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Lean On Me.

Mar. 20th, 2008 | 07:57 pm

When you're feeling down, there's nothing quite like talking to your close friends…

…to make you feel even shitter! Wow! I am distinctly impressed.

Unrelated: If you have a band, and your only page is on MySpace, I will design you a website for free. You can even keep your MySpace page. I just… I just want the hurting to stop.

(Well, the MySpace-related hurting, at least.)

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For the lulz!

Mar. 20th, 2008 | 04:05 pm
mood: amused amused
music: The Puppini Sisters' cover of Wurthering Heights. Awesome!

I hereby declare this International Post Lolcats Here day. Because it is Thursday, and if the world is going to end (or we're not going to make it to the weekend), we may as well go out while ceiling cat is watching us masturbate.

The comments are to be completely filled by the time I get back. If not, there will be flayings.

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A helpful graphic.

Mar. 18th, 2008 | 03:43 am

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The Diner.

Mar. 8th, 2008 | 01:18 pm
mood: huh

I had a bizarre dream the other night. I think it might make a good short film/short story, despite dreams not generally being good at that.

The main character (who was, in that dream-like way, kinda me and kindof a character in this story) is meeting her friends at the diner. This guy comes along—she doesn't really know him, I think he's a hitchhiker, but his entry into the story is vague and ought to stay that way.

Something about him is very off. From the dream, I can remember nothing more than a vague sense of off-ness, but I think he says things, bizarre and out-of-place things, like he's trying to fit in somewhere he doesn't belong. He's not awkward about it, which might be endearing, but just very certain that his world is right and ours isn't, or isn't any concern of his.

At some point, the friends go to the bathroom. He's staring into space. The people in the booth behind us leave, tsking, and I glance at their table. There's a newspaper lying on it. On the front page is the story of a murder, at this diner, presented with crime scene photos much more gory than you'd expect to find on the front page. The friends are lying there, in pools of blood, lined up gruesomely. She (me/the main character) isn't pictured. The paper has tomorrow's date.

At this point, the friends return, and the man clears his throat.

“I think you should go first,” he says, indicating me/the main character.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You'll be the worst. You should go first.”

At this point, I don't know if he's talking about raping or just killing. It's unclear, and the conversation resumes, but obviously she's not very much into it. She's brought this man into their lives, and so it's her responsibility, and she doesn't know what to do. She sees a gun that she swore wasn't there before, peeking out from under his coat.

“I think it's time,” he says, and starts shooting.

He doesn't shoot either of her friends first. It's someone else in the diner, maybe behind the desk. There's a moment of total calm, and then total chaos. I don't know what happens, except she ends up staggering into the kitchen.

In the dream, at this point, he comes in, and she stabs him with a stake knife. Except, it's a freaking stake knife , and it's really hard to stab anyone with that. She manages to get a solid cut on his neck, but she doesn't know if he's dead. She pins him down, somehow—it's tenuous, he's much bigger than her; perhaps she briefly forces his head into the grease fryer. And then, she realizes: serrations. She twists his arm wrist-up, and methodically cuts through the skin, and the veins, and then his bone, until his hand is completely severed.

That's what happened in the dream. In the film, I think this scene closes on her hiding in the kitchen.

And then we cut. It's some time later, perhaps a year. She's walking up to a church with a man—not the killing man, although perhaps the resemblance is remarkable.

“How long do you think we'll be?” he asks,

“As long as we need.”

She isn't wearing a wedding dress—actually, she's wearing a long denim-like top, and a black skirt. It's cute, but not formal, and we think maybe they're attending a wedding, but they're not, they're getting married.

And on their vows, I wake up, and we cut.

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Feb. 24th, 2008 | 02:19 am
location: home messy home
mood: blah blah
music: call it off

Just got back from seeing Khadak at IFS. So beautiful. Asa was really, really insistent that I see it, and I totally get why. On the way home, I was having trouble adjusting to a world infused with subtler dreams, fewer blue ribbons, and more genocide on the radio.

I'm really out of it today. Have been all week, truth to say. I think that actually helped, in this case, but overall it's kinda distressing. I was feeling way awesome and creative around Wednesday, but a lot of that energy has ebbed away. I'm still making progress with setting up my place (my car finally, finally has a back seat again!), so something must still be working.

As an example of the above: I'm trying to describe this really simple game, but the words are just. not. coming. Part of it's that I don't entirely know how it goes, but partially I'm just having trouble putting concepts to paper. Trust me when I say this is not usually a problem. Perhaps sleep will help.

Random insight: The Con isn't just an album you can listen to in a loop; it makes you want to listen to it in a loop. Call it off is so fucking raw and sad, and I was married is so fundamentally full of light that hopping from the end to the beginning is like getting a little jolt of happy, anti-Pavlov style.

Sia's playing in Boulder tomorrow! Yay! Everyone should come. Everyone.

Your writing exercise for today (I provide writing exercises? I think… yes). Include the following in a story: “After a month, it became completely clear to me that David was not an integral part of this arrangement. Lia was.” Mangle names as desired.

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This is stupid.

Feb. 18th, 2008 | 01:48 pm
mood: here
music: there's still time, t&s.

So, I apparently decided to take a break from LJ.

I didn't make that decision in that way that people do, where they're like, “god! I'm just so sick of LJ!” And then they're back next week. Because I wasn't actually sick of LJ, and I wasn't back the next week.

Or for the next two years.

I've recently started posting over here, because I like the notion of Trackbacks and the blogosphere, and I really like having a creative space that was in some way mine and did not belong to (* waves hands vaguely *) the ether.

But I woke up this morning, and realized I wanted to write something to my journal. Not a private journal, because I'm from the Internet and we don't really understand those here. But to somewhere that is mine in a different way.

Which is a nice long way of explaining that this space should be less dead soon.

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on serenity

Oct. 1st, 2005 | 02:00 am

The last several days have been long threads of extreme coolness punctuated by bouts of middling to severe depression, centered on, approximately, nothing.

This is weird, but not the subject of this post.

I have lots to say about Serenity. It's brilliant, and wonderful, and there's a whole bunch more text that could go here, but I think that this sums it up quite nicely:

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a brief dictionary experience

Sep. 2nd, 2005 | 01:02 pm
mood: angry angry

hurricane, n. ('hʌrɪkeɪn, -kən)

1. A name given primarily to the violent wind-storms of the West Indies, which are cyclones of diameter of from 50 to 1000 miles, wherein the air moves with a velocity of from 80 to 130 miles an hour round a central calm space, which with the whole system advances in a straight or curved track; hence, any storm or tempest in which the wind blows with terrific violence.

Chill settles softly over the beaches. Wind streams in over the ocean, cooling the swamps and the earthen mounds that hold them in, and the sky begins to fold over itself, the shade of a new bruise. Animals and people scurry as hard rain pelts down as fog rolls in over the ocean.

It was all exciting, once. Danger, possibility. Some tiny voice saying, maybe we'll get some real excitement aruond here. Maybe everything will change. Standing on the edge, looking her nearly in the eye, it isn't that, anymore.

Everyone knows her by now. Every weather station, every satellite, every sounding balloon droped into the sky; they're all trying to learn her secrets. Slowly and quickly, people have been leaving, climbing out of the bathtub-waiting-for-the-ocean in which their city is built. Nobody's flying into the Big Easy except for CNN, so of course there aren't any planes to leave on. Busses stopped a while ago. If you have a car, friends, connections, you go. If you don't, you pray. Because ain't nobody coming to rescue you, child. You want help, get out now, even if you can't. Stay, and you're on your goddamn (and we do mean that: God. damned.) own.

2. transf. and fig. a. A violent rush or commotion bringing with it destruction or confusion; a storm or tempest of words, noise, cheers, etc.

She misses very slightly, hitting Triumph. Everyone's holding their breath, and as they slowly begin to exhale, they find they have to hold it again, because there's water, everywhere.

But we are ready.

There are helicopters, patching the shattered levees from the sky. And hospital ships, already standing by. The National Guard is there, giving everyone food and water, medicine and shelter. Those who didn't make it to the shelters are still helped. People pull together. Other nations offer assistance and, humbled, the most powerful nation on earth accepts it gladly. For a time, everyone's in it together, differences simply cast aside.

John Burnett: There are 2,000 people living outside the convention center. There is no food. There is absolutely no water. There is no medical treatment. There are no police. There are two dead bodies on the ground and in a wheel chair around the convention center, both elderly people. We understand two more died earlier.

We understand that a 10 year old girl was raped in the convention center in the last two nights. People are absolutely desperate there.

I have never seen anything like this.

Host: Is there someone in charge?

John Burnett: No. There is no one. There is no one in charge of this effort. They seem to be throwing it back between national guard, city police and state police. The plan seems to be changing by the hour. These people were told to go to the Superdome, then to the convention center, then they were told buses would pick them up, but nothing is happening

b. A large and crowded assembly of fashionable people at a private house, of a kind common during part of the 18th century. (Cf. DRUM n. 10, ROUT.) Obs.

Katrina” is a variant of “Catriona,” the Gaelic name derived from the Greek “Αικατερινη.” The lineage, they say, is somewhat unclear. It could derive from “Hecate.” It could come from αικια, “torture,” in the Greek. It was the name, also, of a martyred saint from Alexandria, tortured on the the wheel bearing her holy name.

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on a most curious incident concerning a filing cabinet

Aug. 26th, 2005 | 07:30 pm

“Officer Lawrence, could you please enlighten the board as to the happenings that Friday night, the 19th of August?…”

I pulled them over just west of the 20th street entrance to interstate 25. It was a silver Honda, going 62 in the 55. Nothing too remarkable about the car, save for its peculiar bumper sticker. “RO,” was the only text, written over a flag I couldn't recognize. Probably, in light of the events that followed, Russian.

The driver rolled down the window and looked up at me, and the first thing that struck me as, perhaps, somewhat peculiar, was the manner of coming from the car's stereo. It was utterly triumphant and yet unshakably depressing—a Soviet march, if I am not mistaken. The driver was wearing black everywhere. His cap and long coat were black leather, his undershirt coarse black cotton. His face was dark—though I couldn't say how dark—his features, unreadable. The passenger beside him, one of three in the car, is hunched slightly, muttering to himself. Something about baskets. Or perhaps gaskets.

The first words out of the drivers mouth, before I even got to speak, were,

“Is moose-and-squirrel?”

It took me a moment to register the question, spoken as it was with a heavy slavic accent. I don't know what to do at this point, so I go through the motions. He hands me his papers, and as I'm walking back to my car I could have sworn I heard him say to one of the passengers in the back, “Eat key, so cannot open filing cabinet.” But, again, his accent was heavy.

It's at this point, I notice the two passengers in the back seat. That is, I noticed them before, but I can see more clearly now what they're doing. One of them is wearing a pentacle. He's sitting, looking vaguely annoyed and perhaps slightly amused at everything that's happening. I know how he feels. The other passenger is…hugging a black metal filing cabinet. It's propped in the middle seat, and she's clutching it like it's her new best friend.

His license and registration check out, and I think for a moment about writing him a citation, but there was just something about his eyes… I thought my night had gotten a bit too interesting by that point, so I handed back his papers, told him to watch his speed, and let them go. The driver seemed confused, his eyes flickering to the black metal box in the back seat nervously. Then, quickly, he muttered something under his breath, rolled up the window, and drove off.

I stood there, in front of my car, deeply confused for not the first time that night. I got back in my car, started it up, and drove on down the highway, making sure not to pass the car, in case I should happen to notice something I can't ignore.

I think the driver said something about going back to Boulder, and that's just fine with me.


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Aug. 24th, 2005 | 05:31 pm

Sitting in a computer lab, it can at times be a touch disconcerting to consider what random strangers notice on your terminal's screen.

Take the cute girl who just walked into this lab not five minutes ago. She walked to a computer behind me, passing by my desk.

At the time, it contained this, in very large letters, at the top of the screen:

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