of them are wonky? That just ain't right. There was something else I wanted to bitch about, but I can't remember what it is, which is probably best. I'm just Cranky McCrankypants today. ~victoria link [current mood: cranky and sleepy] [current music: Giants-Eagles on tv] [random quote: I don't like Mondays, I wanna shoot the whole day down] ~*~ 10.28.02 - 2:19 p.m. blah blah blah Me again, on comicverse v. movieverse, awards and er, that's it really. I should have fic to share here, but alas, 'twas not to be, cherie... ~victoria [current mood: hungry] [current music: Love Reign O'er Me - the Who] [random quote: \"I'm the Bob Uecker of love!\" Munch] ~*~ 10.28.02 - 12:35 p.m. random crankiness I hate people. Well, no. I hate the two women who forced their way into my comfy seat on the train and started chattering inanely about ... something. It's freaking SEVEN O'CLOCK in the MORNING. There should be NO INANE CHATTERING. Jesus, God in heaven. Yes, I was a little testy, especially as I was working on the watchfic and had to stop since they were all elbowy in my space. I tried to sleep, but they just. wouldn't. shut. up. Grrr... Now, I'm just having a good time with the whole awards argument over on LJ. Bwee! Debate! With people who don't seem to take disagreement as a personal insult. Gets the blood pumping and the brain running... ~victoria link [current mood: gleeful] [current music: Keep Me Hanging On - the Supremes] [random quote: In our interactions with people, a benevolent hypocrisy is frequently required-acting as though we do not see through the motive] ~*~ 10.27.02 - 10:28 p.m. Slouching towards Bethlehem Thoughts on tonight's Angel are up in the LJ. And for the illiterate amongst you, here's the poem Lorne references. It's one of my all time favorites: The Second Coming Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? ~victoria link [current mood: amused] [current music: Game 7 of the World Series] [random quote: And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?] ~*~ 10.27.02 - 12:51 p.m. effacing oneself for the sake of art Currently pantsless. Hey, I just like to throw these things out there for you to get excited about. *snicker* Preparing to go chaperone at a Halloween party for the littlies (the 7-and-under crowd who get too scared to go to the 8-and-over crowd's party, which was held last evening). I'm going as me. Black sweater, black jeans, black boots, black lipstick. Scary enough for govt. work. Came home last night from Nicole's 4th birthday party (the PowerPuff girls one - and the kids are trained. They know I'm the green one - Buttercup? - 'cause she's surly) and crashed. Was in bed by ten. That extra hour I should have used for writing or chatting or answering email? I slept. Mmm... sleep... It's sad when a kids' party can knock the stuffing out of you. Anyhow, I've started reading My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk (in translation), and it's very interesting. Takes place in Istanbul (not Constantinople) during the Ottoman Empire, approximately 1591 according to the chronology at the back of the book. I was reading Flight of the Maidens by Jane Gardam, but it utterly failed to hold my interest. Anyhow, couple things have already caught my attention in this book. And I quote: This picture by the great master Bihzad, as much as the tale itself, addresses a grave fear I've carried within me for years: The horror of waking in the black of night to realize there's a stranger making faint sounds as he creeps about the blackness of the room! Imagine that the intruder wields a dagger in one hand as he strangles you with the other. Every detail, the finely wrought wall, window and frame ornamentation, the curves and circular designs in the red rug, the color of the silent scream emanating from your clamped throat and the yellow and purple flowers embroidered with incredible finesse and vigor on the magnificent quilt upon with the bare and vile foot of your murderer mercilessly steps as he ends your life, all of these details serve the same purpose: While augmenting the beauty of the painting, they remind you just how exquisite are the room in which you will soon die and the world you will soon leave. The indifference of the painting's beauty to and of the world to your death, the fact of your being totally alone in death despite the presence of your wife, taht is the inescapable meaning that strikes you. "This is so Bihzad," the aging master said twenty years ago as we examined the book I held in my trembling hands. His face was illuminated not by the nearby candle, but by the pleasure of observation itself. "This is so Bihzad that there's no need for a signature." Bihzad was so well aware of this fact that he didn't hide his signature anywhere in the painting. And according to the elderly master, there wa a sense of embarrassment and a feeling of shame in this decision of his. Where there is true art and genuine virtuosity the artist can paint an incomparable masterpiece without leaving even a trace of his identity. Fearing for my life, I murdered my unfortunate victim in an ordinary and crude manner. As I returned to this fire-ravaged area night after night to ascertain whether I'd left behind any traces that might betray me, questions of style increasingly arose in my head. What was venerated as style was nothing more than an imperfection or flaw that revealed the guilty hand. Life. Death. Art. Style. Existentialism. All that packed into three paragraphs. I'm enjoying this book immensely. I don't know that I agree that an artist must lose him/herself in the art, must efface all personality to the greater glory of the work, but it's a damned interesting proposition, no? And then this little paragraph: I'm delighted now to see that Black has acquired another essential virtue: To avoid disappointment in art, one mustn't treat it as a career. Despite whatever great artistic sense and talent a man might possess, he ought to seek money and power elsewhere to avoid forsaking his art when he fails to receive proper compensation for his gifts and efforts. Again, don't know if I agree, but very interesting thoughts are raised by that paragraph. And now I must finish dressing. Laters! ~victoria link [current mood: thoughtful, yet rushed] [current music: football pregame in the background] [random quote: “I don’t slur, I mumble.” JH Brodie, HLotS] ~*~ 10.26.02 - 1:38 p.m. Vaughn Dreams Last night I dreamt of Michael Vartan. Actually, he was almost in character as Vaughn, except he was an FBI agent instead of a CIA agent, and he played the guitar and wrote music. He was also a lawyer. ::snicker:: I Marty Stu'd him in my dream. In the dream, my sister and I were the owners of this small coffee kiosk in a hotel. We wanted to be in a band, and also to expand the kiosk into a coffeehouse where we could play our music and other people could too. Vaughn was the lawyer we contacted for help, and he and I fell in love. But oh no! Betrayal! I don't know what it was, but somehow he did something (or we thought he did something) that caused us to get into trouble with the unions that were in charge of labor and stuff at the hotel, so they marched on our little coffee stand and we were in serious trouble. We decided to hold a concert to help raise legal fees, but our music was only so-so. But then, I contacted Vaughn's sister Cassie (?!) and she faxed over to me his latest music. In the dream, I was able to read the hand written music and just know how it would sound and how good it was. So we sang his songs and raised all this money, and at the end of the night, I found him sitting in the back of the room. So we kissed and made up and everything ended happily ever after. The union guys were moved to tears by our wonderful music, Vaughn quit the FBI to be a musician, and then I woke up. Heh. Before that, I had a Sopranos dream, in which I questioned Tony Soprano about whether my grandfather had ever been involved in the mafia. I think it's official. I watch too much TV. ~victoria link [current mood: amused] [current music: Get On Up = James Brown] [random quote: ] ~*~ 10.25.02 - 10:45 p.m. no man is an island Saddened by the deaths of Richard Harris (English Bob!) and Sen. Wellstone. We lost two good men today. ~victoria [current mood: a little melancholy] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 10.25.02 - 4:21 p.m. Ay carumba! Link stolen from Mara's LJ: Come to mama, big boy. Rrowwrr.... There will be iconnage tonight! I need something to go with my new favorite icon: Is it time to go home yet? ~victoria link [current mood: hot] [current music: Every Little Thing She Does - Police] [random quote: \"Come sit on mama's lap.\"] ~*~ 10.25.02 - 12:50 p.m. do you think I'm pretty? Site design poll up in my LJ. In other words, should I make The Muse's Fool look more like this diary? Yes? No? Feel free to answer here, in the LJ, or via email. Cheers! ~victoria link [current mood: curious] [current music: Turn the Page - Metallica] [random quote: \"You are so full of hate and loathing. Can I just tell you, I love it.\" Lorelai, Gilmore Girls] ~*~ 10.25.02 - 10:15 a.m. In the Beginning... Maren's Meme: In the Beginning.... What was your very first brush with fandom? Probably searching for XF pics/spoilers with a couple people from work. Back in 1996, when I first got online. After that, my first brush with *true* fandom? Alt.tv.homicide. November 1997. (First post, February 1998. Yes, I am that geeky. I remember. First discovery of alt.tv.buffy-v-slayer? May 1998, after Becoming 2. First post? Uh, either August or September 1998.) I needed to find someone to talk about the show with and *no one* I knew watched it. I didn't know about mailing lists, but I'd heard of alt. groups and since my dad had just gotten a new computer with online capabilities, I figured I'd check it out. My first *mailing list* experience was with the Amelia Peabody egroups, while waiting for He Shall Thunder in the Sky to come out. Man, I wish I'd known about those earlier, because Falcon at the Portal traumatized me, and it was so nice to find other people as upset about it as I was. (And really, I might have met Bethy sooner, as she was there, and I was there, and who knew?) How long did it take to go from "hm, cool" to obsesso fan? Well, I was already obsessing about Homicide, which is what made me go looking, but I'd say not long -- couple of weeks? I started out reading the newsgroup on Saturday mornings after the show, and then had to keep up every day so I didn't miss anything. What was your initial fannish personality? What were you into? Lurker? Newbie? Asker of stupid questions? No, really, I wasn't very vocal. I was afraid. Did you ever read ath? But people were very nice to me. Because I *lurked* first and only spoke up after learning the ropes. I guess I was into the show, the whole show, but mostly Kellerman and Bayliss. I think my first questions were about the Mr. Roh arc - "He was an honorable man!" - the arson investigation - "Do you think I'm dirty?" etc. - and, of course, The Mahoney Shoot. I was also obsessive with Buffy, and those were heady days. I had no idea that Angel was getting his own show until I found the ng, so I had no idea he was coming back. (Not that I wanted him to, mind you. I was happy with him gone.) I mean, the Lie! The Orb of Thesulah! Was it truly Hell? Or were there multiple Hell dimensions (as proved by "Anne")? I was a Xanderista all the way. (The group was polarized by Xander's Lie, and then by his behavior in DMP and Revelations. Me, I still think he was right to lie and that he was angry and bitter in Revelations but with great cause. And he *did* stop and think once he saw Giles injured, so he while he was wrong to stir Faith up about Angel, he at least got his head out of his ass enough to try and do something about it.) Still am. Which is one reason for my disenchantment with the show over the past 3 seasons, though this year has been somewhat better so far. I wish they'd stop writing him as dumb-as-a-stump, though. Anyone who can throw out a line like, "Stop deconstructing my segues" shouldn't be written as stupid as they write Xander. Dig deep. What was your fannish round in the early days (ie, the daily sites)? None. Well, just the newsgroup, and so I guess Dejanews from work, since I had no newsgroup access. My sites back then were Suck and Feed and the Onion and the New York Times and Daily News. Religiously. Every day. Probably a little while into it, Homicide: Links on the Sites, for all the links to articles and episode guides and such. I didn't really get further into fannishness until atbvs. That's when I discovered fanfiction. And was very, very scared of it. Lots of bad B/A stuff where Angel comes back from hell and kills Buffy and then vamps her so they can be together forever. It was almost a year until I read *any* other kind of fanfic. Adena 1950 saved fanfiction for me. After that, still, I wasn't into fic so much. I read stuff on .creative and on sites that were recced, but didn't go looking for it or joining lists or anything. I was more into the show itself. Still am, though I'll read a good BtVS/Angel fic. Compare and contrast. If you've gone multi, what was the difference between your first fandom experience ever, and your first fandom experiences with later ones? Well, now I write fic instead of just participating in newsgroups to discuss the shows. It's a whole different experience. I get the impression from many ficcers that they never participated in that way, and they therefore have a very narrow view of fandom. I mean, fanfic is just one small part of fandom. But I guess I've been "multi" since the beginning, or at least dual, with Buffy and Homicide, and then Angel. And then XMM and West Wing and Smallville and ... I think coming from a newsgroup background, I wasn't quite prepared for the level of... sensitivity on fic mailing lists, and wasn't at all prepared for the way bitterness lingers. I mean, I was on the opposite side from many people on atbvs in many a discussion and still managed to hang out with them on a small social mailing list for a long time; and still stay friendly with them in other discussions. Just because I think Xander's Lie was right and you didn't doesn't make us mortal enemies. Whereas on the fic side... people seem much more prone to holding grudges and not forgiving. I guess it's easier to go off and start your own list and have your own little corner of the world with mailing lists, whereas with a newsgroup - you can killfile and ignore threads and it's just much harder to go off and create your own newsgroup and expect people to follow, you know? And, like I said, fanfic seems way more narrow and insular in its view of fandom and who constitutes a fan or what fannish experience is. Also, and this is possibly a function of the lower median age of fanfic writers, a lot of people don't seem capable of any sort of critical thinking or discussion at all (and how much did I LOVE Prick Daddy's line, "I wasn't criticizing, I was critiquing. There's a difference, you know." God, I so want that man to be my Prick Daddy.). I mean, if you glance back at the demographics polls periodically run on ath or atbvs/ata at the times I was a regular poster, the median age of ng participants was about 28-32. In fanfic, I think it's about 10 years younger, which means people are much more prone to taking things personally and internalizing and getting way more emotional than they are when they've got that extra 10 years. Of course, the other major difference, and I've mentioned this before, is that it's one thing to critique Joss or Aaron Sorkin or Tom Fontana, and a whole different kettle of fish when one's own name is on the byline and one's own words are being scrutinized minutely. Have you been around for the very beginning of a fandom? How was that different from coming into a later one? Did it give you "higher status" in the fandom, or just make you bitter as it changed? I was in XMM from almost, but not quite, the very beginning. I mean, I started reading the fic right after I saw the movie (a week after it opened), and wrote my first fic in August 2000. I was in Buffy from almost the beginning, or before it took off into the cult-hit status it would later enjoy. I have no status in any fandom now, though I used to on atbvs/ata. I had minions. *nods* I miss my minions. So I guess I just have the bitterness. And lots of it. Given the choice, would you have made that first delve into fandom? What would you change about your early experiences? Yes. I've made great friends, had a lot of fun discussing things I love, and learned a lot about writing (and through that, a lot about a lot of other things). Fandom helped me through depression, the way music did earlier in my life, by allowing me to connect with people who had similar interests and get excited about them when my 'real life' friends weren't interested (in my interests, not uninterested in me and my problems. *g* I have some wonderful friends, but none are particularly fannish in the way I am.). Have I spent a lot of time that could have been spent better online? Have I gotten stressed and depressed by what's supposed to be my fun escape from depression and stress? Sure have. More than once. And I am still somewhat leery of revealing my fannishness to people I don't know well, but I'm slowly overcoming my shame and learning to let my freak flag fly. Whew. That was long. And fun. And interesting. All those to whom I owe email? I'm working on it. This weekend, I'm trying to at least get somewhat caught up. Especially to the people who sent me feedback. I'm bad, but I'm trying to do better. Really I am. ~victoria link [current mood: thoughtful] [current music: Horse With No Name - America] [random quote: No one here is asking 'cause it is a matter of trust. You will do what looks good to you on paper. We will do what we must.] ~*~ 10.24.02 - 4:07 p.m. draft 1 of Rendezvous The story that's distracting me from the watchfic. Rendezvous Rogue nervously smoothed down the skirt of her dress. It was a daring dress, and she was still surprised she'd agreed to wear it when Jean picked it out. Of dark green silk, it was a slim, sleeveless sheathe that ended a couple of inches above her knees. She wore black velvet pumps and the sheerest pair of stockings (with black lace garters) she could find. She fixed her bra again, admiring her cleavage in the mirror, and pulled on the matching green silk opera gloves. She'd spent most of her four years at the mansion avoiding Xavier's fundraising galas, hiding up in her room or down in the gym while everyone else dressed up and played host to the crème de la crème of New York society. At first, it had been too overwhelming to deal with crowds when the slightest careless move could cause so much damage. And then it had hurt too much when Logan came back and had eyes only for Jean. They'd both since found other obsessions, but she'd never quite gotten over the fact that he saw her as a child, and she'd let that perception shape her actions for a long time, but it was time to be an adult. A woman. A woman who was going to make an effort to get what she wanted. Remy LeBeau. They'd flirted on and off in the year since he'd come to the mansion, but it was clear to her that he was a ladies' man, a womanizer, and that he only wanted her because she was untouchable. He'd worked to convince her otherwise, and little by little, she'd fallen under his spell, until one day she woke up and knew she had to have him, would do anything to be with him. Unfortunately, he was gone on a mission when that day dawned. Three days later, he and Storm had returned and were seemingly inseparable. Storm dismissed the idea that they were anything more than good friends, but Rogue wasn't quite sure she believed that. She was sure, however, that if she did nothing and let love pass her by yet again, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. Hence, a quick conference with Jean, an amazingly expensive dress, and what she told herself was one magical night, one last shot at love. With one last look in the mirror, she deemed herself ready, took a deep breath, and headed down stairs. *** Logan was dancing with Jean when Rogue entered the ballroom. She laughed at the dumbstruck look on his face. "You act like you've never seen a girl before," she teased. "Never one who looked like that," he answered. "What are you going to do about it?" He shrugged one shoulder and swung them around so he didn't have to watch all the men in the room gawk at Rogue. "Nothing." Jean shook her head. "That doesn't sound like the Logan I know." "I had my chance, Red. I screwed it up. I was too busy --" he stopped. The words "chasing you" remained unsaid, but she knew exactly what he meant. "That's past, Logan. She knows that as well as you and I do. If you told her how you feel--" "No," he snapped. "She wants the Cajun. And she deserves to get what she wants, whatever it is. I don't want to fuck it up for her again." "And if Remy is in love with Ororo?" Logan growled low, but said nothing. He remembered how Rogue used to look at him, hope and love in her eyes, waiting for him to pay attention. Those looks were directed at Remy now. If the Cajun didn't understand what he had, what he *could* have, he was stupid. And Logan knew how stupid you had to be to go chasing after the impossible when you had love right in front of you. He kicked himself daily over his own idiocy, his unwillingness to face reality and instead cling to fantasy. Fantasy kept you from getting your heart broken; it meant you could play the distraught lover and never let anyone else close, but it was just that -- play. When he'd finally gotten his head out of his ass long enough to realize he loved Marie, and not in a brotherly or friendly way, it had been too late. She'd given up on what she'd thought was a fantasy, and began pursuing reality. He wished she hadn't made that transition before he came to his senses, but then he thought that maybe, just as Jean had been her fantasy, he had been Marie's, and wasn't it better for her to be with someone she really loved, than with him, the object of an adolescent crush? "Logan? Logan, the Professor is looking for you," Jean said, breaking into his thoughts. "I was a million miles away, Jeannie. I'm sorry." He released her and made his way across the dance floor to where Professor Xavier was holding court. "More like four feet," Jean muttered, glancing over at Rogue, who was laughing at something Remy had said while he twirled her around the floor. Logan hesitated a moment at that remark, but kept going. *** "Rogue, ma petite, you look stunning tonight," Remy whispered, the feel of his warm breath on her ear sending shivers down her spine. "Thank you." "A man dreams of holding a woman like you in his arms. I'm lucky that for me, the dream has come true." She smiled but said nothing, deciding that silence in the face of such extravagant compliments seemed more sophisticated than gushing like a schoolgirl, though her knees were a little weak from his sweet words. The song ended and he let go of her slowly, his hands lingering on her waist. "I must go dance with the donors, now, chere, but promise you will meet me in the orangerie at midnight." "I will," she whispered. "You make me so happy, Rogue." He pressed a fervent kiss to her gloved palm and walked away, offering his arm to a blue-haired matron in an overly-frilly pink gown, as the orchestra began the next number. *** Sabrina. Even Harrison Ford being all wooden couldn't ruin this movie. And while I might not believe in Humphrey Bogart's Linus/Audrey Hepburn's Sabrina either, I love the story. And the "David sent me" scene inspired this. But I have added about a page to the watchfic as well. *nods* I'm not totally neglecting my responsibilities. I promise. ~victoria link [current mood: creative, busy] [current music: Roundabout - Yes... urgh] [random quote: \"That is why I don't believe in [God]. A decent deity would have better manners than the creatures he created out of dirt.] ~*~ 10.24.02 - 11:30 a.m. May the Plot Be With You So I'm reading the article about plot devices and craptacular sci-fi writing that Neil Gaiman so generously provided a link to (and by god, this guy is dead-on balls accurate about Thomas Covenant. What a waste of paper.), and ran across this little gem of a paragraph, which may thrill (or dismay) many a Smallville fan: Anyway, the first of DC's great plot generators is almost too famous to warrant discussion, except that the sheer artistry of the concept is rarely appreciated in full. I'd like you to think for a moment about red kryptonite. There was a time when the hues and varieties of kryptonite were being boosted daily by new kryptonological discoveries, but I think green and red were the only ones that really lasted the course. The effects of red kryptonite, you remember, were as follows. Each individual chunk would affect Superman, but no-one else, with a completely unpredictable effect that would last exactly forty-eight hours. He would then revert to normal and that particular chunk of red K could never affect him again. The brilliance of this only becomes fully apparent when you translate it all into plot terms; because forty-eight hours happens to be the average timespan of a story in a DC comic. What red kryptonite amounts to is a random element in your scenario that can be brought on at any time and introduce any daft plot idea the writer happens to have kicking about; and at the end of the story it will disappear from the continuity as if it had never been. It's hardly any wonder that the series, at its peak, got through chunks of red kyptonite so frequently that someone calculated that, for that amount of planetary debris to arrive on Earth by chance alone, the original planet Krypton must have been about the size of a galactic supercluster. Red K only lasts 48 hours in DC canon (pre-Crisis, I guess, whatever that means [yeah, I've got the lingo down but know fuck-all about what it actually means *g*])? So Clark and Lex could have had one glorious weekend? Hmm... I sense porny Red-AU possibilities, folks, with lots of hurty/angsty consequences. Get to work on that... Anyhow, I think this article is hilarious, and the guy's got some good points. In the hands of a good writer, or a story so damned relentless that it doesn't matter how clunky the writer's prose is (LotR, I'm looking at you), these plot devices are acceptable - even necessary. But in the hands of crappy writers, they become laughable, execrable even, as so many other things do. As someone completely incapable of writing a long, plotty story (believe me, I threw out reams of such juvenilia when I was packing to move), I think I tried all of the methods he lists in the article, and couldn't make any of them work. What that says about my talents as a writer, I don't know, and I'm not quite sure I want to. I find that for me, plot devices often feel very inorganic, and that's one reason I have trouble writing them - if I don't believe them as a *reader*, how the hell am I going to make *others* believe them when I'm in the position of writer? I can think of stories that totally work with this approach to plotting, and stories that shouldn't be examined too closely because of it. And my "G" key is sticking, which is really pissing me off. ~victoria link [current mood: thoughtful] [current music: Don't Stand So Close to Me - Police] [random quote: How long must I suffer? Dear God, I've served my time. This love becomes my torture, this love, my only crime.] ~*~ 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