Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Jason Mraz- Tonight, Not Again

The night.
She brushed her hands upon my flushed cheek
Smelled of childhood remnants of a dusty weeping willow
Clouds soothe, shredded by the calico
We're oh so vast and quick as I was on my own now.

This time like every other time I believe that I never find
Another sweet little girl with sequined sea foam eyes
Ocean lapping voice smile coy as the brightest quiet span of sky
And I'm all alone again tonight not again, not again, not again.

And don't it feel alright, and don't it feel so nice...Lovely.

Still I'm unable to inhale all the riches
As I'm awkward as a wound on my bones
Still I've got cobblestone joints and plate glass points
As I'm all by myself tonight not again not again.

And don't it feel alright , and don't it feel so nice: Lovely.

Well if you should nervously break down
When its time for the shakedown, would you take it?
It's when you cry just a little, but you laugh in the middle that you've made it
And don't it feel alright? And don't it feel so nice.
Lovely.

Say it again. Lovely. So lovely. to do it again
Again. Loving again. It's coming again.
Lovely.
-Jason Mraz, "Tonight, Not Again"

If you know me (and you must, to be reading this, let's be honest here), you have no excuse to not be listening to Jason Mraz. None. Excuse denied.

I like to associate Jason Mraz with Dei for some reason; it's probably the voice, even if they have completely different voices. His tone, then, mellow and slightly unreal.

Today I learned that Dei's favorite pair of socks survived the car accident better than he did, and that he was driving to visit Tyler when it happened. Interesting.

I should stop falling in love with the men in my head; they're all taken, in one way or another.

...I should probably just stop falling in love. The musical stylings of Mr. Mraz always leave me more susceptible to the lighter emotions, I suppose. I still can't differentiate between romantic love and intense platonic love, and sexual attraction is such a strangely arbitrary thing.

I suppose I'm confused. This is a good place for me to be confused; not the best time, but finding the right location is half the battle, right?

I babble. It doesn't matter, and I doubt it ever will; I'm never that lucky.

Monday, March 28, 2005

Stella Maeroris babble

Post- apocalypse Theron (after Bren dies) loses his memory- it's not an immediate thing, like the Corpses' memories, but he just gradually forgets everything. He becomes The Voyance, and has no personality or identity beyond that; it's his job to oversee his city, to make sure his city prospers, and to make sure his city grows. Where he once had a personality, he has only an insatiable hunger for destruction.

He may actually be connected to the city in some way; it's an extension of his body. I'm sure Silverlock could have taught him to do something like that- Silver is evil in a way I'm not entirely comfortable contemplating, and he does end up being Theron's teacher. Silver's magic is all in the physical world, and his power comes from the connections between the physical and aetherial. The concept of "City" and the concept of "Theron" could be connected without a whole lot of trouble, and Theron would be able to draw off that power.

That's irrelevant, really. What's important is that Theron doesn't know who he is anymore than Walker can remember who Brenon was. Muse might, but she's crazy.

Muse is like Walker- her name is her position, and she was the second Corpse Theron created. Like Walker, she is different from all the other citizens of Theron's city. She's a repository for memories. (This means that Stella probably is descended from Rozhaeonil, which makes her some sort of crazy fifth cousin to Bren and Mih, since foresight does run in their family.) Anyway, Muse gets all the memories that Theron siphons off when he makes a live person into a Corpse. I'm not sure what she does with them; recites them constantly, I suppose. She doesn't have her own memories or Bren's, because they were created through a different procedure.

The final scene on the rooftop (which is actually the initial scene, because it starts the flashback that is the entire story) is where Walker, with Stella's help, figures out how to force Theron to remember. Theron's memories weren't removed, he just forgot things naturally- forced them out of his head so he could keep on living, more or less. (Technically Theron is alive, in the sense that he never actually died. He's not human anymore, though.)

Once he remembers what he was- an Omnismith (and an asshole), Theron can use his powers as an Omnismith to rewrite everything. What he'll probably do is bring Brenon and Mih back to life (maybe Stella, too), and wipe out the entire country of Radrezhaea. If he's connected to the city, this will nearly kill him for good, but Bren and Mih are healers, and once the city is gone, the disturbances in the Threads will be gone and they'll be able to Craft easily again. So, Theron survives.

And they all live happily ever after, and Radrezhaea gets wiped off the face of the map for the fourth time in the history of this world. (First time, Dragon Wars before the creation of the gods. Second time, Dragon Revival, immediately before the splitting of Wisdom and Memory. That one was a doozy- Radra and Draco totally went batshit and ate the entire countryside. Third time, Radra's son and daughter had a deathmatch, and exploded most of everything.) Sheesh.

Of course, Brenon can't really let Theron off the hook for two hundred years of trying to take over the world with zombies. Also, that whole sleeping with his corpse thing? Not cool.
---------------

"Hey."

Theron, in typical Theron fashion, ignored him. Some things never changed.

"Theron." Bren sat down beside his friend and tore at the grass. The sky was still gray, and probably would be for a while yet, but the vegetation had come back with a vengeance. The trees were stunted and twisty, and the grass was dry and cut into his hands, but it wasn't concrete, and that was all that mattered. Theron continued to ignore him.

"Hello?" A clod of dirt struck Theron's sleeve and dropped off. Bren followed it with a handfull of the sharp edged grass. "Fire and Sand, Theron, would you look at me?" Finally impatient, Bren punched him in the shoulder. Hard.

"Shit!" Theron tipped over, as Bren had expected him to. Supreme ruler of the universe or not, he was still a scrawny little bastard, and Bren was immature enough to take pleasure in his ability to bludgeon Theron into submission. It was such a relief to be himself again; he was still Walker, but he wasn't only Walker anymore.

The dark haired man (still a boy, almost) glared up at Bren as he righted himself.

Bren ignored the glare. "You should have just acknowledged my presence the first time I tried to get your attention," he said mildly.

"You didn't have to hit me."

"Yeah, well, we all do things we don't have to do sometimes." He settled back into the grass with a sigh, digging his fingers into the dirt. Maybe in a few more weeks, they'd see the sun again. That would be nice. "And you'd have just sat there if I hadn't."

"What do you want?" Bren couldn't see Theron's face, but he knew the expression that went with that voice like he knew the intimate details of Solneki's spinal column.

"Nothin'. Just out enjoying the grass."

Theron snorted, but Bren ignored him this time. Being Walker had taught him the value of silence, and he still didn't know what to say to Theron. He wasn't sure there was anything to say.

On second thought, there definitely was. He let the silence stretch out a bit longer anyway, just to make Theron uncomfortable. "I can't believe you had sex with my dead body."

He'd never heard Theron make that particular noise before; Bren sat up slightly, and committed the new expression to memory. Priceless. He'd never actually seen Theron blush before, either.

"You were only a little dead." The way Theron curled in on himself was familiar; the position was taken right out of their childhood, and it looked vaguely awkward in Theron's adult body. Bren punched him again, lightly.

"Still. I was dead. That's totally not consensual." He grinned to take the sting out of the words; it felt good to smile again, even if his smile felt more like the edge of a knife than anything else.

"You weren't complaining." Theron's voice was muffled by his arms, but Bren could see the edges of his blush creeping down his neck. "And if it makes you feel any better, I thought you were still alive."

"Yeah, thanks, that helps. Don't lie to me to make me feel better. Asshole." He grabbed Theron's arm, and tried to wrestle him out of his defensive curl. "Come on, look at me. We're talking about this, okay? Flames, you're still underfed. When's the last time you ate?" His hand encircled Theron's wrist easily, and the bones felt fragile in his grip.

"Seventy three years ago." Theron wrenched his wrist out of Bren's grasp, but didn't hide his face again.

"Well that explains it, I guess. We'll have to make Mordant cook something. He's pretty good at it, you know, though I wouldn't put it past him to poison us all." He leaned back on his hands and looked thoughtfully up at the sky, seemingly unconcerned with the sudden change of subject. "You know what I've missed? Candied violets. When we get to Rothcar, we should see if we can find any. Maybe pick up some honey comb, for old time's sake, hm?"

"You were never this cruel, before." Theron's voice was low.

"I learned from the best." He punched Theron in the shoulder again, lightly. "Stop sulking. You've finally got what you wanted- I'll never forget you, now." Forgiveness was another matter entirely, of course, and not something Bren wanted to discuss now, if ever.

Theron flinched.

Enough of Walker survived in him to enjoy this. "It's not like I'm going to leave you. It's not like I can. We're all that's left of that world, us and Mih, and we'll stick together for Memory's sake, if nothing else. Speaking of Mih, though- I can kind of understand you having sex with my dead body, since you're never half as subtle as you think you are, but my sister?"

Theron finally smiled- it was a Theron smile, a combination of pure malice and wry amusement. "You want me to say it was because she looked like you, but really, she was just a warm body. Somewhat warm body. You know how it goes."

"You're sick," Bren said, conversationally. He lay back in the grass, arms folded behind his head. "Completely disgusting. Your mother should have eaten you when you were born."

If mentioning Shanreth affected Theron, he gave no indication of it. "I love you."

It wasn't exactly the answer Bren had expected, or even the answer he wanted, but it was probably the best he was going to get. "And they said you were the smart one."

"I am the smart one. You've learned a few new tricks, but you're still an idiot."

Familiar territory felt good, Bren reflected. The pieces of himself he'd been missing for so long were gradually returning, and it felt good. Some of the new things were good, too- Stella's smile in particular struck him as something very good indeed, and he could appreciate it no matter who he was. But this- pointless banter, casual insults- this was home.

Of course Theron loved him. Bren had known that since they were children; it hadn't meant anything then, and it didn't mean anything now. He doubted it ever would. There was no point in letting stupid things get between them.

"I've still never been out of the country, you know." The sudden shift in conversation was smooth; they'd had years of practice, after all. "Tell me about Rothcar?"

Theron tore up a handfull of grass and began weaving the stems together. "It's been a long time since I lived there. Things have probably changed."

"I know. Tell me what you remember, anyway."

Theron tilted his head back, smiling another little Theron-smile, the sad one. "Okay."

Bren closed his eyes and listened; lying in the grass like this, he could almost pretend nothing had changed.
---------------------------------------------------------

The major theme behind the last part of the story? Liminality. I keel myself ded, sometimes.

This was meant to be cute and vaguely humorous, but Walker is fuckin' weird, which means Bren is fuckin' weird.

I don't feel sorry for Theron; no one does. He knows his place in the world, and in Bren's life, and he's actually somewhat content with it. He'll never stop wanting, of course, but it won't ever matter enough to interfere with their friendship. Bren won't let it, and neither will he.

There's something symbolic in this, but there always is, and I'm glad to be able to give them all something resembling a happy ending.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

more blindsided notes

Okay, so maybe the angst gets a little extreme in places. Maybe I shouldn't do all the horrible things that I want to do to Iruka- there's no logical reason for it, aside from the fact that I have no other way to get him on a rooftop with Kakashi and copious amounts of alcohol. (This does not result in sex, by the way. I still really like Iruka/Kakashi as a pairing, but I will concede that it requires a hell of a lot of backstory and set up to work, and most of the time, it doesn't work.) The problem with Iruka is that after three years, he loses his ability to relate to Naruto; the war with Sound deeply scars just about everybody, and Iruka gets hit worse than most.

I still adore Iruka, because he's awesome, but he doesn't have a big part in Blindsided. I do really want him to be Anbu, though, because he does kick ass, and because I want Konoha to be in a grim situation.

I'm not actually going to do the zombie baby thing; I may cut the baby thing out entirely, since Sasuke? Really, really can't deal with kids. It screws with the timeline, anyway; I don't want to abandon Naruto in Suna for a year, after all.

And honestly? Kabuto doesn't need anything else to make him creepy. He's just so cheerful and evil. And he won't tell me why he's doing any of the things he's doing. He dislikes Sasuke; there's a personality conflict there, as well as the fact that Sasuke is everyone's golden boy, and he despises that. He's not like Kimimaro or Haku; Orochimaru didn't validate his existence.

He's a slippery character, but I love him. "No one suspicious," indeed. *hearts*

Friday, March 25, 2005

Arguing about zombies naturally leads me to thinking about Stella Maeroris, and the fact that it doesn't have a plot. Sure, the backstory does, and I love the backstory, but I don't really know what happens in the second part of the story.

The Voyance hears about Stella's prophetic powers somehow- word travels fast in the Undercity, and the Voyance makes sure to have connections there, as well as in the upper city. Actually, he doesn't really concern himself with the upper city, as that's mostly inhabited by the living, and they have their own methods of policing themselves.

Originally, the Voyance was the leader of the organized crime in the city- this was before I knew who Theron was, when the entire story was just a scene between Stella and Walker at a bus stop. Walker was the Voyance's right hand man, and the Voyance was like a mafia don- the pimps and prostitutes and hitmen and drug dealers all answered to him. If people were caught trafficking in misteltoe without his go-ahead, they got knocked off by walker. If somebody didn't pay they're debts in time, Walker ripped out their internal organs.

There's still a lot of tension between the original story concept and the thing it's evolved into, and I need to work that out before I can understand where the plot is going.

It's fortunate that Theron still retains most of his Omnismith powers even after he becomes the Voyance; it means that when Walker tells him to fix all the shit he's done, he actually can. Omnismiths can do just about anything- they're godlike in that respect.

What probably happens is Theron wipes the slate clean- just starts over. With Razhia and Stella's help, he ought to be able to erase his own existence, and fix everything. It's something of a cop out, and I don't actually want to wipe him off the face of the planet- he's one of the most completely evil characters in my head (though he has his reasons), and I'm actually very fond of him. And Bren truely, deeply loves him, and would be sad without him. (Bren is straight like a really straight thing, for the record.)

I need to work more on the stupid thing, I suppose. Alas, I am lazy and obsessed with Naruto.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Random now-finished Kakashi thing

Hatake Kakashi did not smile. He told his sensei this once, over tea and shougi, and the man laughed, and ruffled his student's hair. Kakashi hadn't taken well to the hair ruffling; he was thirteen, and had very little to smile for. Obito and Rin had been dead for a year, and he'd been a member of the Anbu for half of it.

("Are you sure?" Sensei had asked, a little sadly. "The first duty of the Anbu is to protect the Hokage. Perhaps you should look into the Hunters, for a few months at least-"

"No." He'd been resolute in his decision. "The Anbu.")

His sensei was the Hokage now, and Kakashi always said the title without the honorific, unless he was on duty- "Yondaime," he'd say, and pause significantly, leaving space for the unspoken -sama. "You make horrible tea."

"And you say it with such a straight face, too," his superior sighed. "Anyone else would at least pretend to be joking, but not you." The beginnings of a smile curled up in the corners of his eyes.

"I don't joke. And it's true."

"I know." The tiny smile had grown a bit larger, spreading from his strange, clear eyes to the left side of his mouth in a crooked, almost-smirk.

Kakashi ignored the Yondaime's smile in favor of placing a shougi tab; he was going to win this game, but only because his sensei was letting him win.

Yondaime lost with a graceful nod, and then proceded to beat Kakashi into the ground for the next three games. When Kakashi glared at him, he merely shrugged and said, "Turn about is fair play, Kakashi-kun."

Kakashi's glare could have killed a lesser man, but his sensei only smiled- a real smile, not a hidden half-smile.

Yondaime smiled with his whole body sometimes; Kakashi still wasn't sure how he did it. He'd seen his teacher snap men's necks without hesitation, seen the man kill dozens of people without the slightest flicker in his eye; he'd lost precious comrades and students, seen them brutally murdered- but at the end of the day, when the mission was over, he'd look at Kakashi and smile that stupid, amazing, blinding smile, as though it were nothing at all- and he supposed it wasn't, not really.

Kakashi wondered if his sensei would still smile like that if he died. He wasn't sure why it hurt so much to think that he probably would.

"Cheer up, Kakashi-kun. You can't win them all." His old teacher poured more of the mediocre tea while Kakashi cleared the board again.

"I will eventually." He was a genius, wasn't he? He was only going to get better. Kakashi removed his mask to drink the tea; it wasn't something he did very often, now that he was a jounin. In fact, his sensei was the only person to have seen his face in months. "Right now, it would help if you stopped cheating."

His sensei laughed, completely remorseless. "You're breaking my heart, Kakashi-kun." He won the next game, too, without cheating. Kakashi thought sourly that if the man was trying to prove a point, there were better ways of doing it.

Several months later, wearing black on a bright autumn morning, Kakashi stood before the memorial stone with his hands in his pockets and his mask firmly in place.

He didn't think turn about was fair play. His eye slid over the old, familiar names on the memorial stone and settled on the newest name.

He didn't think it was fair, at all.
--------------------------

Blah blah blah- you know how, in the Kakashi Gaiden, Kakashi hurts his arm and Rin bandages it for him? He had his mask off for that. ZOMGZ.

This is also known as "In which I attempt to be subtle, but am probably just obscure."

Also? Yondaime is a spazz, and I love Kakashi angst. It's just so easy.

Monday, March 21, 2005

Proof that zombies improve everything.

What part of Blindsided am I going to be the most excited to write (aside from all that Naruto/Gaara sap)? Why, the zombie baby part, of course!

No, seriously. Kabuto? I originally didn't like him. Hated him, even- he gave off creepy child molester vibes, with his glasses and his creepy smile. But now I love him, because in my head he has grown to new levels of evil, evil beyond my wildest dreams.

I mean, even Theron isn't this evil, though Theron comes close. It's bad when your interpretations of fan characters start outdoing your original characters.

*shudder* Good thing the Naruto crew are mostly isolated and haven't started bleeding into the fringe universes; bad enough that Lee wants to be a dragon, but if Kabuto started hanging around with the Stella Maeroris crew, I'd have to put the whole lot of them in lockdown.

But, yeah. Kabuto. So totally the primary villain in this story. Oh, the evil. Oh, the love. Love and zombies! I actually feel sorry for Itachi now, and I didn't think that was possible- but he's just totally out of his depth when it comes to Kabuto's crazy.

Yess...Kabuto's crazy brings all the boys to the yard. *cackle*

Blindsided Chapter 1

Chapter One
Includes introductions to sneaky!pervert!Naruto, crazy!grammarwhore!Zen!Gaara, and TsunadeClone!Sakura.

I can't believe I actually posted it. *nervous* I'm sort of stuck with it now, and that's a little frightening- I have a tendency to get caught up in things and never finish them, but I really want to finish this. It'll take me forever, and it will be exhausting and frustrating and strange, but I think it's about time I stopped cowering in my own little corner and did something.

It's interesting how my focus has shifted from Kakashi and Iruka (who is still my favorite character- but that only means I'm going to be horribly, horribly cruel to him) to Sasuke and Gaara; Sasuke, in particular, fascinates me because he's such a fundamentally weak person. Gaara, on the other hand, has endless potential as a character, and the fact that we're finally seeing that in the manga makes me wildly, wildly happy.

I love my Zen!Gaara. In my head it makes perfect sense; driven to become more like Naruto, he does everything he can to keep hold of reality and sanity. Clearly the best way for him to do this is to take up calligraphy and meditation. *grin* It gives him a chance to clear his head and partition off the various voices that have taken up residence there. Gaara is still quite a few cards short of a full deck, but he's more of a functional human being now.

Why calligraphy? Well, he briefly considered doing sand paintings, but discarded that as too easy. I could go on for a very long time on why this version of Gaara is the way he is; what it boils down to in the end is that as much as I love the manga and the person Gaara has become, I don't think three years is enough to undo the second six years of his life. I definitely don't think three years is long enough to earn the village's complete acceptance.

So he turned to Zen, because Zen solves all problems. (Temari thinks it's cute, because that's how Temari deals with Gaara; Kankurou thinks it's hilarious, because that's how he deals with his brother.) He has a t-shirt; Kankurou gave it to him (because Kankurou doesn't really like talking to people any more than Gaara does, and makes up for all those years of being a crappy brother by giving the boy things), and it says "More Zen Than Thou" on the front, with an Om on the back. Naruto is the one who usually ends up wearing it, because the irony makes Gaara smile.

I want to do pictures; Gaara and Sasuke wearing "Naruto is my anti-Shukaku/Orochimaru" t-shirts; Gaara with his "More Zen" shirt, Sasuke with a "Bitch" shirt, and Naruto with a "Foxy Lady" shirt; the three of them in the naked sprawl from chapter 12...*cough* The problem with that scene is that you can really only see Gaara, Sasuke's head, and Naruto's ass. Not that there's anything wrong with any of those things, of course.

Gwar. I need to start writing chapter two, don't I? *sigh* Chapter one should have been another five pages longer, but I had to cut it down; five thousand words was more than enough. So chapter two will also get truncated, and the whole thing will probably run closer to fifteen chapters than eleven, depending on how much time I want to spend building up the relationship bits as opposed to the creep!Kabuto bits.

Still can't believe I'm doing this...

Sunday, March 20, 2005

I have come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, going mad.

Somehow, this doesn't come as a surprise.

Saturday, March 19, 2005

Index of everything

Links to an alphabetical index of every piece of writing on the entire blog, with the exception of all the non-fan poetry. Also, links to any large groupings or major projects.

Projects
December, 2004 An attempt to write one piece of short fiction (fan or otherwise) a day. Most of it is Naruto fanfiction, but a few pieces are original. Project status: 30/31.
December, 2005 One piece of short fiction (fan or otherwise) a day. Mostly Naruto and original. Project status: 23/31.

Index
A-D
Aggregati
Bleach
Birds of a Feather (Boffo)
Black Heart
DDD
Death Note
The Demon Ororon
Dreamscape
F
Final Fantasy
Foxbird
Godless Avatar
Glare
Harry Potter
Librarians
Lightning Bug
Mordant and Solneki
Naruto
Project: Apocalypse
Samurai Champloo
Seafox
A Series of Unfortunate Events
Seventh Hour
Song of Shadows
Stella Maeroris
Stories from the Sunny Hill Cafe
O-Z
Ocean
Vagrant Story
Van Helsing
X-Men
Zulu
Other

Monday, March 14, 2005

Song call- "Collide", Howie Day, and Boffo babble

The dawn is breaking
A light shining through
You're barely waking
And I'm tangled up in you
Yeah

I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find
You and I collide

I'm quiet you know
You make a frist impression
I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find
You and I collide

Don't stop here
I've lost my place
You're close behind

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to ryhme
Out of the doubt that fills your mind
You finally find
You and I collide

You finally find
You and I collide
You finally find
You and I collide
-Howie Day, "Collide"

No reason, I just like this song, and by "like this song" I actually mean it makes my chest ache; I had a chance to see Howie Day in concert last October, but I blew it to do elfing. Bloody firstyears had best have appreciated all I went through for them...

I suppose this could be applied to certain situations in Boffo, as I've been thinking about the rewrite quite a bit lately. I want to start on the first part this week and maybe do some plot and character charts. I'm excited; Boffo is still the story that is nearest and dearest to my heart (not counting the sprawling fandom universe in my head), and I would like to do it the justice it deserves.

The rewrite will involve mad scientists, I think, and the whole thing will be heavily influenced by the Renegades D20 campaigns we did last year. I'll need to put together an experimental soundtrack for it, a proper one that I can listen to in the car. This shouldn't excite me as much as it does, but what can I say- I'm easily excited.

Since it's Boffo, there will be excessive amounts of Sarah McLachlan and a smattering of Natalie Imbruglia; a little bit of Godsmack, The Cure, Enya, TMBG, Nightwish, Jimmy Eat World (only because "In the Middle" is practically Tyler's themesong for Opal), and a few other random things.

The characters have grown up a lot in my head; Opal is no longer quite as much of a Mary Sue (because the way the story currently reads? ouch), and Tyler is no longer quite as much of a spazz. (Oh, who am I kidding, yes he is.) Their relationship no longer hurts as much with its stupidity, either- if it's slightly idealized at this point, that's only because I haven't written them as teenagers in such a long time.

The mad scientists make me happy, though, and Catenus (who will be getting a name change as soon as I get my hands on a copy of The Inferno) now has actual motivation. Amusingly enough, his motivations are the same as Sariel's, which really sucks for the both of them.

Song call- Genius, Duncan Sheik

Clearly I'm a genius
If she only knew it
But somewhere in her radius
I really blew it
I know, I know what I said to her
And I know what I did
What I don't know is how I could ever be
So incredibly stupid

You don't really need to know every last detail.
It's hardly worth telling
Suffice to say I said that I would be there
I never came through

Maybe I'm a genius and
She just don't see it
I fronted,
I should have admitted,
She saw right through it
I never thought that I could be
So underhanded.
Somehow I've cornered the market on
The double standard

You don't really need to know every last detail.
It's hardly worth telling
Suffice to say I said that I would be there
I never came through

For this act of genius
And so many others
I know I should apologize
And see how it goes

What am I waiting for?
Come on, come on, come on, come on

Sha la la la la la sha la la la la la la la

To all of the geniuses...

You don't really need to know every last detail.
It's hardly worth telling
Suffice to say I said that I would be there
I never came through
-Duncan Sheik, "Genius"

Yeah, well, the whole "genius" thing is so ridiculously overdone in Naruto, so it sort of works for all of them (Sasuke, Kakashi, Neji), since they're all asses at some point or another. Except Shikamaru. He's too lazy to be an ass, and Temari would beat him down if he tried, anyway.

(Mostly? I just like Duncan Sheik. The end.)

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Toggle, Rasputin, Toggle!

Moneta free association writing:

pawnbroker broken pawns silly little songs singing things in the dead of night; soft whispers go unheard for miles and miles in the moonlight three sings three signs soft things there are madmen and there are sanemen and there are those who have far too little sleep; up and at 'em, go! we lose only what we find when we stop looking for it. often times there is truth in the madness that we write; oftentimes there is poetry in the rosy prose of lurid unmasked and unasked professionals; toggle, rasputin, toggle! if the russian empire had fewer switches, there would have been fewer problems, perhaps, perhaps, perchance; these things are not what they seem to be sometimes these things are not what they are; what they are are words, words, words, not fishmongery nor whores, but words, sluttish, lovely words; a million dollars for them, each shining and golden, shining and golden; i have no need for thought when i have fingers singing songs on percussive keystrokes, strokes, brush strokes canoe strokes; crew team meanderings wanderings lost; lost again, unfound; there is no honesty among fishmongers, monger monger, codger like rasputin was? is? do we even know the ways of losing ourselves? do we even know?

three blind mice watch moonlight through half lidded eyes; there is no surprise in this, no wisdom to be lost or gathered or got in this, nothing at all; no sleep leads to dreaming even in the waking, when things are given for the taking, the rhyming, the chiming; there is moonlight on the snow and someone is crying, weeping, sobbing; for what we do not know, cannot know shall not know, ever, never,
know.

flugelhorn
cryptogram
bankruptcy
mythologer
cantankerous

light in the meaning of the darkness of the being of the truth of the matter being what it is and was and will be; jeanettel, whose name i never spell correctly, gets of to a late start; this is not a race, one must remember; this is not a race. this is something greater; something closer to being true, truth;

stop. reverse. go. sally sells seashells by the seashore; by the shore the horseshoe crabs (grabs sea shells by teh sea shore) are mating, dating, deliberating while the sea gulls (by the sea shore) wait for them to overturn (turn over, over whelmed, I'm whelmed over) so they can feast on the soft, fleshy underbellies of stupid crustacean neo-paleolithic (insert clever geologist phrase here) creatures.

thump thump thump goes the radiator; hiss hiss hiss it goes, as well; snakes and dogs barking, snarking, filling the quiet space with angered mutters. The heat in this room is growling, snarling, scowling; it wants out, it wants in, it wants to drive away the cold but in doing so also drives away the quiet.

Like creatures in the walls, the sounds bounce back and forth and hum to one another, communicating in ways we will never understand. There are mice in these walls; they come up through the holes in the floorboards to peck at our trash, our left-behinds, our leavings. They cannot ask for anything more- that warmth, those scraps. They live, they spawn, they die- like salmon, without the streams, and the decomposing livers.

(Salmon are freshwater fish only when they are born; out to sea they go, for seven year stretches of life, but then they return home, to the freshwater deathtraps from which they emerged. Their bodies cannot stand the lack of salt, the new bacteria, the new/old environment of their once-womb; they return to the spawning beds to lay their eggs, then die, livers and gall bladders and internal organs eating themselves to keep them alive long enough to reproduce. They hover in the rapids, three deep, stacked in the water, swimming backwards, away from the saltsea that would welcome them, away from safety and towards their doom.)

That was a pleasant interlude, don't you think? The pace is slower now; this is not a race. We can keep this up, no feat of endurance here, please, we are not heroes, not in any way, shape, and/or form; we can keep this up for hours, don't you think? The walls have gone silent, and all is silent save for the typing scritching screaming of words being born.

It's longer now from where we started; there need be no sense in this. I am not worrying; it is not in my nature to worry, though the walls have grown still beneath their breathing and the quiet threatens to break us all in two. there is no moonlight now; it was an illusion, bent over the backs of those who came before.

all work and no play makes me a dull girl; a dull gyre, winding falcon; we should stop channelling shakespeare and think on sleep; this is no seance, after all.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Song Call and Naruto musings

For all the good you say it does
It feels no better when you've had your say
You may believe it's just because
The words get colder when you've gone away
I thought I understand
What I was to you

I don't want to feel this way
I don't want to say I'm just a friend
I don't want to wait around here
'Cos you don't want to feel no pain again
We just lie about it
As we become shadows of ourselves

Some may fear committed lives
I sure am one of them without you
Does it come to you as some surprise
I laid the ground beneath to doubt you
Was it ever girl
Something you could hold

I don't want to feel this way
I don't want to say I'm just a friend
I don't want to wait around here
'Cos you don't want to feel no pain again
We just lie about it
As we become shadows of ourselves

I don't want to look away
I don't want to be the one denied
It ain't no fault of mine
Someone, somewhere told you lies
But we don't talk about it
We just become shadows of ourselves
- Duncan Sheik, "In the Absence of Sun"

I think Duncan Sheik makes up most of my Inner Kakashi soundtrack. When the guy does depressing, he does it damn well.

So, the newest KakaSasu challenge is AUs, right? And I'm thinking, "AUs, I like those, they're delicious like pie." Now, FFVI, in my head, gets the best AU ideas. The crazy Vegas roadtrip thing is still something I'd like to write, if it could only decide on how much angst and sex it wants to have. (Lots of both, I imagine.)

But now Naruto wants AUs. AUs everywhere, like babies, possibly including babies. And I'm not talking "OMG Naruto and every1 grows up and liek, have kids n stff," because I don't count those as AU.

No, in my head, the Naruto cast are all engaged in a reenactment of West Side Story. With dancing and everything. 'Cuz, you see, the Jets are like Konoha, right? And the Puerto Ricans are like Sound, so when Naruto finally asks Sasuke out, Sasuke puts on the pretty white dress and starts singing "I Feel Pretty," because it makes sense in my head, goddamnit. Only it doesn't, at all.

I have a fanart of Sasuke on my desktop- Sasuke with a lip ring, multiple ear piercings, a zoot suit, and a hat. This picture makes me want to write gay swingdance club fic with Kakashi, rolled up shirtsleeves, badly lit restaurant booths, and lots of cigarettes, for the sole reason that dancing Kakashi is amazingly hot. I'm getting my eras mixed up, of course; the zoot suits aren't swing, I don't think. They're more of a jazz kind of thing- but that works pretty damn well, too, in terms of hotness and people getting flustered in dark corners.

Those are just minor ideas that popped up for the purpose of Pretty, or Silly, and I'm not likely to ever write them. The idea that I'm much more likely to write would be the AU where Rin died to save Kakashi's life instead of Obito.

These bloody epic-style stories that Naruto keeps giving me all seem to come with their own working titles, which is kind of nice and kind of annoying at the same time. "A Little to the Left" is a little obscure, since it doesn't really have anything to do with the story- which is mostly just life being different with Obito still alive, up to and including Sasuke running off to join Orochimaru.

I don't normally do What-If stories, but I think I could maybe pull this one off if I kept it a one-shot.

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

Obito watched his younger cousin watching his best friend saunter away and grinned like his face was falling off. Sasuke had a stick up his ass, sure- he was from the main family, it was to be expected- but sometimes the kid was so damned cute, it hurt.

Sasuke looked up at his guardian, a sour expression on his face. "What're you so happy about?" He shouldered his bag and walked off, not waiting for Obito.

It took him a few moments to catch up; Sasuke was moving quickly, but no so quickly that Obito would risk hurting himself to keep up. The boy wasn't completely heartless, after all. Obito extracted his revenge by tripping Sasuke with a crutch. His cousin caught himself before he fell, but that was beside the point.

"You like him," Obito sang as they walked. "Sasuke-kun's got a cruuush!"

The look Sasuke gave him communicated more than words ever could- in this case, "I'm going to stab you in your sleep and fill our house with the sound of my maniacal laughter before going off to join my brother in whatever nefarious dealings he's currently engaged in."

Obito, though only a branch family member and something of a black sheep all his life, was still well versed in the Uchiha art of eye communication; he responded to Sasuke's glare with a serene look of his own that said, "You're so cute when you're huffy. And please remember that I was doing missions in a warzone before you were born and, one leg or no, I can still kick your ass in my sleep."

"I hate you," Sasuke deadpanned, then submitted to having his hair ruffled.

Obito grinned knowingly. "Don't worry. It's just Kakashi. Everyone gets a crush on him at some point or other. You'll get over it eventually."

They walked (limped) in silence a for a few blocks; Sasuke kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. "Did you?" he asked finally.

The elder Uchiha took a deep breath and looked up at the sky, not at all surprised by the question. "Of course. It's just Kakashi. He's a good person, really, just- well, you'll see what I mean eventually."

Sasuke seemed to accept that answer with the slightest dropping of his shoulders as he relaxed, just a little. He moved a little closer to his cousin as they walked, and began to talk softly about his first day of training.
------------------------

(For the record, Obito is straight like an amazingly straight thing. Hell, Jiraiya isn't even as straight as this kid. But Kakashi is a lot like Sasuke, and even straight people can't help themselves sometimes.)

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

"Sasuke has a crush on you," Obito muttered around his noodles.

Kakashi stiffened ever so slightly; a normal person wouldn't have noticed, but Obito was the local expert on understanding Hatake Kakashi. He was the last true master of a dying art, really; it was a lot of work for minimal results, and even if you were his best friend, Kakashi was still an asshole.

So any random passerby wouldn't have noticed the faint tension in the jounin's shoulders, or the way his fingers tightened imperceptibly around his sake cup, but Obito did. And Obito's powers of observation (irony of ironies), had only improved after he'd retired; he was a better shinobi now than when he'd actually worn a hitai-ate. He could read Kakashi just as easily as he read the lurid books they both enjoyed.

"He'll get over it," Kakashi whispered, downing his sake with lightning speed to prevent stray glimpses of his face.

"Yes." Obito deliberately set his chopsticks down beside his bowl and turned his full attention on his friend. "He will. Because he's twelve years old, Kakashi. And he's your student, and my little cousin."

Kakashi closed his visible eye and nodded slightly, throat bobbing against the fabric of his mask as he swallowed audibly. "I know."

"Good." Obito returned to shovelling noodles into his mouth. "Because I don't want to have to kick your ass later on just 'cuz you can't help being a pervert." The words were almost lost in his ramen. "And Sasuke-kun's not allowed to date 'til he's thirty, anyway."

If Kakashi blushed, no one noticed it but Obito.
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Yeah, so fourteen years does a lot to mellow him out, but Obito will always always be a spazz.

Friday, March 04, 2005

Death of Elaine

It's a shame the dark ages had no mailmen-
Look at Elaine, going to such lengths
to deliver a letter to her love.

Like most sleeping beauties, she seems
Likely to awaken at the slightest hubbub-
Rock the boat a bit,
And she'll spring right up.
"Stop rocking!" she'll cry
"Do you know how long it
Took to get my hair to fall just so?"
Then she'll notice the dank and dewy state
Of her apparel, and curse in a ladylike way.

Like most teenaged girls, she has a flair
For the dramatic.
She is used to getting what she wants;
You can see it in her smile, how
She is confident that Death is
Preferable to life with a broken heart
(never mind that broken hearts are known to mend).
Perhaps she is correct; death is elegant, genteel;
Heartache is mere indigestion.
What a way to go! Death by acid reflux-
At least she makes a pretty corpse.

Like most mysterious women,
She is surrounded by watery metaphors,
Bottomless wells and placid lakes.
Get up, you stupid girl.
It's not too late to find a
Mailman to send that letter,
Then steal a boat to Rio.
No one will know the difference-
Least of all that man
(And he told you he couldn't love you).
You could wait tables by the beach,
Sell seashells, get yourself a tan.

Find yourself a nice boy
(an artist, maybe, not a rough
and raucous Round Table man)
who will paint you all the
meaningless wells you want.

Oh, Elaine. Like most tragic heroines,
She won't be waking up, no matter how violently
You rock the boat.
-----------------------------------------

Inspired by the Tennyson poem and the Yoshitaka Amano painting on the same subject; Elaine was a girl who fell in love with Lancelot. He didn't love her back, she pined away, Guenevire found out about it and thought Lancelot was cheating on her and became the Bitch Harpy of Camelot, Lancelot got confused and upset, Elaine wrote a letter to the general populace explaining how Lancelot was too good and pure and blah blah blah, then she killed herself and had her family send her letter and her corpse to Camelot by way of a boat. Letter and corpse arrive, letter is read, Guenevire apologizes, general populace weeps, Lancelot remains confused.

The end.

Hands

(John the Baptist)
Holy water spills back into the baptismal font;
These hands are not God's: the world they hold is too small,
Too perfect.

(Dust to Dust)
A line of charcoal fills the space on the page.
Black dust fills the negative space
Between steady fingers, and leaves traces of itself
on everything I touch.

(Apprentice)
He introduced himself-
professional to student.
Callused, strong, infinitely gentle--
like shaking hands with a cloud.

(Against the wall)
One clenched fist- remember, keep the thumb outside
White knuckles flush red,
Crack--
But do not break.

(Unique and Special)
Thin black gloves glitter
with sharp and deadly snow,
each curve and line of your palm
cast bright and cold in refracted white.

(Pop Culture Strikes Back, Election 2004 Style)
Spider Jerusalem raises a hand for democracy:
"Have you got thumbs? Show me your fucking thumbs!"
Way to go, humanity- next time, leave the voting to the monkeys.

(Sign Language)
The words are not nearly as interesting
As the fluttering butterfly dance of her hands
that accompanies them.

(You Not Me)
A multitude of rings send off enough sparks to blind;
But one is conspicuously absent;
The finger closest to the heart is bare.

(Nerves)
Steady voices and bright smiles
Are betrayed by the spastic twitch
Of hands and well chewed fingernails

(Friendship)
The world is a narrow place,
but warm.
Your hand in mine; our hands together
and nothing else.
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This is slightly edited from the original; the order and the titles have been changed, and a few lines were removed. Yes, I did hand it in with the Spider Jerusalem there. In the final edit, I'll drop that one and replace it with something less idiotic and obscure- this whole poem is about obscurity, really.

The "finger closes to the heart" in You Not Me refers to the ring finger; in the Russian Orthodox Church, the wedding ring goes on the ring finger of the right hand, because it was believed that there was a vein that ran directly from the heart through that finger. It's another bit of obscurity, but I always thought it was a charming concept, and a neat image.

Much as I know it needs work, this is still my favorite piece of writing from this semester thusfar. I enjoy little fragmented poem-thoughts, and I still think the basic idea behind this mess is a good one.

February Contemplations: blank verse

The smell of February catches in
my lungs; a thick and cloying, clogging stench
that clings to clothing, skin and hair, until
you cough it up in rasping, wheezing gasps,
while runny noses bleed it out in long
and ropy strands of misery, sickness, and
disgust. The sky hangs heavy with the weight
of it, solemn, dismal, near to breaking.
If February had a taste it would
be bitter-sharp, I think, not crisp, but sour.
A biting taste that lingers on the tongue,
like sordid snow in shameless patches on
the street. Footprints in the slush all seem
to ask, what makes the shortest month so long--
Bad luck, or just bad breeding? Overlooked
beside the proper months, this stunted, strange
unwanted child still aches for recognition.
Even as March shoulders it aside,
this flavor- February- still remains.

Insomnia: word poem

Insomnia

sounds as though you've gotten in to
something though really you're just out--
of luck, or bed;
maybe your mind.
but you could be in, too, between
the sounds and sights that slip and slide--
they surround you-
or they seem to-
they're never really there at all.
there's nothing ever there at all
insomnia
is never so attractive as
when the night is tense and throbbing
like a blister
ready to pop.
you're left to stare at the ceiling,
to wonder if it's safe to shut
your eyes and sleep.
it never is,
or so you say when you breathe out;
when the first thing you breathe in is
insomnia.