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

02.25.03 - 10:13 a.m. Faramir Fix-It Fic Well, someone had to do it. In fact, I'm sure myriad someones have, but you know, what the hell do I know? If it doesn't come over silverlake or GO, I don't see it. I'm not on any LotR lists and I don't plan to be. And my forays into FF.net looking for L/E fic turned out to be... scarring. I'm just living in a little world where my fabulous fictional boyfriend was gutted and rewritten into... someone far less fabulous and almost unrecognizable. So it's up to me to fix it, right? So, the Faux!Faramir fix it ficlet. Say that five times fast. *G* Still untitled, though I'm leaning toward "Compulsion". Or possibly "Quality". Better ideas are always welcome. Some text lifted directly from the book, some lifted directly from the movie. The soldier's name comes from a transcript of TTT found on the web. Can be read as a companion to Absolution, if you like. (Ramblings after the story contain major spoilers for RotK concerning Faramir, so if you haven't read the books, you may want to just stop, unless you don't care. And who knows? Things may well go differently in the movie. Part of me wants that, simply because of how much I dislike what's been done to Faramir's character, but that's just... not gonna happen.) ~*~ He hears voices. He ignores them at first; he has an attack to coordinate and spies to capture and interrogate. When he sees the captives, he realizes that the voices are not a figment of his imagination; there really is something much larger and darker at work here. The Halflings startle him. They are creatures of the dream, the dream that sent Boromir to Imladris. Though secretly, he still believes he should have been sent instead. Boromir should have been here to defend Osgiliath; he himself should have been sent to Gandalf, who was more a father to him in some ways than his own has been. He questions the Halflings warily, and finds that the words he wishes to speak stop in his throat. He is harsh with them, harsher than his wont, and it troubles him. When he is alone, he can still hear echoes of the voices speaking -- his father, his teachers, a lady he had thought of courting once upon a time, before war became his life. They all judge him and find him wanting. He is weighed and measured and found lacking in comparison with Boromir. If he had but the power to show them all what he is truly made of, no one would ever again question Faramir of Gondor's worth. He tosses and turns in his sleep, his head full of fire and war. He loves not the arrow for its swiftness, nor the sword for its sharpness, and yet here he is, dreaming of conquest as if it were his very nature. When he finally understands what has fallen into his hands, he is of two minds. Clearly, the Ring must be destroyed. He knows this full well. No good can come of something so utterly evil. He has seen its effects on the creature, Gollum, driven mad with desire for the Ring and all it represents. And yet... What would Boromir do? he asks himself. He may never measure up to his brother, has given up trying, content with his lot in Boromir's shadow, and yet... He means to tell Frodo that he will offer all the help he can, so that they can go on their perilous way toward Mount Doom. Yet he feels compelled to draw his sword on the defenseless hobbit, threatening one who has never offered him even the hint of harm. "So... this is the answer to all the riddles. Here in the wild I have you. Two Halflings and a host of men at my call. The Ring of power within my grasp. A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality." Frodo backs up into the wall. His eyes roll back and he grabs the Ring in his hand, pulling himself away from Faramir. "No," he shouts. Sam turns on the Man. "Stop it! Leave him alone! Don't you understand? He's got to destroy it. That's where we're going. To Mordor. To the mountain of fire." Faramir can do naught but stare at them for a long moment, until Madril enters. "Osgiliath is under attack," the soldier says. "They call for reinforcements." Sam looks at him with beseeching eyes. "Please. It's such a burden. Will you not help him?" "Captain?" Madril demands his attention as well. The hobbits radiate fear, and it feeds the voices in his head, the ones calling his name. Sam's pleas fall on deaf ears, drowned out by the voice of the Ring. He knows, oh, he knows this is exactly what the Ring wants him to think Boromir would have done, and it makes him sick, because Boromir never bullied anyone, never pulled rank, never used his strength at arms to compel a friend or companion into something he didn't wish to do. And he has ever wished to be like Boromir, to be held in the same esteem by their father. He struggles mightily against his baser instincts, against the power of the Ring, but he fails. "Prepare to leave," he orders. "The Ring will go to Gondor." And now he is doing exactly what he should not do. It is wrong, and yet he is doing it anyway. He cannot reconcile his thoughts and his words, his intentions and his actions. He means to do one thing and finds himself doing another. It is alarming, but every time he changes his mind, something comes up -- Madril is at his side. Osgiliath is falling. His people will fail. Gondor is doomed. All the world will fall into shadow. But he can save it. He can fix it. He cannot sleep; the dreams of war are too close to reality, and the constant whispering in his head has begun distracting him, leading him into daydreams as they march toward Osgiliath. He sees himself wearing the Ring, sitting upon the throne of Gondor, finally taking his rightful place as King. Not in ten thousand years, his father had told Boromir, could the Steward's line usurp Isildur's heirs. But with the Ring, ah, then blood would tell. For are they not also descended from Elendil? And have they not ruled Gondor in his stead, with wise and loving hands over the past thousand years? But he wants it not for himself, but for his father. He is not so far under its influence yet, that he would take the burden on himself. He knows he is not worthy, but with this gift, he may finally win his father's favor. At Osgiliath, Frodo again pleads with him, but he is implacable. "Take them to my father. Tell him Faramir sends a mighty gift. A weapon that will change our fortunes in this war." Already he imagines the joy on his father's face, the honor that will be his once the Enemy is defeated and Gondor once again lives in peaceful splendor, the banner of the White Tree flying from the tower of Echthelion. Sam pulls away from the soldiers and faces him, defiance writ in every line of his being. "You want to know what happened to Boromir?" he says, chin lifted pugnaciously. "You want to know why your brother died? He tried to take the Ring from Frodo. After swearing an oath to protect him, he tried to kill him. The Ring drove your brother mad." Faramir freezes. He feels the truth of Sam's words, but the voices in his head -- his father's, Boromir's, the Ring's -- tell him it isn't so. A shout of "Watch out!" breaks the moment, and boulder crashes into a tower overhead and shatters it. Frodo's eyes roll in his head and he stares at Faramir. Sam, ever alert to his master's mood swings, says, "Mr. Frodo?" "They're here," Frodo says. "They've come." Faramir looks toward the sky and sees -- "Nazgûl!" he shouts, grabbing the hobbits and thrusting them into a corner. "Stay here. Keep out of sight. Take cover." He rushes to help his men. When next he looks toward the Halflings, Frodo is standing on the bridge, holding the Ring out toward the Ringwraith. He moves as if to put the Ring on his finger, and the Nazgûl moves inexorably nearer. For a moment, the scene is frozen, and for the rest of his life Faramir will recall it in acid-etched detail, the bright gold of the Ring glinting in the light, the Halfling swaying toward the flying Nazgûl, the great dark wings beating slowly, blotting out the sun. And then Sam rushes in and knocks Frodo over, freeing Faramir from his untimely paralysis. He releases an arrow and shoots the winged beast on which the Nazgûl rides. His aim is true and the beast shrieks in pain and fury; the Nazgûl turns away. Frodo and Sam tumble down the stairs, and for the moment, Faramir loses sight of them. The Ring has driven Gollum mad, and it has taken hold of Frodo as well. No one can withstand its evil, he thinks. It compelled Boromir into madness, and has been wreaking havoc on his own mind. The blood of Númenor runs in his veins, and he will resist the Enemy's tricks at last. It is the least he can do to honor his fallen brother, and the bravery these two hobbits have shown in shouldering the doom of Men. He hastens to the place where they stand, remembering the scene that just played out before him, and stops short at Frodo's words. "What are we holding onto, Sam?" "There's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo," Sam replies. "And it's worth fighting for. " Simple words of confirmation, just at the moment he needs to hear them. He walks to them and kneels in front of Frodo. "I think at last we understand one another, Frodo Baggins," he says. He is free of the Ring's temptation now; his head is clear, free of the voices that have plagued him since it came into his vicinity. Madril says, "You know the laws of our country, the laws of your father. If you let them go, your life will be forfeit." He feels light as a linden leaf, and even amid the destruction of Osgiliath and the sacrifice of his own life, hope springs anew in his breast. "Then it is forfeit," he says. "Release them." And while his decision may never win him his father's love, he has honored Gandalf's memory and teaching. He has shown his quality, been tested and for once, has not found himself wanting. /fin ~*~ So's ya know, the Stewards of Gondor *are* descended from Elendil, and Faramir *does* tell Frodo the story about Boromir asking Denethor how long it would take for the people to accept the Steward's line on the throne in place of the King's and Denethor replies [QFM]: "In places of lesser royalty, a few hundred years. In Gondor, not in ten thousand years." The name Madril for Faramir's aide-de-camp comes from the transcript online (Mablung was the guy's name in the book). Obviously, since I'm attempting to reconcile myself to Movie!Faramir, the dialogue comes from the movie. The history comes from the book. If you've never read the books, well, then some things may seem odd, but hey, go read the books. Or trust my interpretation of events. Whichever. Just know that Faramir followed Gandalf around as a child and became learned in old lore. His father wasn't happy about it and wanted him (Faramir) to be more like Boromir, the outgoing, rough-and-ready physical guy. However, Boromir and Faramir were close and not rivals. Faramir accepts his place as second-best in everything, up until he meets Eowyn. And even then... I really need to see how PJ et al. handle that, because I really don't want to see her accept him as some sort of consolation prize. It's hurtful and wrong and well... maybe this faux!Faramir deserves it, but the Eowyn/Faramir bits are some of Tolkien's loveliest writing, and I don't want to see that romance messed with. I may have to write it myself. But it's hard, waiting until next December to see RotK. It's one thing to write based off the books, with what we know from the first two movies, but... like Pippin and the palantir, I'm very curious indeed to see how the F/E stuff is handled. Haloscan is, once again, down, so comment in the LJ if you please. ~victoria link [current mood: sleepy] [current music: the needle and the damage done - neil young] [random quote: come dance the silence down through the morning...] ~*~ 02.24.03 - 9:53 a.m. Fool of a Took Posted this in the LJ, but I'll put it here as well, since it's Very Important to Vic's Happiness. From one of the lists I'm on: A&E to release Homicide That's right, A&E Home Video will be releasing "Homicide: Life on the Street" later this year (we expect before summer). We'll post more details when they become available. ~*~ Can I get a big "Squee!"? This makes up for the fact that yesterday was just crappy in that, "No, nothing happened and there's no reason, everything JUST SUCKS so leave me the fuck ALONE" way. And I couldn't sleep and couldn't write. So I finished reading The River King (which I liked muchly - Abe, Betsy and Carlin grew on me, though I still feel like I knew Gus best. Third omniscient is such a *distant* narrative voice.), got to Book IV in TTT, which is where the heavy slogging begins (i.e., Sam and Frodo On the Road to Mordor, i.e., the part I never read except for the Faramir bits), and also reread the Lorien bits of FotR in an attempt to write, but that was... well, less than successful. Pippin POV, beginning at the exit of Moria: It was his fault. He knows it. They all know it. There is nothing they can say that will ease his guilt. He lays on the cold, cold ground, weeping. Merry curls around him, shaking with grief. Aragorn bids them rise, and with Boromir and Merry's help, he is able to continue. They run for days, but Pippin is sure he will never outrun his grief, this sorrow that weighs on him the way he imagines the Ring weighs on Frodo. He sleeps in a tight ball, huddled with Merry, Sam and Frodo for warmth, but he fears he will never be warm again, never be light and full of laughter. Never be able to make amends for his foolishness, his stupidity, his cursed curiosity. As the days pass, Merry tries to console him, and he nods, numb and empty, forcing his lips into a smile he's sure looks as false as it feels. When they enter the Golden Wood [and god help me I must NOT think of Sean Biggerstaff whenever I see that phrase. Must not.] he feels Galadriel's gaze upon him, and the tears that have been his constant companion since Gandalf's death threaten to fall in unceasing torrents, pricking his eyes and forcing him to look away. Her words are both warning and reassurance. None of Gandalf's deeds were needless, she says, and Pippin wishes that were true. But he knows he was responsible, and he can't bring himself to believe it was in any way a good thing. Fool of a Took, he mutters to himself, and he'd give anything, every secret hope and dream laid bare by the Lady's probing eyes, to hear Gandalf scold him again. That night, after listening to the Elves' lament, and Sam's ode to fireworks, he turns away from Merry and cries himself to sleep, silently. *** Grrr... I hate when I do this, just recount events in the book/movie (even if it is from a different POV). I need to get some sort of *in*, but in the movie, Pippin is never really a focal point until *after* Gandalf is revealed to him as alive. And we're cheated out of that reunion, and I want to *see* it. I want to see how Pippin feels. I also want to see how he handles the palantir in the movie, because obviously, *he hasn't learned his lesson* in regard to curiosity and touching things that he really should leave alone. Of course, touching the palantir doesn't have any real ill effects, and he gets to go to Minas Tirith and be a hero, but still... I want to *know* what's going on in that curly little head of his, and right now I'm not making it and it's annoying me. On the upside, it is writing, even if it's bad. LJ is wonky again. Fuckers. ~victoria link [current mood: frustrated] [current music: Wild Horses - Rolling Stones] [random quote: All that's sacred Comes from youth Dedications naive and true With no power nothing to prove I still remember Why don'] ~*~ 02.23.03 - 11:18 p.m. I am in what may be politely termed A Mood. I had absolutely no contact with the outside world today, and this was a good thing. I am in what may be politely termed A Mood. Not angry, not upset, just completely apathetic about everything and everybody. Even sleep, my panacea, failed me, leaving me even more cranky and with a headache, to boot. I've basically been curled up all day with The River King by Alice Hoffman, and I'm enjoying it muchly, even if the only character I really like/related to is the one who ends up dead. Sigh. Anyhow, a couple of brief snips: What was desire anyway, when examined in the clear light of day? Was it the way a woman searched for her clothes in the morning, or the manner in which a man might watch her sit before the mirror and comb her hair? Was it a pale November dawn, when ice formed on windowpanes and crows called from the bare black trees? Or was it the way a person might yield to the night, setting forth on a path so unexpected that daylight would never again be completely clear? and this one: The snow was blinding as Abe walked away from St. Anne's; all the same he was reminded of the hot afternoon when his brother died. He'd recognized the samething then, how quickly the future could become the past, moments melting into each other before anyone could reach out and change them. He'd gone over how it all might have happened differently if he'd run up the stairs. If he'd knocked on the door, if he'd barged right in; how it might have changed had he denied his brother's request that morning and refused to go along to their grandfather's farm. It had been the sort of summer day that shone and glittered in the dusty sunlight like a miracle, all blue heat and endless white clouds, stifling hot, so quiet Abe could hear himself breathing when Frank hoisted him up so Abe could climb through the window to get the gun. Afterward he'd had to do it again and again, compelled to repeat his thievery. At least these acts had stopped him from thinking, but now he was done with breaking into other people's houses. It had never done any good anyway, he'd carried his pain around inside him; it was still here on this snowy night. Maybe that was why he decided to leave his car where it was, parked by the river, and walk home. Once he started, he just kept going, past his house and halfway to Hamilton, not returning until sometime near dawn when he hitched a ride back with a plow Kelly Avon's little brother, Josh, was driving. Maybe I'll be back in a writing mood tomorrow. I hope so. I hate when I'm like this. It's very frustrating. ~victoria link [current mood: frustrated] [current music: The Ring Goes South - FotR soundtrack] [random quote: \"There are three kinds of liars. Liars, damned liars, and statisticians.\" Benjamin Disraeli] ~*~ 02.22.03 - 6:16 p.m. "As the deer longs for streams of water, so my soul longs for you, O God. " I don't know if it's the reduction of my dose of paxil or hormones or sunspots or the relative position of the moon, but I have been exceptionally emotional lately. I mean, on the verge of tears frequently. I went to see TTT again last night (shut UP) and again was teary at "don't you know your Sam?" but also when Theoden says, "No parent should bury their child." Maybe it's the tense times and this stupid war that's coming that's got me all living on the outside of my skin. I don't know. Then this afternoon, instead of catching up on email as planned, I watched "Readings from the Slave Narratives" and wept through that. I mean, I'll admit to have a soft, chewy center (metaphorically. Get your mind out of the gutter), and how could anyone *not* weep at the dignity and wisdom of these people in the face of such inhumanity? So to calm myself, I popped in "All That You Can't Leave Behind" while reading this week's EW (more on that in the LJ. BRUUUUCE!) and again I got choked up, both during "Beautiful Day" and especially during "Walk On." See, for me, "Achtung Baby" is my favorite album of all time, and even though it comforts me, it's the apotheosis of dark and lost and wanting. I mean, it haunts. Nothing is resolved. Everyone is hurting, and betrayed; it takes it back to the basic, archetypal Judas/Jesus interaction ("Until the End of the World") - though from the betrayer's POV. "All That You Can't Leave Behind" is... it's calmer. More mature, more hopeful. It's full of *faith*. I don't talk much about faith, because it's a personal thing. I have it, but at a very primitive, visceral level. I can't be an atheist because I feel it too strongly in my bones and guts that there is something bigger, and that it is what we've come to call God (in whichever incarnation you prefer to worship it). But I haven't yet managed to incorporate it into my brain. I mean, I think it's been bred into me, blood and bone - Irish-Italian Catholic, believers going back generations. I also don't talk much about it because I'm sick of having to defend faith to unbelievers or agnostics or whoever. I believe. It's not rational, but it's true. But I... I stopped going to church in the depths of my bout with depression and haven't started again. It's always been a disappointment. I mean, I can feel the power of ritual, and the music never fails to make me cry (see a pattern here?), and there's nothing more comforting or peaceful than sitting in a quiet church and silently praying, but I wait and wait for that transcendant moment during Mass and it never comes. It never comes. And I don't know if it's a fault in me or just in the whole ritual itself. I love ritual. I find ritual to be as powerful as belief. I could never give up Catholicism for a newer, less traditional religion simply because I *like* all the trappings that go with it. However, in addition to being envious of people who have faith and can express it and are not constantly plagued with doubts, I am bouyed by that. And listening to "All That You Can't Leave Behind" is an uplifting experience. Especially "Walk On" and "Beautiful Day". It's a cliche, but I feel better, just knowing that someone believes, and that someday, maybe I can reach that surety. It doesn't hurt that they're kickass songs, and the end of "Walk On" reminds me of "Brain Damage/Eclipse" which is one of my favorites. Beautiful Day The heart is a bloom, shoots up through the stony ground But there's no room, no space to rent in this town You're out of luck and the reason that you had to care, The traffic is stuck and you're not moving anywhere. You thought you'd found a friend to take you out of this place Someone you could lend a hand in return for grace It's a beautiful day, the sky falls And you feel like it's a beautiful day It's a beautiful day Don't let it get away You're on the road but you've got no destination You're in the mud, in the maze of her imagination You love this town even if it doesn't ring true You've been all over and it's been all over you It's a beautiful day Don't let it get away It's a beautiful day Don't let it get away Touch me, take me to that other place Teach me, I know I'm not a hopeless case See the world in green and blue See China right in front of you See the canyons broken by cloud See the tuna fleets clearing the sea out See the Bedouin fires at night See the oil fields at first light See the bird with a leaf in her mouth After the flood all the colours came out It was a beautiful day Beautiful day Don't let it get away Touch me, take me to that other place Reach me, I know I'm not a hopeless case What you don't have you don't need it now What you don't know you can feel it somehow What you don't have you don't need it now You don't need it now, you don't need it now Beautiful day Walk On And love is not the easy thing The only baggage you can bring... And love is not the easy thing.... The only baggage you can bring Is all that you can't leave behind And if the darkness is to keep us apart And if the daylight feels like it's a long way off And if your glass heart should crack And for a second you turn back Oh no, be strong Walk on, walk on What you got they can't steal it No they can't even feel it Walk on, walk on... Stay safe tonight You're packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been A place that has to be believed to be seen You could have flown away A singing bird in an open cage Who will only fly, only fly for freedom Walk on, walk on What you've got they can't deny it Can't sell it, can't buy it Walk on, walk on Stay safe tonight And I know it aches And your heart it breaks And you can only take so much Walk on, walk on Home... hard to know what it is if you've never had one Home... I can't say where it is but I know I'm going home That's where the hurt is I know it aches How your heart it breaks And you can only take so much Walk on, walk on Leave it behind You've got to leave it behind All that you fashion All that you make All that you build All that you break All that you measure All that you steal All this you can leave behind All that you reason All that you sense All that you speak All you dress up All that you scheme... And just for comparison's sake, the segue from Brain Damage to Eclipse And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear You shout and no one seems to hear. And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes I'll see you on the dark side of the moon. All that you touch, All that you see, All that you taste, All you feel. All that you love All that you hate All you distrust All you save. All that you give All that you deal All that you buy, beg, borrow or steal. All you create All you destroy All that you do All that you say. All that you eat everyone you meet All that you slight everyone you fight. All that is now All that is gone All that's to come and everything under the sun is in tune but the sun is eclipsed by the moon. ::sniff:: ~victoria link [current mood: weepy] [current music: Smooth Criminal - Alien Ant Farm] [random quote: Why are you downcast, my soul; why do you groan within me? ~Psalm 42] ~*~ 02.21.03 - 2:00 p.m. Hey, you tentacle sex folk? Wanna write me some Melkor/Ungoliant fic? Am being completely random. First off, I updated the Unfit for Society Recs LJ (see also link on the sidebar there). 14 stories in 5 fandoms, with two guaranteed heartbreakers in the bunch, as well as two of the funniest fics ever. I like to cover a wide range of the spectrum. What can I say? I'm a woman of many splendors*. I can't believe I forgot to mention that my father, a man of many splendors and great generosity and thoughtfulness to boot, had my broken bracelet repaired. I love my dad. I mean, I'd love him anyway, but he did this completely without prompting. From me, anyway. And you know, I'm always feeling the need to share the dad-love, because well, 9/11. 'nuff said. They just migrated our email system from one server to another, and it appeared to be a relatively painless process. I'm not quite sure I believe it's done, though. I'm waiting for something to go horribly wrong. What can I say? I'm a "that glass is half-empty, and I think someone dropped some poison in it" kinda gal. Speaking of which, in fannish news... I see there may be progress on my long-hoped-for Remy/Oz fic. *g* Also, I know something you don't know, and when this story is finished (it's not mine, I'm just a lucky beta), it will blow your mind. Oh yeah. I have two words for Bethy - Ian McDiarmid. Two more words. Monty Burns. You know you want to do it. And I'm going to pester you until you do. Only someone with your wicked sense of parody could do it justice. And there's buttered, barbecued Ewoks in it for you... Also, Melkor/Ungoliant. Come on, some of you tentacle sex people. You know you wanna write this. What *were* they doing under that web of darkness she spun out? Hmmm? I still think Ungoliant is the scariest thing Tolkien ever created, and I love the idea that (to quote from memory) "in her great hunger she eventually consumed herself". There's a story there, folks, a lot more interesting one than the pared-down version we get in "The Silmarillion". Someone ought to write it. Oh, did I mention I had to walk home last night? Not that I minded. But I waited 20 minutes for a bus that never came. I walked the 30 blocks, bought a bottle of wine and stopped off for two slices, and when I was leaving the pizzeria, that's when the bus pulled up, at my normal disembarking stop. It was a nice night for walking, though. If I decide not to go to the movies tonight, maybe I'll do it again. We're having some positively spring-like weather today. Of course, it's supposed to rain all weekend and then snow again on Monday, so winter isn't over, but isn't it pretty to think it is? *to steal from Meldrick Lewis. ~victoria link [current mood: silly. also, hungry] [current music: Bang a Gong - T-Rex] [random quote: “Work is the curse of the drinking classes.” Oscar Wilde] ~*~ 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