And the reactions are pouring in.

Overwhelming existing fan response: "I have immense doubts but I am going to watch the f*ck out of this."

Cavill fan response: "abjfjegaiiwghwkdi HOT" (there was even one literal actual "my pussy is so wet right now")

Externals: Mad Men comments.

Me: We have confirmed one-chop knockout, Napoleon's verbal tic, Illya trying not to be sexy, and Napoleon flirting madly with the enemy while openly telling her he stole an invitation to her party. Promising enough.


Sep. 16th, 2014 10:59 am
Künstliche Welten - Praha-Edit

Ah, God. I have loved, oh.

This particular mix of this particular song became my greatest musical obsession in the summer of 2002. It was on a CD mix called Das Klingt Gut which Ryan Corps gave all of his friends before summer vacation. I translated it by ear and decided it very much fit the way I pursued relationships.

One day, a bit depressed (because just… all the things, for me and for others) and thinking about my high school best friend (who had recently broken up with his fiancee), I left the final sentence on my dorm whiteboard in German.

*Ich zeige dir mein Angesicht, doch du siehst mich nicht.* - I show you my (true) face, but you don’t see me.

Jeff came by, and we discussed its translation and why I chose to use “but” rather than “and” (it was the best way I could show emphasis for “doch”). Then he stared into that whiteboard like it held the secret of his future.

Which, I suppose, it did. Even though I was thinking, somewhat hysterically, …I should probably tell him I didn’t write it for him…

He spoke, still staring at my door. “I’ve been thinking that maybe I’d like to be more than just friends with you, but the thing is I’m planning to join the Air Force in two weeks, and it doesn’t seem fair to you.”

My head started doing that dizzy hysterical thing, and I nodded very slowly and seriously. Then stood and said, quoting that week’s CRFH, “Excuse me, I feel a giggle attack coming on.” Then I shut the door in his face.

And LAUGHED OH GOD I LAUGHED for like half a minute.

Then I opened the door and said, very calmly, “Yes I understand. Very reasonable.” nod nod nod “Too bad, it would … it would be nice to find out what it would have been like.”

Two days later, I got him to kiss me.
Argh lots of stops and starts not liking iPlayer much yet

Read more... )
The idea that I might indulge from time to time in a bit of schadenfreude is repellent. Nevertheless I find myself wishing to know that all this is not so easy for you as it seems. That you think of me now and then, reminding yourself that it would be cruel or wrong to take what might be just at the edge of your reach.

I find it more comforting, oddly, that you might believe I can't have been in love (not really, just obsessed, even though that implies horrible things about me) than that you believe all you felt was comfortable in the convenience of a relationship. Regardless of past truth, it is so human to doubt one's own decisions that I expect someone human to wonder if there was love, somewhere in all of that, which was too much, too disrupting, to grant full reign. If the reason one felt less than complete love was a matter not of accident but of suppressed effort.

I want to believe you are so human. I want to think that is what I love most, in anyone, that complex uncertainty of our own motives which keeps us from trying to be gods and monsters. It would be terrible to believe I might be thrown as completely astray by a person who smelled like you do, or watched like you did, so briefly.

There are few things about anyone genuinely unchangeable unless we are ready for them to be so. I am too ready for that, it is true, and I blame the nature and quality of my recall-memory because it is what seems most different about me from any but the most unchangeable person I know. But reflection upon imperfect memory, then, must change the nature of things we treasure and doubt. Love becomes more flexible in the standard mind than could ever fit the imagined ideal of Story.

Which should be the best, in fact, for the eternal adjustment of consciousness. But as we rewrite our stories, there is no reason to think they will be written according to our faiths with fears just as strong. How much better, I imagine, for the most loveable thing to be not what is perfect or sees improvement, but the struggle itself that defines us as something less than angels, subtler than gods.

So I look for that in you, beloved.

Man I hope my MFU Easter bunny hasn't forgotten me...

But I had fun writing my two. Especially the one about the donkey in the desert, since I got away with a fairly outrageous pun. =3

Having realized yesterday that I hadn't yet made my birthday cake, I invited my cousin over and remedied that.

Caramel yellow cake, covered with a vanilla rum chocolate ganache. Mmmm.

I am very tired and want to get home to sleep.

Now I am home. And about to sleep. Yay I got my birthday present!



Mar. 10th, 2014 04:25 pm

Things that (despite efforts of denial) I still believe:

That Jeff is an unbounded good for me.
That Jeff is a bearer and gatekeeper of Reason.
That Reason is an unbounded good (for me.)
That I represent safety and home for Jeff.
That home will eventually be desirable for Jeff.
That regardless of whether he is home, it is good to know home exists.

I can deconstruct these into passive memes, but not eliminate them. The last, in particular, has enough existential semiotic weight to spell the difference between self-preservation and self-destruction in a crisis. I have never had enough self-referenced defenses to transfer the full weight of my depressions onto myself alone, and no other person is so conveniently out of reach as to leave me free under such a stark dependency.

You know how
You feel isolated so you act isolating?

I've been pulling myself away
And I'm too tired to relax that clench
just to tell people I need them
to come after me

I've wholly changed my view
And now I wish to know you're waiting
In your quiet crowdless way
Intent to be my guide
Into the end of things

Such an attractive thought
To know the self entire
Through giving it to your touch
To take it piece by piece apart
Perfecting the imperfect
By ending its unwhole existence
Silencing its separation anxious
cleft in twain
body and mind

Here is my, my own mind
Given without reserve to you

Here is my body unrefined
Given uncertain, hoping, just to you

And what will come of my surrender?
Death, the promises you make
How sweet and how unbroken
By a return traveler's tale

Oh, do I care?
If only Death might bear your face
I'd follow Him to Hell or Anywhere

Oh, Love
I had not known that you were there.

The list is vicious, this year.

Is it not always?

Oh my eyes burn and my cheeks ache from crying.

My chest shakes with shivered silence.

Brazil, what do I not know that there are so many from Brazil?

Have I any right to feel relieved that only a few are from America (our America), this year?

Any are terrible.

From any place.

But I stretch toward relief of the horror of it.

And I yearn for the chance to change it.

To fix it.

To break something for anger and shame that this still happens that we still fail so miserably to end the violent cruelty that a 13 year old was hanged that people were dismembered and burned and left in dumpsters this year.

I cannot be by my friends’ sides at all times and cannot be near them in every instance of danger and someday perhaps I won’t be.

Someday they might die and I will have failed to defend them.

I hate this reminder of my futility.

I love people and want them to love one another.

Oh God of my childhood, oh loving God come to my aid, help me to defend the endangered and precious about me.

Let my efforts make this world kinder.

Let this world be worth saving.

Let the list of the lost dwindle to nothing and the cruelty become but the bitter tastes of yesteryear.

This year, it is too late for 238.


Nov. 15th, 2013 08:30 am

Pulled a muscle in my calf while playing with my cat. Yay.

Guess I'll be asking students to come to my house for a few days...



I made friends with a girl on Sunday, pretty much because she had very attractive handwriting... ANYWAY.

She was working on her NaNoWriMo, so I told her about converting the intro of Seven Pillars into iambic hexameter and we bonded over literary masochism. Her name is Jordan.

She pointed me to a sonnet-writing contest last night, so now I'm trying to write as many sonnets as I can in the next couple of days in hopes of producing one or two worth the entry fee.

Some of them may show up here.

I can see him in my big blue chair
(It's the perfect size
For me to curl within it
Surrounded by body warmed soft leather
Like a mother's arms)

I can see him crouched there
Feet on the cushions
Hair uncombed
Smiling up in imp-drained innocence
Having won this round

I'll win the next
Just you wait
And wait
And wait I'm not facing him
I'm in this room alone
He did it to me again

He'll win every round on from now
Into the depth and distance of my reach
And I'll stand again empty and again
Wondering why I argue with the past

My mind keeps chasing over
conversations we could have
Full of chuckles free and easy
Lessons lost in living lonely
Each our separate isolations
Willfully denied

There are things I want to teach you
or to show you
or to give you
All the sparks of how I see you
in an everburning flame

But my questions have no answer
there can be no echo back
And the light shines on forever
radiating at the black

Oh thou void of all creation
Oh thou emptiness serene
making minds to shine more brightly
with an incandescent gleam

Could we know thy every corner
Could the black of thee go out
If there were no night in heaven
there would lie creation's rout

Oh but no, if I could know you
Surely both of us would change
and the heat of that flow outward
to a world ever so strange
When we reach the knowledge boundary
And we crest its crumbled wall
Then we look on fresher valleys...

And then I spun around in the kitchen, fists in a V above my head, crying "laserbeams!" amid the rolling cracks of laughter

And a perfect tone sounded from the wineglass on the cutting board

One note rung from it by the strike of a bobbypin held by, holding, the tip of my braid

Which swung behind me in my enthusiastic twirl

"The beauty of this man," she cried, "is every part of him makes sense!"

His thoughts lost in a fug of madness
Self-reflective sight
The lasing cavity mind which builds its power in itself
All touch upon the world in bursts of briefest fire
And self-possessed (possessed by self) all other times

"It all makes sense!" She cries

For what he failed was not the world
But what he knew
What was himself
That bitter taste of his own seeds of thought
That part he failed to trace into the tale

Oh yes, the beauty, yes the craft
Yes the glory of the matchless effort!
Guilty, gilded glory
Sweet and terribly clean

We cannot hate him, see, and cannot love beyond his sight into the crawling wretched mind that massed its mirrored myriad memories
To flood in desperate rivers through his fingers to the page
To meet a bank and balk and turn to calmer smoother flows

His failure never failed us
His greatness lived inside him crying to be broken and released
And he bit down and chained it to him, useful thing
Whose frenzied cries bounced through the cage of mirrors
Trapped behind the eyes

The problem with knowing how lasers work

Is writing a poem about a writer because you’ve been reading Ulysses and figured out why he liked it

And suddenly realizing that you’ve basically just metaphorically said he’s shooting laser beams from his eyes and it’s just too hilarious to continue in seriousness

Physics is wonderful but goddammit Dr Evil for making every time I use lasers into a reminder of “sharks with fricking laserbeams!”

I do much better with astronomical metaphors


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