That I could patiently fill a trepidatious letter to him with all the things I best love about writing

All the things for which, upon reflection, I realize he would once have reserved no patience

It would be fittingly harsh if he should remain so much who he was that it serves me ill

Aaaaaaa Vincent Price died on Leo G Carroll's birthday waaaaaaaah...

Wrote this a few days ago
*********

I look to you still though an effort of will

Will allow my mind to turn away

But to sort out the mind without thoughts of a kind...


You were such a resource for me and all my reasons to want your conversation are selfish. And while selfish things should be heeded when needed, our interaction was ever poorly suited to thoughts of myself.


They became desperate.

They strained.

The tears, squeezed out in a lengthening whine, drained my eloquence.


I think it's your move, and will have to be until you make it

Until age silvers our eyes in clouds

Until my hand shakes too much to lift

Until your breath breaks its promise

And the chess piece forever keeps its place


And all these words and thoughts of mine

The love of strange and stunted beauty

Remain my own though facing you

Unaltered, unassumed


What a preservation then in portait

Of our imperfect piece

A world of crumbs and crumbles

Captured in frieze

I was bored a week or two ago and on the internet on my phone and made an okcupid profile under one of my (female) pseudonyms, and filled it with obnoxiousness and emphatic disinterest in sex.

Today it pays off because I'm having the most marvelously hilarious meandering conversation with a gay male literacy tutor who peeked at my profile last night. I peeked at him back, wished him well and answered his 10 person dinner party question in a curious manner, and now we are competing for oddity of answers and he said I just made his month. Yay me!

I want to go for walks with you
Into the stranger night
Where stars whirl about their future selves
Touching remotely, unknowing, what they will become
Their maddened dance shining rose-shifted upon our silvered path



I want our steps to echo our words unsaid
Our pauses and sighs spelling our solace in sensory scripts
The wafts of warmth from our proximity painting our portraits
Softly over the gessoed canvas of cloth covered skin


I want to look back through the lens of bubbled space
Finding this star in its youth
The first light of ignition hooked about and returned to its children
Walking in parallel
One meeting and knowing and loving the other
Never known by her past




....My summer amounted to falling in love with T. E. Lawrence's writing and then with his life.

I feel much like Gertrude Bell does about his work: "Approved: all but the libellous untruthful description of yourself." ...except I'm okay with that too, I just don't agree with it. Because I know what it's like to not want to be praised or comforted for things that give me no pride and some shame, even knowing that no other would have the right to judge me so harshly as I did myself, and it's heartening to read that feeling in someone else, someone admirable yet very human. That's the thing the research has given me: his humanity rather than the "matinee idol" everyone knows.

Anyway, I've found it all very moving, even his patches of boredom. Because bored contentment is a hallmark of health, mental health, the thing that history claims he lost irrevocably. And I want, so very much, to talk about it with some fellow-sufferer. But there is only Jeff that I know would have a hope of understanding, and he ...well, naturally he is not even available. Maybe Ben, though. It's been a while since we really talked about his life beyond short, crisp updates. But I think I would make him happier by cooking him an unexpected dinner.

I am isolated, and finding my solitude ill suited. Kat keeps putting off her visits and Teacup has been impossible to schedule and I feel troubled about asking to visit Nich because I like her more than our brief acquaintance and sparse conversations warrant. I want to reach the point of pleasant silence with her, but see her too rarely for that to develop, yet do not see her more often in the vain desire that some time she might write because she misses me. *sighs* no luck there.

With the school year have come enough students to fill my days. The adjustment is weighing on me a little. Only a little. I do like being busy, I just don't like readjusting to having a schedule to track... And wondering if I have neglected something......

I'm tempted to splurge and buy myself a tablet. I like them so much, and they're getting better and more useful....... But there are other, much more basically practical needs. Ugh. Adulthood.

... >.>

Sep. 10th, 2013 01:17 pm
If David Tennant's Richard II shows up at the Orpheum Theater in San Francisco it will be at least partly my fault.

That is all.

I feel old
But when I say that at 30 it misses meaning
I feel my age
I feel the years behind me piled against my back
The years before me looming with twice their weight or more
I feel pressed in on all sides
By memory
By possibility
By the terrible enormity of a finite life
Were it indefinite I could perhaps let go of the size of it
(An infinity of anything balances out to nothing inside of it)
But instead here I wait
Counting my paces
Back and forth
Touching the future and then the past













It is too easy to find you
Thank God that when I find you
There is nothing of yourself there

How cruel memory can be
How fresh
How kind you are to be so silent
That I cannot accidentally again hear your voice
And add to the cacophony that has never quieted

Time to turn away again
Time to seek other voices and louder
Though not so rich

Thank God you cannot hear me in the same way

On Misogyny

Aug. 7th, 2013 02:31 pm
mayamaia: (Exercise)
There's an essay I really don't want to write which is mostly in defense of Steven Moffat over the recent batch of misogyny accusations. The fact is, he's clearly begun to give up on clearing his name - he's been fighting that one bad interview for about 10 or 15 years now and resorts more and more to lame humor as a shield. He can't win, he knows it, and refuses to try or listen anymore.

There's this long long list I could compile of vaguely misogynist things said by various men I admire. Sometimes they're only problematic out of context, other times there's no saving the comments in any context. The worst of them are often things that I have thought myself, without external impetus.

Because when I was in fourth grade, my best friend had moved away and I missed her and she sent me a letter saying she loved me. And I spent an afternoon very seriously and carefully thinking about whether I wanted to like girls or like boys, finally deciding on boys not really due to any physical preference (I actually thought boy anatomy was gross, but then I didn't like breasts and such at first either and am beginning to think that I'm happier as an asexual) but because girls were boring. They gossiped and didn't like science and liked the color pink and didn't do sports. Boys were just more fun to be around, so I decided to like them. And then in high school and college it turned out I had no friends who were girls, which was fine with me, except that once in a while I did find a girl who fit my criteria. Suddenly I would become all of my own complaints about females in their presence. By virtue of their not doing the things I saw as stupid and boring, it was safe for me to do those things around them. It took me years to stop despising traditionally feminine things, and for the most part those things still mystify me.

I don't understand women. I'm trying to, I am making an effort to be friendly with women who like womanly things in a typically womanly way, but I know very well that I am different from them. I don't have anything like a normal womanly experience in public. Between my height and my education, and a lot of lessons from my father in the posture of confidence, men treat me with intimidated respect whenever I want them to, and as a sort of alien equal the rest of the time. I only get ignored by my family, and even that less and less. Bridging the gap of experience with most women is something I have to actively maintain.

I can't imagine what it would be like to attempt to do that without having the physical illusion of being one of them. I can relate, in memory, to all those men I admire who said men are happier without women than women are without men, because girls confused and frustrated me for most of my life. But my god how good it feels to have women around when I'm not focusing on how different they are from me. Because I don't have to treat my feminine qualities as quirks of my personality, any more than I have to treat my masculine ones as the way I am different from other girls.

I've always comfortably identified as a woman, but for years I imagined myself aiming to be some sort of ideal model, unhampered by all the silliness. Life's better now, without that vanity. I still don't think people should limit themselves, but I've started to notice the other limits, the unmentioned ones, my father yelling at my sisters for putting makeup on his lonely son. Alex is amazingly alright, considering.

Oh sweet somebody likes *thing I made* Who is this Somebody?

Aha! They follow *person I like from [livejournal.com profile] doctorwho. That explains it! ...no hang on, they follow two MFU writers too. Not ones I interact with much, though so ??

It's such a futile game, but still fun to play.

You must realize
I live my life watching you
Unhappy in your happiness
Surrounded by good things
Needing none of them and wanting less
And only being free
When something of the sway of fate
Throws us into proximity

And we meet as friends
Untroubled by ties and agreements
And after a shake of hands
A few exchanges of necessary words
A dance or two on a table because what is life without that?
We are separate again

And your wife has grown to hate you
And I never see my children who are not mine anymore
You live in your house alone
And I in my travels with company
With nothing binding us to safety

Those brief moments grow briefer
For fate has forgotten us
Your house has grown cold
And I am at sea

I just realized that, where both are recorded, my little LoA scene has the highest ratio of kudos to hits (at 9 to 59) in that fandom.

Cool. But I'm sure there are lots of duplicate hits in the older fics, so it may not mean much.

*phew*

Jul. 9th, 2013 01:00 pm
No nightmares yet, yay! I give credit to the fact that The Rainbow Thief is apparently so embedded in my mind that I am still humming the background music from it, these several days later. I look forward to having a higher quality version of it. (And then: screen caps!)

... O.O

Jul. 7th, 2013 06:33 pm
Just finished watching The Ruling Class and I am very very glad I didn't watch it at night and that was terrifying.

It's basically what happens if Elwood Dowd is cured... and then becomes a serial killer.

Don't watch it alone.

I saw Night of the Generals the other night, which is somewhat famous for not quite being a good movie despite having a great deal going for it: filmed on location in Warsaw during the Cold War, Peter O'Toole and Omar Sharif as the main characters, Donald Pleasance and Tom Courtenay as key supporting cast, a story that could have been deeply psychological.

Ultimately, though, it was a terribly risky film, since all the characters including the good ones were Nazis. So the makers took no unnecessary risks - and still ran into problems with the Hays code. It is therefore remarkable that it's any good at all. But the actors filled their over-simplified parts with great skill.

It seems to have left a mark; I keep thinking about the movie despite not being impressed on the whole. It wasn't meaningful at all, when it might have been. Yet somehow it matters anyway. It must be the actors that did it.

This morning, reading an MFU fic, I ran across Napoleon talking about Illya in childhood having seen the horrors of Nazi soldiers. Instantly, I saw a vision of General Tanz looking calmly down on a tiny and furious little blonde boy whose family he had just ordered killed, very nearly smiling, and offering him a sweet.

I've just returned from paying my respects before she was sent to the morgue. It is 4:40 AM and the house is still hot.

My parents picked me up about 2:45 AM and they and my sister and one of my uncles were there. We swapped stories. I told them everything I could about Friday before the pain started, and about her last joke to me while I changed her diaper in the hospital. ("I suppose turnabout is fair play: I did the same for you!")

Tomorrow's (today's) family picnic is suddenly going to be an impromptu wake. How appropriate that we were all already planning to see each other because Kristen's in town.

I kept telling my dad stories as we left the hospital. Incidentally, showing her Lawrence of Arabia two weeks ago may be the single thing I've done that has my dad's greatest approval. He seems very comforted that she remained so much herself right up to the end.

She was 91.

My grandma might die tonight.

mayamaia: (Face)


(Just remind yourself he's playing the somewhat likeable character, Franny...)

188672_1011889064730_7369_n

(...well shit.)

no wonder I always preferred him with facial hair

Tricked myself into writing by means of alcohol and chocolate. Which would be great if it didn't leave me singing uncomfortable truths to myself at midnight.

But damn it makes for good music. I should have recorded myself more tonight, it was wonderful. Sad enough that I made myself cry, but gorgeous.

It also sent me out walking. It's a gorgeous night out, if almost oppressively quiet. I want a companion to share it with.

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