The Revolution is Over: Who the hell are these people?

(Man, it's so weird seeing only two blogs on my profile; I'm so used to there being four or five...)

Cast thusfar:
Megin Falche
Marc Anthony
Spots MacDowell
Miryana "GHOST" MacDowell
Kyle Stroud
Eleanor Fetch
Matthias and Greymalkin

Eleanor Fetch is a greencard non-human, class three. As a class three, she is indistinguishable from a full human from fifty feet away when fully clothed; as a greencard, her modifications are genetic and biological, not cybernetic or neurological. Eleanor was part of an experimental military biokinetics program in Havensec's research and development sector. The experiment went remarkably well; the modifications they were testing are now availible to certain branches of the security forces.

Eleanor has had all of her senses enhanced, and her skin now has the consistency of very tough, thick leather. The body armor covers her entire body from the neck down, excepting the palms of her hands. She can't feel very much through the altered skin, but her hands are exceptionally sensitive.

She had her auditory and olfactory enhancements removed a few months after the program ended; they simply interfered with her every day life too much. She still has extrememly sensitive hands and very keen eyesight; her taste enhancements were diminished when she had the olfactory ones removed, but she can do the Benton Fraser taste test with the greatest of ease, regardless. *stabs self for excessive geekery*

Her armored skin is a dark olive color; from the neck up, she is incredibly pale- standard redhead complexion.

The problem with R&D projects is that they really don't pay well, and they severely reduce your chances of getting employed in another division- unless you want a job in Hospitality, but no one wants a job in Hospitality. Particularly not freaks of nature like Fetch; they have departments for people like her in Hospitality, and it's not a pretty thing. You don't work for Hospitality unless you have no other choice; R&D is still a step up from Hospitality- if you catch a deadly disease and die from it in R&D, at least you'll know your body will be cut up and catalogued for future research. When you die of some horrible disease in Hospitality, they ship your corpse out of South Gate to feed the sea monsters.

Unfortunately for Eleanor, her R&D stipend has run out, and she can't get a legit job anywhere else with a greencard.

...er, by the way, I'm not doing Bird in the Hand for Nano this year. I figure it's about time I wrote TRIO; I'm in something of a revolutionary mood.

Song call- Sean Watkins, "Let It Fall"

http://s37.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=17ADQWRCMNYX734ZKXAWOS7LFP .wma format, I'm afraid. But most things will play it, so whatever.

So, continuing with today's theme of waaaaangst, I love this song. I love this song so much, I can't stop listening to it. Whenever I put on the CD, I have to pause and replay track two at least five times before I can move on to the rest of the album. No lie. I just listened to it for about an hour straight, and it's not much longer than three minutes. I love this song. In case you couldn't tell, I'm a little bit obsessed with Autumn, and this is my theme song for the months of October and November. Unlike most halfway moody music, "Let It Fall" always makes me feel better after listening to it, which is good, because I can't stop.

Lyrics:

Hey look, I'm not weighed down
As I walk through
The glowing wheat fields churning on the ground
As all the ravens fly away
They leave nothing
But the sun and endless blue day

I always knew I felt this way
But couldn't find the time to say
To myself I've got to let it go
Through all the joy and all the pain
With the drought and the rain
The honest truth is all I want to know

Let it fall
Let go

My kingdom's walls have fallen down
But I know that
I don't wear an undeserved crown
And though it seemed to fit me well
Underneath it
I would certainly fall down

Last summer we left things unsaid
That should be now a long time dead
And now it seems that time has put it well
The words can chase away a friend
But to a lie they'll bring an end
And throw it down the darkest, deepest well

Let it fall
Let go

Let it fall
Let go

Let it fall
Let go

Let it fall
Let go
-Sean Watkins, "Let It Fall"

Why sestinas, even incomplete ones, should not be written in fifteen minutes or less.

Poorly planned and unedited poetry spam/babble/free thought, get it while it's hot.
--

The trees put on their festive garb
to hide the way they fester in the cold,
And acorns launch at suicide speeds
to pelt scarf-wrapped pedestrians.
They litter the ground, their pulverized
remains subject to the autopsies of squirrels.
This is Autumn, the time of dying and denial
and change.

----
It's that time again, when the wind breaks
cold over treetops that have begun to change
into new colors, putting on their bright autumn
fashions, trying out the latest perfume scents:
Eau de Morte Arboris or something like that
Maybe it's me; I don't know how the trees can be so

Cheeful at a time like this. Everything feels so
blank and bleak and brittle; everything breaks
at the slightest provocation. I think that
we should try fixing things for a change,
but thoughts like those are just nonsense.
Nothing really matters when you're drowning in autum.

Which isn't to say that I don't like autumn;
as seasons go, I like it just fine. So
maybe I think the dead-leaves-and-rot incense
smell is cloying; them's the breaks,
as they say. The world won't change
for me, and I can appreciate things that

hold to their convictions. I just wish that
that there were something more to autumn
than death and monumental, world-shaking change.
Or maybe something less- this season doesn't need so
much drama. Don't you think? Heart breaks
are bad enough on their own, without this sense

of soul crushing solemnity, this heavy sense
of slowing time. There are Greek tragedies that
feel more upbeat. This is the season that breaks
the camels back, so to speak. This is autumn:
season of rain, season of blood. Why are we so
enamored of this misery? Any attempts at chage

are met with further misery. We cannot change
the falling of the leaves, nor the dark scent
of rot that pervades the air. These things are so
beyond us, we might as well give up. That's
the way it goes- time to surrender. Autumn
stands victorious, and we are simply broken.

Random Naruto ranting

It's time for a random fandom mini-rant!

Fandom: stop bastardizing Hyuuga Hiashi. I know, I know, he's already something of a bastard in canon. But he's not that much of a bastard. Go read the chapter where he apologizes to Neji and gets down on his knees to beg forgiveness. He loved his brother. He loves his family. He's a slave to politics, and a traditionalist, but he's not a completely irredemable monster. He's incredibly human, so stop writing him like he's the Wicked Witch of the West.

In non-mini-ranty news, I just joined 3measures and signed up to do Naruto/Gaara/Sasuke. Why? Because I'm clearly on crack, but hopefully it'll give me an excuse to think in terms of Blindsided again. I can blame my lack of inspiration on the general sucking of the manga, but that would just be fishing for lame excuses.

Meh. Lots of meh, really. I doubt my situation will improve any over the next few weeks; there are few things I hate worse than funerals.

I'm starting a list.

Phrases I shall never use again:

"startling contrast"
"stark contrast"
"______ contrast"

I never realized how fucking annoying that phrase was before; I use it all the time. *stabs English language with fork* If that contrast isn't actually startling, you've no cause to be saying it is. If you're eyes are bleeding as a direct result of that contrast then yes, you might refer to it as "startling" or "shocking." If not- well, who gives a shit?

My creative writing class is going to be the death of me. I'd post assignments, but they've all been so bloody boring, there is no point.

I'll post other phrases as I come across them. (And also? One of those last entries totally doesn't exist. *pokes Blogger* Come on, biznatch. Behave.)

Poem Call: Amiri Baraka

In Memory of Radio

Who has ever stopped to think of the divinity of Lamont Cranston?
(Only jack Kerouac, that I know of: & me.
The rest of you probably had on WCBS and Kate Smith,
Or something equally unattractive.)

What can I say?
It is better to haved loved and lost
Than to put linoleum in your living rooms?

Am I a sage or something?
Mandrake's hypnotic gesture of the week?
(Remember, I do not have the healing powers of Oral Roberts...
I cannot, like F. J. Sheen, tell you how to get saved & rich!
I cannot even order you to the gaschamber satori like Hitler or Goddy Knight)

& love is an evil word.
Turn it backwards/see, see what I mean?
An evol word. & besides
who understands it?
I certainly wouldn't like to go out on that kind of limb.

Saturday mornings we listened to the Red Lantern & his undersea folk.
At 11, Let's Pretend
& we did
& I, the poet, still do. Thank God!

What was it he used to say (after the transformation when he was safe
& invisible & the unbelievers couldn't throw stones?) "Heh, heh, heh.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows."

O, yes he does
O, yes he does
An evil word it is,
This Love.
-Amiri Baraka

A few years ago, Baraka was made the Poet Laureate of New Jersey; when he published a poem criticizing the government's reaction to 9-11, he was removed from the position. It upset my creative writing teacher at the time- a man who, despite being largely ineffectual as a teacher, helped me keep myself from falling apart for the first half of that year. So I have a fondness for Amiri Baraka that has nothing to do with his poetry, as I've read very little of it.

I think I'll have to remedy that, particularly in regards to his earlier work.

Dove and the Valentines; a scene, maybe

*eats bloated prose, spits out bones*
--

It had been slow afternoon at the gas station; already, the sun was turning blood-orange red on the horizon. The few men standing outside the convenience store, smoking and laughing, were the only signs of life Dove had seen all day. He watched the wind kick up dust devils in the unpaved parking lot, and tried not to fall asleep beside the pump.

He heard the basso rumble of the engine before he saw it appear on the horizon like a mirage. It pulled into the parking lot and the engine cut, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in its wake. For a moment, Dove thought the chorus of wolf whistles from the entrance to the Quik-E-Mart was directed towards the car- but then he caught sight of the pair of legs stepping out of said car. The woman walked- strutted, really, since stilletos didn't give many other options- into the convenience store. The men outside didn't bother stubbing out their cigarettes; half a dozen butts fell to the ground, still smoking, as they hurried after her.

Dove was alone in the tiny parking lot with the car. He circled it slowly, taking the time to appreciate the gleam of the chrome. Nevada plates; she'd come a long way. And she was in pristine condition, with the original paint job and not a single scratch- a rare find on a beast that old.

"Please do not touch the car. Bad enough that there is dust from the road, but if you were to leave handprints, I would be forced to remove them, both from the car and from your hands," a sharp, faintly accented voice snapped. The passenger side window had rolled down without a sound.

Dove looked down at his hand, hovering half an inch from the gleaming , Emperor Blue surface of the car, then up at the woman resting her elbow in the window. She smiled and lifted her arm so he could better see the switchblade she was casually flicking open and shut. He put his hand in his pocket.

"Sixty-eight Cadillac Deville. Not often you see one in this kind of condition, especially not on the road." He put a little sigh in his voice, even though he knew it made him sound about twelve. He'd been stuck in one place for too long, and the Deville, with its Nevada plates and gleaming chrome, was reviving his wanderlust with a vengeance. "If you're going to travel, you might as well do it properly."

"What do you know of travel, eh?" The switchblade glittered in the heavy afternoon sunlight.

"I get around." He shrugged. "When I get my feet back under me, I'm going to get a bike and head south. Baton Rouge, New Orleans. Then maybe on to Talahassee, or Savannah. I'll figure it out when I get there." He took a step back and surveyed the car once more. "But I'll admit, I've never travelled in one of these before. Driven some pretty classy stuff, but this- looks like you just drove it off the lot. Amazing."

"Cabiria takes good care of her baby. But what do I know about cars? Nothing. I just navigate, when navigating is needed." She extended a hand. "You seem like less of an idiot than most. My name is Sabatieni."

"Dove." She had a firm handshake, and her nails were painted black. She smiled again when he let go.

"You have good hands. I am glad I do not have to ruin them."

He cocked his head to the side. "Would you have used the knife?" he asked.

"Sulphuric acid in the back. But if that did not do the job, there is a bonesaw in the trunk," she replied without hesitation, as though it wouldn't have occurred to her to lie. "You are lucky Cabiria did not see you about to touch the car; she would not have warned you, and she is more protective of her machine than I am."

Dove decided he liked these women.

Sometimes I'm an idiot.

So, I get paranoid about stupid things, like locking my car or turning off the stove. It's generally baseless paranoia, but I'll still turn around and drive home to make sure I unplugged the iron before going to work. Early this morning, I was doing my creative writing assignment, and I usually get distracted from writing assignments to write bits of fic. No big deal, happens all the time. I don't usually write my fic in the same text file as my homework, but I was inspired and I didn't have the appropriate text file open at the time.

Anyway, I got to sleep rather late last night; I got up this morning in a daze and printed out my assignment in the computer lab and went off to class. And now I'm back from class, and I have creative writing in about an hour, and it suddenly occurs to me that I was writing very vaguely porny sandcest at the bottom of my homework assignment.

And for a minute there, I could not remember whether or not the whole text file got printed, and whether or not I'd handed in a few paragraphs of vaguely porny gay incest along with my actual assignment. (To be fair, the actual assignment was to write a brief romance scene, but I doubt Kankurou being amazingly creepy qualifies.)

I didn't. I know I didn't. I am 95% sure I didn't. I would've noticed if the paper was too long- it was a short assignment. But that last five percent...*whimper*

*headwall* Gah. Just- gah.

Bird in the Hand

"Are you alright, Dove?" Sabatieni leaned against the door of his Mercedes and lit a cigarette. "You look a bit pale."

"I'm dying," he croaked.

"What's that?" Cabiria pulled the spare tire out of the trunk and propped it against the side of the car.

"He says he's dying." Sabatieni exhaled a long stream of smoke.

"Is that so?" Cabiria pulled a ratchet out of her pocket and set about removing the flat tire.

"I'm dying of dripping misery, and that's all you've got to say?" Dove slid further down in the driver's seat and shivered. "How insensitive are you?"

"How much longer does he think he's got? We could sell his kidneys." Cabiria set down the ratchett and looked up at her sister thoughtfully. "Or not. Did he say what was dripping?"

"He didn't. But I imagine he'll still have a few useful organs, even if he is dripping from unconventional places."

"I hate you both." This statement was followed by a massive sneeze, and a stream of miserable sniffling.

Sabatieni stared off into the distance while she smoked, and Cabiria hummed softly under her breath as she fixed the flat.
--

Bird in the Hand is the title of this year's Nanonovel. They're worth two in the bush, you see. And it's figurative and shit, because I've got a character named Dove, and two other characters who come as a pair. See? Symbolism. Or something.

I've got three or four characters, five if you count the car. I've got no plot, no conflict, no purpose- just two women, a car, a young man on a vespa, and a girl who may or may not be a cat.

Cabiria and Sabatieni Valentine
Date of Birth: January 12, 1963
Place of Birth: Milan, Italy
Age: 42
Height: 5'8"
eyes: dark brown
hair: dark brown
Place of Residence: unknown

The Valentine Sisters are identical twins; the easiest way to tell them apart is by their clothing. Cabiria tends to wear yellow accents and bold patterns, while Sabatieni is more of a dark blue and violet sort of person. If they aren't wearing any clothing, Cabiria is the one with the c-section scar.

Sabatieni is also the quieter, calmer one, though neither sister is especially loud or talkative, nor are they particularly volatile unless provoked. Sabatieni, however, will warn you when you annoy her; Cabiria is more likely to resort to immediate violence. She doesn't take shit from anyone, on any account, while Sabatieni is a bit more laid back.

Both of them are rather low key people, though; they keep to themselves and only interact with other human beings as necessary. The only real friends they have are Dove and a few mechanics in the midwest.

They more or less live in their car, a 1968 Cadillac Deville sedan. (At the moment, I think it's Caribe Aqua, but it might be Emperor Blue, if the Deville came in that color.) They can pull this off because, as you can possibly see from those pictures, the Deville is not a car- it is, in fact, a landship. It's Cabiria's baby; Sabatieni navigates, Cabiria drives, and together, the three of them wreak havoc.

The car has a name, I just don't know what it is yet.

The twins are in the arson and waste disposal business, which is just a slightly more professional way of saying "terrorists." They take commissions for massive property damage, but they also take commissions to dispose of bodies. They do not, however, take hostages or kill people. The job pays quite well- well enough for them to keep the car in perfect condition, which is all they really need.

The car is rather distinctive, but they've got friends in high places; they've been in the business for a long time and know just how to keep from being noticed.

They meet up with Dove at random as they travel; they don't know much about him, but they like him anyway- he knows how to appreciate a proper car, even if he can't keep a car of his own for more than a week.

Maeve works her way into the story somehow; I think she might be Cabiria's daughter, but I'm not sure. She's an assassin, who either gets hired to kill Dove or the Valentine sisters. The beginnings of my plot are wrapped up in her existence, but I know nothing about her. She looks a lot like Cabiria, but with a slightly rounder face and lighter hair (she looks nothing like Sabatieni), and I think she may be full of rage.

The story is primarily a roadtrip story; I'll need to do a lot of research on cars and interstate highways and cities in the midwest. This reduces my chances of finishing it drastically, but I imagine whatever I do write will be fun. This is going to be a story with very little angst- just fancy cars, fast women, and big explosions. My favorite kind of story. :) It'll be a complete and utter turnabout from Stella Matin. Huzzah for that, yo.

*whimper*

In honor of having just finished watching the first season of Dr Who (with the ninth doctor, y'know), I'm going to sit here and make incoherent babbling noises for a while.

*gibber*

...*gibber*

...

...and also, *gibber*

I don't entirely approve of the way they treat paradox and time travel in the show (but I never do; I have yet to see anything handle time travel properly), but dear god, the characters are amazing. Amazing. One might even call them fantastic. If one were being a horrible twitty little fangirl, that is.

Barbara is patting me on the knee, since she and Gill just had to sit through me doing one of my prologued "AAAHHHH....ahhhhh..." faces. Sounds kind of like an orgasm when I write it that way, now that I think about it. More or less appropriate, really.

If they don't bring John Barrowman back in the next season, I will be very cross. Although given the new face of the Doctor, it'll just be kind of creepy to see him flirting with the man. 0_o Christopher Eccleston is three years older than John Barrowman; David Tennant is four years younger, and looks about twelve to begin with. Sort of like he just hit puberty, really.

(The reason this entry may sound slightly...distracted is because I'm not entirely accustomed to writing while someone is reading over my shoulder. I have to take into account my audience, you see. Well, I feel vaguely distracted, but that's possibly because I'm trying to picture Captain Jack's reaction to the new Doctor, and it's coming up all sorts of ridiculous in my head. Lots of 0_o faces. And a few -_- as well.)

But yes, Dr Who. Amazing. Delightful. Fantastic. British. And with really, really wonderful characters; one of those rare shows where I like everyone, and don't even obsess over pairings. (That? That was a lie. Such a lie. And the Doctor may be totally asexual, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't watch. And Jack and Rose are cute together. :P And now I've broken Barbara's brain. My work here is done!) It's just. So. Cool. Even with the B movie special effects and the occasional cheesy lines, there's a definite sense of history and continuity and more backstory than you can shake a stick at, which I love. And it's quirky and adorable and funny and sexy and occasionally the plotlines are predictable, but they're almost always creepy. It has zombies! And evil robotic salt shakers! And canon bisexual mansluts! And frozen cubes of vomit!

And all of time and space wrapped up in a little blue box. (Watch out for the big, bad wolf.) The season ending was just so, so, so, so amazing. It would have been a deus ex in a big way, but the whole season was setting up for it, so it was just a deus ex in a minor way- and it opens up a whole realm of possibilities, endless, beautiful possibilities. I'm in such a state of overwhelming joy right now- it's that feeling you get when you read or watch or experience something that hits that perfect, resonant chord of rightness in you.

Beautiful. I could probably blame my babbling on a lack of sleep, an excess of chocolate, and the fact that we just watched six episodes back to back. But oh, joyousness.

Now I need to talk about my nano novel, since I think I'm being pulled into that mess again. So much to plot, so little time...

I'm not writing this. I'm *not*. Look, this is me not writing this.

Augh, getitoutgetitoutgetitout. S'not finished, and it derailed itself in the middle, but it won't leave me alone and I need to procrastinate, so! Have some fic-like stuff. (This title, like the last drabble title, came straight off my playlist.)

Human After All
------

Sasuke knew Konoha would send a retrieval party after him once word of Itachi's death reached Fire Country, so it came as no surprise to him when he suddenly found himself surrounded by four squads of ANBU on the road travelling west from Wave Country.

He was a little surprised to see so many ANBU but hesupposed that with the deaths of two S ranked criminals to his name, he rated more serious firepower than a couple of genin this time around. Sasuke smirked. It was about time someone acknowledged how powerful he was.

The smirk fell off his face in an instant when Naruto stepped out of the trees, burning with demon fire and baring teeth sharp enough to put a wolf to shame; Sasuke realized, as Naruto broke his jaw with a glancing blow, that he wasn't the one who rated four squads of ANBU.

--

The first thing he noticed when he regained consciousness was that his injuries had been tended to and his chakra had been sealed almost completely. He was also blindfolded, wearing a full body straightjacket, and chained to a wall. The air smelled like disinfectant; he was in a hospital of some sort.

"Are you awake now, Sasuke-kun?" a quiet voice came from his left.

"Sakura?" He turned his head in her direction. It had been years since he'd heard his teammate's voice, but that particular inflection on his name was hard to mistake. "What happened? Where am I?"

"Keep your voice down, Sasuke-kun; Naruto's in the next cell over, and we only just got him to sleep. You're in the second basement of the hospital. I'll go let Tsunade-shishou know you're awake."

It wasn't until her footsteps had died away completely that he remembered what the second basement was for; it was something Iruka-sensei had mentioned in passing at the Academy, but Sasuke had never had any cause to recall it before.

The first basement of the hospital housed the morgue and the medical storage rooms; the second basement was reserved for the criminally insane.

--

Tsunade removed his blindfold, but left him bound and chained to the wall. Shizune and Sakura stood outside his cell, observing.

"Orochimaru is dead?"

"Yes."

"And Itachi?"

"Dead."

"Their bodies?"

"Disposed of."

She narrowed her eyes at him; he glared right back. "We searched through your posessions."

He didn't respond, but he could feel the blood drain from his face.

"If you disposed of your brother's body, why were you travelling with his eyes in your backpack?" She held up a small jar; Itachi's eyes, still glaring sharingan-red, floated peacefully in yellowish liquid.

He could have told her that his reasons were perfectly legitimate- that the Uchiha, much like the Hyuuga, had an obligation to their bloodline. Sharingan eyes belonged to the clan, not the individual; Sasuke was all that was left of the clan, so Itachi's eyes belonged to him. The only place to properly dispose of them would be in the hidden basement of the Nakano Temple.

Or he could have told her the truth- that he hadn't had a restful night's sleep since his family was murdered, but once he started sleeping with that little jar under his pillow, he slept like the dead every night.

Instead, he gave her his best haughty glare, and said nothing.

Tsunade smiled a hard, brittle smile, and tucked the jar into her pocket. "Have it your way, Sasuke." The door to his cell slammed shut behind her.

Sakura gave him an unreadable look before following after the Hokage. Sasuke almost wanted to call her back and apologize, but he didn't know why.

-

"Hey, bastard."

"..." Naruto's voice pulled him out of a doze; the wall between them did very little to hinder conversation. He wasn't in the mood to listen to his inmate's chatter, though.

"Come on, I know you're awake. I can hear you- man, even your breathing sounds stuck up."

"What do you want, moron?"

"Hey! This moron kicked your ass, asshole!"

Sasuke tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. He supposed this was some cruel joke of karma; trapped in a white room with nothing to occupy him but the sound of Naruto's voice. "Yeah, and look where that got both of us."

"Look where it got you, you mean- I was gonna end up down here anyway. Tsunade-baba thinks fighting you set off the stupid fox, but it would've happened on its own. If you hadn't been so easy to track down, I wouldn't have found you before those ANBU had to take me down. Sucks to be you, asshole!"

Sasuke remembered that terrifying chakra and those teeth, and thought privately that the ANBU had waited a little too long. "When I get out of here, I'm going to kill you for this."

"Yeah, right. Like you could." Naruto's laughter set Sasuke's teeth on edge and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "Like anyone could."

He didn't stop laughing until the guards came with a medic nin to sedate him at feeding time; the sound of it kept echoing in Sasuke's skull long after they silenced him.

-

Sasuke counted hours by listening for the changing of the guard and counting heartbeats in between feeding periods; he measured days by the madness of the nine tailed fox.

(more stuff goes here)
----------------------------

Gawd, I'm a crappy angst whore. (Next thing I post will be pointless NaruGaara fluff, in honor of the latest manga chapters, I swear.) It's probably not entirely clear what happened from this bit, and it's far from finished- but I'm totally not with the coherent right now. I don't know that I want to finish it, either; the ending's a total cop out, but some of the scenes I haven't written make me very happy in my head. I can't quite pinpoint what it is about the idea of Sasuke and Naruto slowly going insane side by side that's so compelling, but the story has been stuck in my head for a week now. (I think what I'm actually trying to do is rewrite Sorrows and Rejoicings; note to self: borrow someone's kanji dictionary.)

Somehow, Sasuke has become my favorite character. This upsets me- I mean, Sasuke? Ew. I feel kind of dirty. But there's something about characters who lack self awareness that makes them incredibly fun narrators; I don't actually like reading about Sasuke, but I enjoy writing him.

scattered thoughts (like leaves, yo)

It seems the two halves of my self keep mixing in odd ways; the poetic beauty of trigonometry, for instance, or the sky changing over time as a function of geese flying south for the winter.

The wind has turned, and there is autumn in my veins, rushing through every piece of me, beating out the rythm of raindrops on leaves in my heartbeat, in the stutter of my breath at the sight of mist rising up from the ground. This is the changing time, the turning time, when every day brings something new and different to place before you as an offering.

October is too early for November, but autumn is the season of blood nonetheless; skin cracks and yields to the wind and the damp, and sores spring up like mushrooms in the ragged, half exposed corners of the body. It is a time for metamorphosis, for shedding our walls and leaving ourselves bare to the elements.

The air is heavy with the scent of decay, but olfactory memory associates it with new beginnings. So many things start with autumn, born out of the dying time as the year begins its swift slide into December.

This is the transition time, the moving time; it follows after the still, static summer with its wind and rain and falling leaves.

We too shall fall, subject to gravity and the inexorable weight of time. Our colors are always brightest when we fall, when we flutter, when we die.

(If November is the month of blood, surely October is the month of Glory.)

Once more, with feeling: "Paint"

Art, yo.

Fanart, implicit Temari/Kankurou. (I only ever like het pairings when the woman tops, interestingly enough. Manji/Rin may be the only exception to this...)

That image has been stuck in my head for months, you know. It was originally supposed to be Temari fixing Kankurou's facepaint after the Sasori mess...but now she's fixing it after messing it up herself. I'll leave the idea of what she did to smudge it up to the imagination for the time being; I'm not yet skilled enough with anatomy to attempt to draw that. Might write it, someday. Dunno yet.

Facial markings are my favorite kind of body art; my reasons for loving Kankurou are almost entirely shallow, fangirly ones. I had far too much fun drawing and coloring his face.

song call- Fall Out Boy, "Of All the Gin Joints in the World"

You only hold me up like this
Cause you don't know who I really am
Sometimes I just want to know what it's like to be you
We're making out inside crashed cars
We're sleeping through all our memories
I used to waste my time dreaming of being alive (now I only waste it dreaming of you)

Turn off the lights and turn off the shyness
Cause all of our moves make up for the silence
And oh, the way your makeup stains my pillowcase
Like I'll never be the same

You only hold me up like this
Cause you don't know who I really am
I used to waste my time on
Waste my time on
Waste my time dreaming of being alive (now I only waste it dreaming of you)

Turn off the lights and turn off the shyness
Cause all of our moves make up for the silence
And oh, the way your makeup stains my pillowcase
Like I'll never be the same

I've got headaches and bad luck but they couldn't touch you, no
I've got headaches and bad luck but they couldn't touch you, no
I'm not trying
You only hold me up like this

Turn off the lights and turn off the shyness
Cause all of our moves make up for the silence
And oh, the way your makeup stains
Like I'll never be the same
-Fall Out Boy, "Of All the Gin Joints in the World"

I've recently become obsessed with this song, and I have no idea why. But it's been stuck in my head for the last few days, and I just want to blast it from my speakers on a loop, all day long.

In other news, Blade of the Immortal roxxors my boxxors, yo. Manji is the biggest badass on the block, and I adore him. Love the minor characters, too- Master Sori, especially, and Magatsu. And Hyakurin and Makie, and Shira and- hell, I even like Rin. The only important person I'm not overly fond of is Anotsu, but he's growing on me.

Mmm, zombie samurai. Tasty!

Thoughts (are screaming) Thoughts keep coming (DOWN)

Free Thought: It Burns

In the manner of tradition, we must begin as we began all those years ago, in the back row of a room full of men and women and people not yet begun to be who they must become. To wit: adolescents, frustrated inflated devalued unloved angry and too smart in a room, a little room in a hotel where death first hit the wall
SPLAT
and then we were off, too much caffeine, and it begins (but it didn't begin then, it began sooner; is this to be my history then, the history of nonsense and violence and anger and confusion, of lounge room lizards and molestable stage boys, of Shao Kai and Jensy and Makella and me, little me, caught up in the lives of people too much in the sun and too much more than I could ever hope to be it was then, New York, 2000, in the March, the gloomy March, time marching on in the United Nations representative from Mexico's office, the man who said the US was missing the forest for the goddamn trees, who said it wasn't torture, because who sponsors torture? No one, that's who, it just happens, happenstance unlucky chance, those poor, poor people, what a shame, but we can't do a damn thing about it, not here, not now)

Now there's the history: Free Thought, thar she blows, burning burning, burning down, burning it all down to the ground- we were meatballs and meatheads nothing but brainmeats in the brainpan- looks like stirfry tonight.
So:
Traditionally, it begins thus, and so:
All work and no play makes V a dull girl all work and no play and no one to stay makes V a dull girl makes me a dull girl makes me something tarnished and un-shiny not good double plus perhaps, extra large extra fast extraordinary but so much less than ordinary is this what we are? Is this what we will be when tenses break down and time dissolves, when the end of the world is nigh and we're all left behind to our own little worlds, our little miserable planetary alignment: chaotic, neutral, good/bad yes/no, maybe? I'll take The Remedy for three hundred Alex, and make it snappy, cappy- pulling a cuppy and why does it all just go back to highschool in the end? Were these really the best days of our lives, carefree and footloose foot lost, lost my feet and heaven won't help won't help anyone because heaven helps those that help themselves.
Thus. And so:
Who will you be? Who will you be when the wind blows down, blowing down low on the door to your heart, knocking it down? Who will stand at the doorway when there's nothing left- will you be who you want to be at that time, reduced to nothing in a melting pot of thought and experience, delirious with possibility? Will we be left out in the cold while the wind warms itself on the fires of our souls? 'Tis human nature to seek out warmth, but what is human?

We are nothing more than our love for ourselves; beyond that, what else is there? We could be dreams we could be beans a new source of fiber for the universal intestinal tract, just passing through, pay us no mind. We could be nothing more than the prelude to a sneeze, something squeezing past the lungs of some great wheezing beast, the world creature capturing us all in its ineffable airways.

I would rather be a sneeze (not a pair of claws, ragged or otherwise) than a person if that's to be my end. I'll be the wind itself, you'll never catch me in your cathartic crescendo. (SLAM BANG CHORD- look it up, it's there; I once thought the universe was a symphony orchestra, building to that ultimate climax: six octaves of C Major, enough to resonate even the biggest Megauniversity on the coast.)

The worlds follow and I am left behind- is this misery even my own? What right have I to say that things must be thus, and so, and so, and thus and however I may choose? What right have you, my dear, oh, my dear do you not understand how you have left me here? Left me with the rage and the hate and the overused song lyrics that say so little with so many words. We're not worth this much; this isn't nonsense, this is wretchedness, a break in tradition.

It was the caffeine, the second time, and a desperate need for love to spring out of the hatred that consumed every part of me that was not lost and alone. The first time it was weariness, and a notepad and love- ever since then, I've lost track, lost track of who I am and where I'm going left with nothing-
But this overwhelming sentiment. Excuse me, my melodrama needs purging, please don't mind me, do you see? Don't mind me, this is the clara paciscor, the last chance for a ticket out of here.
Don't mind me, I've always been a little crazy- and if I were her, I'd say that like it really was a bad thing, because it is. It is when you let it devour you, like so many have.

We are nothing. Poets and prosists have come up with a better end to that line, but I am neither, I am not even a thinker; call this thought? No, not thought, merely words, which are nothing more than mispelled worlds, spinning in infinity (hey, halleluia) because in the beginning, was there not nothing more?

We are the Word, then, and the Word was God and Thought and all else that Groks and can hold love in itself, hold it like something fragile and precious. It isn't- not love, it's hardy stuff- but even the toughest among us can appreciate a little tenderness.

Who will you be when the wind blows down your door? I thought it was the music once, the transcendental chord from which all other sounds began- but after all other sounds have sounded, what will there be left to hear? Will we hear the heartbeat of the universe, echoing through worlds, worlds? Or will the silence wrap us in featherdown and broken glass, so gently, gently?

Soft, soft, what sounds from yonder keyboard break? 'Tis the sound of a mind left in stasis, in anger and rage. Where's the productivity in this, you ask? Where is the freedom? Traditionally, that's what it was- a freedom from thought, a freedom from that little room of highschool students arguing the democratic process to death.

The South Shall Rise Again, thank y'all kindly. A crime is a crime is a crime is a crime, said my good friend, Gertrude Stein! But she knows that I go to the ol' duex magot to drink pernot through the night. In the end we can be song lyrics, snatches of phrases, but you might never get it at this rate; typing a mile a minute three billion kilometers a second, give or take an order of magnitude order of the rose, the rose, oh jezebel from Israel, does it always go back to you? Aeria Gloris, gaudete, gaudete- there's your Latin moment for the day, lost in the unrush of the house of tom bombadil (and you'd never guess winamp was responsible- at the beginning of everything, what are we but music?) old tom bombadilo! there's your sam for you, always the coolest person in the group, even when he's just half an assassin and nothing more than an ass-
least we're not making mountains out of molehills, ladder legs, adder legs- but adders don't got no legs, asmodeus, my dear (still don't get it? you're not trying hard enough!) Where will you be when the black wind howls down your door, down the floor on the floor heads down thumbs up it's not seven up it's mountain dew! I attack the darkness- I dreamt I was a moron, you see, but you may never get it (I am not a pickel this time, nor a walrus, though I might be a meatball- maybe a lion, too) we might be the Knights of the Round Table but it's a square wave all around and I won't integrate it for you- round to round but square to triangle and back again it's all circles in the end
Good shapes, circles- some of my best friends are circles, even if a few of them are angry- this calls for Violence Type B: hitting things with other things.
BAM BAM BAM
Sorry, coudn't hear you over the beating of my heart (be still, be still!) ring around the rosy, the posy ain't the plague, no not this time (never gonna get it) there is no spoon here, not what you're looking for- it won't do you any good for cutting out hearts nor eyes nor claws- and what was that? Nothing here but us KhiKKens, waiting for Kompression into something smaller and colder than what we are; this sucession of witches will end some day (break the chain) (of queens, you bloody faggot)
And then the song changes, spinning, spinning- sound like angels, drawn out into threads, into thread, chewing through all that is organic and changing and alive- dynamic entry! The internet is for porn,after all (and you still. don't. get it.)

But that's okay. I don't expect you to ( I might expect it from the other guy, but never you, never you, it's blue dabadee and never mind you that I thought Cher was a man, there's life after everything) Right normal people? ...nevermind (me), we don't much care about that. This is the afterlife, tangerine shag carpeting and everything. What more do we need? Not six years too late, nor too early, neither- right on time. No past, no present (right here, right here, not a gift but something better), just the future, for ever and ever and ever Amen.

The day is ended. Go in peace.

Turn off the lights and turn off the radio- you'll make it home in the end.
(We are all just dreamers on a sea of infinite possibility, finding our way home.)

We could just waste our lives living a cliche, and there's no shame in it, no blame in it- we can only do what we were meant to do (with a rock to wind a string around, whistling in the dark for nothing more an nothing less than minimum wage: Anzani!) and obey those happy cliches on t-shirts:

Be as you are. (For ever and ever, amen.)