I have failed at Bisquick. Now I must go commit ritual suicide.

----

The hissing squeaks and squealing whirrs
That rise up from within...
...Rising impotence, aching
Running into walls...
It's like constipation of the soul
...
Listen closely, carefully
The curious sounds the body makes
When the heart is breaking.
-

Needs work, yes, but it's just the last two lines that matter, hence why they're the only ones that make sense. Fragmented poetry. I need to get back into the habit of writing.

I look straight in the window, try not to look below
Pretend I'm not up here, try counting sheep
But the sheep seem to shower off this office tower
Nine-point-eight straight down I can't stop my knees.

Chorus:
I wish I could fly
From this building, from this wall
And if I should try,
would you catch me if I fall?

My hands clench the squeegee, my secular rosary
Hang on to your wallet, hang on to your rings
Can't look below me, or something might throw me
Curse at the windstorms that October brings.

I look straight in the boardroom; a modern pharaoh's tomb
I'd gladly swap places, if they care to dive
They're lined up at the window, peer down into limbo
They're frightened of jumping, in case they survive.

I wish I could step from this scaffold
Onto soft green pastures, shopping malls, or a bed
With my family and my pastor and my grandfather who's dead

Look straight in the mirror, watch it come clearer
I look like a painter, behind all the grease
But paintings creating, and I'm just erasing
A crystal-clear canvas is my masterpiece

I wish I could fly
From this building, from this wall
And if I should try,
Would you catch me if I fall?
And if I should try,
Would you catch me if I fall?

When I fall...
-Barenaked Ladies, "When I Fall"

Sure, the sentiment's been done before. But I have yet to hear it done quite as well as the Ladies do it here.
-----

Unconditional love? What's conditional love, then? How can you love someone and put a caveat, a disclaimer on it? No sense to it. You love someone, or you don't. If they do something that makes you stop loving them, perhaps you didn't love them as much as you thought, to begin with- or perhaps you never stopped loving them. That's the thing to do, really: never stop loving them. No matter what, never stop loving.

So, Spider Jerusalem? By far the most ass-kicking, name-taking, awesome angry drug-addicted journalist ever.

Not only is the art of Transmetropolitan top notch- no wonky anatomy or excessive bodily fluids here, no sir- but the world being illustrated is also clearly the product of an imagination on overdrive. This is the future of a disturbed mind, kiddies.

(I'm not trying very hard to make sense, I'm afraid.)

The thing that struck me the most about the characters and setting- even more than Ebola Cola or the incredible day-to-day violence of the world of the City- was how much Spider cares. Yeah, sure, he's foul mouthed and just all around foul in many ways, but his quest for Truth *waves arms* is almost heartbreaking in its sincerity.

So, I actually don't have a whole lot to say about Transmetropolitan; Warren Ellis writes, Darick Robertson pencils, and the whole thing is dirty with shock value and shing with the Truth. It's funny and gritty and Spider is so real it hurts.

Delicious. Read, peons, before I get myself a bowel disruptor.

And what else have I been reading, if not Sai Secant's comic collection? Why, Stephen King, of course.

I don't suggest Warren Ellis and Stephen King in combination; I had some fucked up nightmares last night. (Need to seriously stop dreaming about work. Seriously.)

Dark Tower IV: Wizard and Glass is, as the first three were, an excellent story. Unfortunately, despite my sudden undying love for Cuthbert, I still like Eddie, Susannah, Jake, and Oy better than Young Roland and his cullies.

That's okay, though, because the story of Susan and Roland's first adventure is still a gripping one. And Roland manages to come out of it even cooler than he was before.

King's forewords are a delight to read, particularly this one, and particularly since I myself am coming up on nineteen. The similarities to Tolkien are perhaps slightly more pronounced in Book IV: you have both the riddling game and the wizard's glass. But there's also Oz and the Emerald City, and I've no idea where the idea of a thinny could possibly have come from.

King takes elements of the familiar and puts them in a place so unfamiliar and strange it boggles the mind.

Also delicious, but with less temporal mindfuckery than I've grown accustomed to. There are three books left in the series, and another half of Roland's life to narrate; Wizard and Glass introduces Alain and Cuthbert and Susan, but you only get as far as Roland's first betrayal in the name of the Tower before he and his new ka-tet go off to meet the wizard.

Still waiting to find out how Cuthbert, Alain, and Jamie die (and that's the horrible thing- you know they're doomed, but you love them anyway). Still waiting for Jake to get a chance to reconcile his parents. Still waiting for Roland to finally die, because you just know he's going to. The salvation of the universe is so going to require a sacrifice of some sort, and you just know it's gonna be Roland.

Again, y'know he's doomed, but you love him anyway. Long, tall, and ugly is still one of my favorite heroes ever- which isn't saying much, admittedly (he's sharing that space with Sam and Nikolai Hel and Ulrich von Beck- somewhat auspicious company, I suppose).

I really do like Stephen King; he's unapologetic and delightful to read, and he's more human than a great number of other famous writers out there.

The fifth book looks a bit more like King's standard horror fare, but I can't read Song of Susannah before Wolves of the Calla, and if I don't read those two, I can't find out how the series ends in November- and this is an ending I most certainly don't want to miss.

"D'you ever wonder why you're here?"

They were on the back porch, stargazing. Dee had been drinking, too, because that was what he did every night, only tonight was special because he'd brought out the box of expensive cigars as well. With his feet up on the battered fiberglass table and a cigar clamped firmly between his teeth, wearing his favorite tattered bathrobe, Dee was the picture of a sleazy business exec who'd just finished screwing his secretary.

Clearly tonight was a special occasion, indeed. Tristan hated special occasions; they usually involved some sort of paradigm shift. "Are we talking "here" in the cosmic sense, or "here" in the backyard sense?" He wouldn't have been surprised if Dee had an answer to the former, since the man hadn't gotten any less strange since that night in the Quik Check.

"Backyard and not in juvie or worse. Because, you know, between my arm and my wallet and the gun you've got a couple of felonies, at least. And you dropped the gun, which was stupid of you; that took us a while to clean up."

Tristan didn't react, though ice tricked down his spine. "They'd have tried me as an adult for the gun," he said quietly. And he wouldn't have survived it, wouldn't have wanted to survive losing Carly and Jim. He did wonder, sometimes, what his manic depressive socialite guardian was thinking when he ordered Tristan to pick up the phone in the hospital and dial a number that shouldn't have worked.

His life had been simpler, then. Not much simpler, but things had made a hell of a lot more sense, before. Now he spent most of his time walking on eggshells, but he'd been doing that his entire life.

Dee leaned back in his chair and blew a smoke ring at the stars, keeping his regulation three foot distance between them. Tristan had tested that in the past, inching closer at random intervals. Dee would twitch and move away without even realizing it most of the time. He did the same with Carly, and managed to avoid even looking at Jim most of the time. Tristan stood and removed the brandy snifter from Dee's hand, noting the way every muscle in the older man's body tensed with his approach.

"What the hell are you afraid of?"

Dee smiled thinly, without humor and without turning to look at Tristan. "Squirrels."

"Don't be an asshole."

"I used to kill them for fun, just to make a mess of things. They're so small, but if you do things right, you get blood everywhere. There is no power trip greater than that caused by the senseless torture of small, helpless animals." He blew another smoke ring and gestured expansively with the cigar. The smoke twisted itself into a heart, and snapped in two. "That was years ago, though, and the squirrels came after a few other not-so-random acts of violence. I figured, it was better to be cutting up rodents than myself, right? At least the squirrels stay dead when you kill them. I've always had a hard time with that."

The rest of the world went very, very still. Tristan watched Dee unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves and begin to roll them up, slowly.

"Did a few years in jail, but I don't remember them. Left with a few more scars than I went in with, but that happens all the time. Went home, saw what little was left of my family die and moved on. Ended up in a psych ward on and off, and rehab, but when I couldn't get drugs I'd just find new and creative ways to set myself on fire."

The scars ran from his wrists to his elbows in crisscrossing ropes of white and red. The burn scars started where the knife and needle scars ended, running up to disappear beneath his shirt.

Tristan realized his hands were shaking, and he put the glass down on the table. "Why-"

"They're not all self inflicted, don't worry. Most of the older ones aren't, anyway, and the newest ones aren't either. Only a few of them were ever life threatening- but then, not much is life threatening, to me." He retrieved the brandy snifter and swirled the dark amber liquid absently. "Do you want to know what I'm afraid of, or do you want to know why you're here?"

Tristan closed his eyes, and saw the image of his brother, smiling and alive, burned onto his eyelids. His throat hurt. "I want to be able to trust you."

He sighed, softly, and tilted his head back to stare straight up at the sky. "You're a good kid, Tristan. You didn't deserve half the shit that happened to you, but then, neither did I. We're both lucky someone believes in second chances." Dee stood slowly, unfolding himself from the chair like a long legged bird, and paused in the doorway. "I'm leaving tomorrow on business- don't know how long it'll take. More than a week and less than a year, but you guys can take care of yourselves."

Then he was gone in a swirl of cigar smoke. Tristan resisted the urge to break something and viciously stubbed out his cigarette on the door frame.

There was a manila envelope on the kitchen table with his name on it, and no trace of Dee anywhere. The evelope was stuffed nearly to bursting; the first thing Tristan found were his school and medical records. Then there was a stack of college applications- all for top tier schools and universities. There was a post-it note stuck to the Princeton application: "You get four years to act like a normal delinquent. Use them well."

Passport, birth certificate, social security card...his entire life was in that envelope. He flipped through the papers until he came to the very bottom. There, covered in official looking seals and signatures were papers placing him under the legal guardianship of one D. Wexford. There were similar papers for Carly and Jim, and another post-it note.

"Sometimes you don't understand why you do something, but you know that it's right. Sorry it took so long; we're not always above the law."

Tristan set the legal papers aside and began carefully replacing the contents of the envelope with remarkably steady hands. It was late. Too late, really, and he still didn't have any answers. His eyes fell on the guardianship papers, and he shook his head, laughing bitterly. D'you ever wonder why you're here? "Manipulative old bastard..."

His head hurt. Clearly, it was time for bed.

---------------

MOST INAPPROPRIATE SEXUAL TENSION EVER.

Gawd.

Carly: The two of you are so Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, it hurts. And damn you for being such a geek that I was able to make that analogy.
Tristan: You try having a coherent conversation with him. You'd get more sense out of Len on a bender.
Dei: Hey, I had nothing to do with it. It's my job to be sexy and mysterious.
Me: Sure thing, bathrobe boy.

I'm going to shoot myself in the head, I swear. *huggles characters* The good thing is that while Tristan doesn't get a significant other, Dei does, and she doesn't have any of the bizarre incestuous overtones that keep popping up in the story line. (They're screwed up for entirely different reasons.)

Rats!

So, Eve Forward has found a place in my heart as one of my favoritest authors ever- not because she writes good books, but because she writes entertaining ones, and that's really all I care about.

Animist is much darker than Villains in many respects, which may seem a bit odd; the ending was very bittersweet, and certain characters died that I felt didn't really need to. Animist is also much more focused on a single character; Sam was the main character of Villains, but the book also switched to the perspectives of the others on occasion. It gave you a better look at the other main characters, which was nice, but also took away some of the emphasis on Sam's development. I should probably note that Animist is much shorter than Villains, most likely because of the smaller cast of main characers.

Forward still has some problems with "show, don't tell" in her narrative; I've had the concept beaten into my head so many times that it stands out whenever she breaks that rule. She's still trying to make a huge, sweeping moral statement, but she keeps the preaching to a minimum, which is a relief.

The snarkery and the little absurdities are still there, and even though there's only one main character, the supporting characters are all delightful in their own...special way. (Big Hat with Feathers!) It helps that it takes place in a city full of drugged or otherwise insane people.

Alex is endearing as a main character, even if he is full of teenaged angst; his pet rat more than makes up for it. All of Alex's various friends are amusing- Temith the academic prodigy, Luken the poetic pikeman (*heart*), Serra the stuffing cook...and Animist boasts one of the best utterly evil undead nasty mean and cool villains ever. He's like, the original Cancer Mage. He's like Valerie, only less prone to cannibalism and more likely to set shit on fire.

Mmm, evil zombie cancer mages.

Right, basic premise- Alex is an Animist, graduated from the College of Animism, which is run by Lemyrs, who are sort of anthro-lemur things. She's moved on from the Six Lands to the Archipelago, where there are all sorts of vaguely anthropomorphic races: Lemyri, Delphini, Humani, Rodeni, Theropi...an Animist is someone who can "see" magic with the help of an animal familiar. Thing is, the College doesn't want its graduates bonding with useless familiars, because that's bad for their image. And, Alex being a slave, it's especially important that he bond with something cool so they don't force him to kill it and find another so he can pay off his debt to the College.

Naturally, while out on his quest to find a familiar, he ends up bonding to a rat. D'oi. Somewhere along the way he ends up saving a few countries, defeating an evil (mmm, sexay) thaumaturgist, protecting a species from genocide, and getting literally and metaphorically bitch slapped by all the women his own age that he meets. Also, the rat gets jealous when he's around other women. ;)

I do hope Forward continues the series, because it's adorable and snarky much like Villains was. She's growing into her own voice, which is pleasing to see. She's does very detailed descriptions, which makes my steadily growing visual brain very happy and also gives me the urge to draw stylized sketchy pictures of Chernan trying to kill Mote, and of Alex in the Big Hat with Feathers, receiving his Extra Cake Bi-Monthly. (Gwaaa! *lovelove*) Or of Temith, trying to decide which robe to wear.

And the various races are pretty cool; Forward doesn't have the world building skills of, say, China Mieville, but she's a solid writer with good ideas and wonderful snark. She earns a happy thumb dance; I just wish I hadn't let the awful cover deter me from buying the book before. (Though admittedly, getting it for fifty cents was kind of nice.)

Still a bit confused about the missing "i" though...

Need to read it again so I can remember all the bizarre absurdities, beyond just Extra Cake Bi-Monthly. *trundles off to change titles*