tsubame: (wings)
Saturday, February 11th, 2012 02:33 pm

The problem with all of these competing Internet services is that they tend to divert you for the shear ease of usage. Actually writing an LJ entry actually takes some devotion, some thought . . . not much, but even so. And so people don't, because it's easier to put a shorter entry elsewhere, and so there's less reason to come to LJ in the first place, which means you end up not updating as much and . . . vicious circle.

But the fact remains that, while other services might be more convenient, LJ still reigns when it comes to having coherent and meaningful and in-depth conversations with people . . . when there are posts to comment on, that is. And when people actually comment. Granted I'm no model as far as that's concerned.

The thing that's been eating up large amounts of my spare time these days is Tumblr; mine is over here, if you're curious. I occasionally write brief pieces inspired by the pictures that I post. Not often, but occasionally.

LJ, however, remains the most convenient place for posting writing, especially as so much of mine is not in a finished form that might qualify it for a place like AO3. Et alors!

xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx

"I thought you might be one of those people. You know. Proselyte-ing-y ones."

She shook her head. "I have two religions, one for my head and one for my heart. Science--" she tapped her temple, "--and poetry." She laid her hand on her breast. "Neither has any particular need to evangelize."

xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx

'Do you want your receipt?'

'You may keep it. Consider it a gift from my heart to yours. I don't know what it says about my heart, that it produces cheap paper and pumps blue ink, or that it considers such things suitable gifts, but nonetheless I hope you'll accept it.'

Rose: your heart does not produce cheap paper and pump blue ink. believe me--i've checked. would you like to see the blueprints?

Me: The blueprints might be handy. Usually my heart produces smooth lined paper and pumps aetheric graphite, so this change is a bit alarming. Of course, it's SUPPOSED to produce vellum and pump egg tempera and gold leaf, but it's never worked quite right from the beginning, so . . .

xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx

I played a random priest in a game set in 1666 London, and he was great fun. Father James Savant: High Anglican/crypto-Catholic, power-hungry and utterly ruthless, but absolutely convinced that he was doing God's work, with a taste for the finer things in life (mainly fine art, but his absolutely simple cassock is blacker than black, and his crucifix is ornate silver, and his Bible's cover is inscribed gold and jems, and his shoes are heinously expensive . . . you get the idea).

I came home from the game absolutely wanting to write stories about him, and despite the late hour sat down to hammer one out . . . only to find that the voices were ending up all wrong, too amusingly lighthearted, and I was actually writing a scene from a fanfic. So after an attempt at repair I sighed, gave up, changed the names, and now it's an XMFC AU snippet and that's it (there's precedent! Marvel 1602 by Neil bloody Gaiman, because he gets to do all the most fun stuff).


the Consolation of Philosophy )

. . . let us pray the merciful gods I write no more, at least of this.
Saturday, June 3rd, 2006 01:41 am
I sit in my apartment, at the now-unplugged kotatsu. Bach cello concertos, my companion for the past two evenings, fill the air with a timeless beauty not at all at odds with the hodgepodge of papers and eclecticism that is my apartment. I am the only rhyme and reason that exists in this place; logical, since it is mine for however long I stay here and continue paying for it.

I was in Kyoto-proper this evening, arranging my dinner for tomorrow. I am at the age where things only happen for your birthday if you do them yourself; as much as one might wish to remain quiet about the event and be pleasantly but predictably surprised by the thoughtfulness of one's friends, it is much wiser to make one's own arrangements and avoid the potential disappointment that could result from one's friends not actually doing anything. Because they have a plethora of distractions each, after all.

I can on occasion be wise, though the childish pride that still lives within me rails against it. But it's just that stubborn pride that causes us to hurt ourselves, and then rage at a sourceless Other.

If I am ever hurt, I cannot entirely free myself of blame. Of course it's wrong for someone to hurt me, but if they have managed it then I have left myself open to that hurt. I like to think of it as a warrior's mentality: to gaurd yourself.

Having nowhere in particular that I needed to be, I paused on the Sanjo Bridge. Below, on the bank of the Kamo River, fire spun and twirled in swift arcs around the twisting bodies of the dancers, serpents and orbiting comets of orange flame. Drummers pounded out a rhythm that was music all by itself, the familiar boom-tekka-tek an external heartbeat. I took off my shoes and perched on a stone piling to watch-- the dancers, the flames, the drummers, their various friends, the audience, the passers-by. Such a convocation of people, many of them young. Guitar-toting hopefuls waiting for discovery, businessmen sipping at beer cans, tourists staring in wonder, families on their way to or from restaurants. A thousand stories, walking to and fro, as the dancers whirled and leapt, tossing their flaming staffs into the air and catching them again, as artfully self-concious as they could be while handling fire. Well aware of their own allure and reveling in it.

I am a writer, which means that I move in a world of stories. My own life is not a story, it is a thousand stories, none of them mine. I assigned names and identities to the characters who passed me by, memorized faces and roles, and wondered vaguely what they saw when they looked at me. Nothing that invited intimacy of any sort, of course; sometimes I wonder if what I am comes through to the point that other people can sense it, and it keeps them away. Or is the unloveliness of my face sufficent to discourage any attention whatsoever? I have walked unmolested in the dark hours, in the questionable sections of various jagged cities. Lopsided face, a body at least four hundred years out of fashion, skin alternately mottled and spotted, any gold or red in my hair losing out to muddy brown, disproportionate limbs, short and stubbed fingers . . . a thousand beginnings that never came to fruition . . . every piece of me a broken promise . . . and the focal point of my being: a writer's eyes, shifting blue-green-grey, calm yet inconstant. Remote. Always watching, and somehow forbidding both desired and undesired attention. Set apart forever, whether I will it or no.

I can't win if I fight against myself. I can't remake my being, even if I should wish to. I can't move from story-maker to story, cannot become the main character when I am not myself a character at all. I am meant to tell stories, not to be them.

This is not my life, this is a search for stories. I am not a person, I am a thing which exists to find stories, and to tell them.
Tuesday, April 4th, 2006 02:33 pm
Wikipedia article on ghost writing. Quite fascinating, actually. Not sure what I think of it.
Monday, April 3rd, 2006 03:35 pm
All right, I have an English grammar question for anyone who'd care to attempt it. Here are three versions of the same question:

a.) When will you be coming back?
b.) When will you come back?
c.) When are you coming back?

What's the grammatical difference between them? Obviously they're all interrogative. I figured out fairly quickly that (a) is in the future progressive tense, used for a continuous action occuring in the future. The other two have me confused, though. I thought perhaps that (c) was more definite, "you are definately coming back and I want to know when," whereas (b) wasn't definite, "you might come back and I want to know when." However, on pondering them further I'm not sure that's actually the case. The word "will" in this case simply expresses the future, "are" expresses being. So no good clues there. Breaking them down, "are you coming" would be something that happens now, or is a continuous action (as with question (a) ), whereas "will you come" is very firmly in the future. This would appear to support my earlier hypothesis, save that both questions are asking for the same information.

The answer to all three questions is of course the same; what I'm interested in here is figuring out the intent and implication behind the different ways of asking. I've been pondering this for a good hour or so, and so far the grammar manual I checked has not helped. But I have another one, and there's you people, and the lovely interweb to try still . . .

If it's something completely obvious and I'm missing it because I'm overthinking things, I'm going to be annoyed . . .
Friday, March 17th, 2006 03:12 pm
Regarding this article in TIME Magazine about James Patterson, and James Patterson's complaint about not being highly respected: how is it possible to respect an author who says of his next book, "I don't think it's terribly worth reading, honestly"?
Wednesday, March 8th, 2006 12:53 pm
Oh, the random of the scenes that drop into my head.

He found the other man outside, staring sightlessly into the falling rain. The acrid smell of tobacco overwhelmed that of damp; he took the cigarette from an unresisting hand and stubbed it out. "I thought you had stopped. Those things will kill you, you know."

That earned him a brief smile. "If I live long enough for them to kill me, it'll be nothing short of the God's own miracle." The expression washed from his face. "I've been recalled. This-- all of this-- it's over."
Tuesday, February 28th, 2006 02:19 pm
In repayment to myself for surviving the second most miserable class ever today, I'm going to spend some time doing something that is only relevant and enjoyable to me, and that I've been wanting to do for a while: ramble on about my old roleplaying characters.

As a small measure of mercy to those who are far enough from sanity to actually read my journal, I'm sticking them behind cuts. Feel grateful.

Kamiya Ashura )
Friday, October 7th, 2005 07:54 pm
While studying Japanese today, I asked one of the teachers to explain the difference between うち and いえ to me. They both mean "home," but うち has the additional connotation of belonging. It's opposite, according to the teacher, is "外"-- the same "がい" used in "外国人," "foreigner," and it's well-known abreviation, "がいじん."

Person who does not belong.

It makes me feel deeply lonely.

Although I have to say that there's something awesome about having elementary school kids flip out when you walk past. They were totally going, "OMG, it's a foreigner! She must live somewhere near here! OMG!" And one of them hid behind the other one, and they both managed a respectable "herro!" once they were done flipping out. It was really funny.

Mike Wyzgowski's "Nothing Can Be Explained" (vocal version) from the Bleach soundtrack is perhaps one of the spookiest songs I've ever heard. After Tori's cover of "'97 Bonnie and Clyde," because no song in existance is spookier than that one.

So, next week, due to midterms and class trips, I have no classes. Whatsoever. And so, I am going to do something right now that might possibly be considered suicidal. Though that might be overly optimistic.

I am taking writing requests.

If you're reading this, you may make one request, and I will produce at least a page of writing (typed) in response. I prefer that these requests be at least somewhat specific, "write a story," does not qualify. "Write a poem" does, but I reserve the right to answer this request with a five-minute crap haiku. And of course I can't write a fanfic for some show I've never heard of or flat-out hate. But maybe you have a character that you particularly like and would like to see more of? Or there's a story or scene from way back when that you want continued? Or you want my thoughts on trees? Or you want me to come up with a story about a canister of magical potato chips?

I do reserve the right to refuse unreasonable requests, of course. "Write a sestina in which every third line begins with a dirty word," for instance. But I trust you all to be reasonable . . .

Well, hopefully one of you likes my writing enough to actually request something.
Sunday, August 28th, 2005 10:18 pm
I don't usually bother with these, and it might take me a few days before I reply to any posts in response to this, but I am occasionally a woman of my word.

1. Reply with your name and I will write something random about you.
2. I will then tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I will pick a flavor of ice cream I would feed you.
4. I will say something that only makes sense to you and me.
5. I will tell you my first or most vivid memory of you.
6. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll then ask you something that I've always wondered about you.
8. If I do this for you, you must post this on your LJ.

I found this link on Neil Gaiman's livejournal, and spent some time going through it. It's both . . . fascinating, disgusting, and repellant all at once. I found myself preferring the pictures before they were 'retouched,' to be perfectly honest. And I'm not just saying that. The retouched versions . . . they look like plastic, they just don't seem like people. All the tiny quirks that make the human body unique and interesting smoothed away, the colors made too bright and unnatural, the flaws that ought to be endearing subtracted in favor of some untouchable ideal . . .

Yes, this from the same mind that managed to conceive of Emrys. But even his perfection has personality to it, the fleeting trace of expression, a particular way of moving, a customary somewhat cynical cast that marks him as alive.

Also, all of the people in the photos are already beautiful by most people's standards. Some of them are rather too thin, but even so.

When it comes to these photos . . . I'd take the reality over the illusion any day.

Also telling is the fact that most of the touch-up work is on the women. When men appear (granted, only twice, but still), they have a lot less changed about them. And even then it's mostly changing the shadows, smoothing over an unartistic wrinkle. Their shape is not altered, not as the womens' shape is altered. There's no rounding out at the rear, no filling in the chest, no widening or lightening of the eyes.

I'll let you come to your own conclusions about it, but it certainly bears thinking about.

Interestingly, when my family went to get our portrait done for some sort of dumb church yearbook thing (there are things that I do for the sole reason of making my father happy. This was one of them), we were offered by the photographer the opportunity to have the photo altered, the small blemishes smoothed over with a forgiving paintbrush tool. I'm happy to say that we refused, but I wonder how many other people did. And why they felt it necessary to have a book lie about them, when memory contradicts . . . ah, but memory is as easily edited as a photo, when you get right down to it. And the edited photo will serve to edit the memory, until they become the same thing.
Friday, August 12th, 2005 09:37 am
August 10, I took the bus home from school, work, whathaveyou. Stopped at the AruPura (also known as AL Plaza) to pick up a disposable camera and the ice cream cone I`d been promising myself for days. Walked to my apartment, assembled a few necessary items in a shoulder bag, and then headed for the train station.

the Uji Fireworks Festival )

Summers in Kyoto-fu are both hot and humid, moreso than at home. You have a choice, though: either you like the heat or you hate it. And if you choose to hate it, there`s nothing for it; you`ll suffer until the all-too-brief autumn.

I have chosen to like it, to enjoy the baking heat, the bright splendor of the sun, the feel of sweat cooling my skin on those rare occasions when the breeze finds its way to me. Certainly I don`t feel it as much as some; when I watch the sports teams practice, the kids are completely soaked. Every time one of the girls on the volleyball team dives for the ball, she leaves a wet streak across the floor.

I used to eat my lunch where I could watch the sports teams at their outdoor practices, the baseball and tennis clubs, at least. But lately I prefer to sit on the steps on the far side of the school, where I can look over the valley below, the cars on the skyway and the rice paddies, the houses and beyond them the mountains, the wide expanse of sky and clouds overhead. There`s a breeze there, sometimes, and an awning over the steps provides shade and shelter if it should happen to rain (a rare enough occurrence, but one never knows). It`s peaceful there. The students don`t go there very much, and the teachers certainly don`t, so I can relax and know that no one is watching me.

Anonymity is a luxury, I`ve learned, one that is denied to a minority group. And I am a minority in Japan, for perhaps the first time in my life. No matter where I go, no matter what I do, I can be fairly certain that someone is going to be watching, and people are more likely remember any action I take.

I am a minority, and with that status come any number of attendant advantages and disadvantages. For instance, any time there is another foreigner present, we are expected to immediately talk to each other (in English), get along, and want to spend time together. When Katayama-san in the main office heard from her friend Scott that he had seen me in the shopping center, she automatically assumed that I had spoken to him, etc. I had seen him, of course-- when you`re a minority, you stand out-- but I hadn`t talked to him. He was with two young children whom he spoke to in Japanese, and so I wasn`t certain if he spoke English or not. After all, not all foreigners do. For all I knew he might be French, or German, or Lithuanian, or Russian, or even Japanese despite the fact that he was obviously Caucasian, and perhaps we would not be able to talk at all.

So I hadn`t spoken to him, and he hadn`t spoken to me, and we both went on about our business. When I said so to Katayama-san, she was very surprised.

I could have talked to him, of course. And in this particular case, my worries were groundless; he was in fact an American, and could speak English and Japanese. By not speaking to him, though, I went outside of what was expected of me as a member of a minority group (an English-speaking foreigner living in Japan). Not that there were any bad consequences to this, of course, but nevertheless. One feels a certain amount of pressure to conform to the popularly-held view of one`s minority group; as soon as I noticed Scott in the shopping center I felt as if I should go over and talk to him. Part of that came from me; I`m a newcomer, a foreigner, I don`t have many (any) friends, and any foreigner is potentially a new friend. But part of it came from outside of me; the people watching, and thinking that if there are two foreigners in one place they are immediately connected and should talk to each other, most likely in English.
Sunday, August 7th, 2005 12:12 am
Anyway, Nijo-jo.

I went there because it was an easy walk from the hotel, and I remember it as being quite spectacular. Which hasn`t changed, of course. Nor was the weather any different from the last time I was there; it was spectacularly hot. Thank all the gods for the ever-present Japanese vending machines, else I`m certain I would have keeled over. For a few minutes as I was walking, I was seeing scintillating shadow-stripes on the multicolored brick walkways where they did not in fact exist.

You have to cross a moat to get to Nijo-jo. The moat is wide, the mossy green shade of stagnant water, but when you look over the wooden railing of the wide stone bridge, you can occasionally see the dark shapes of carp swimming below. The wall of castle side is stone, huge grey-brown cut blocks that slant in a steep wall out of the water. On top of that is another wall, white, capped with dark tile.

After passing the moat, there`s a massive gate to go under on the other side. The form is what I`ve come to expect, the iron-studded wood door swung back on its ponderous hinges, the white-painted works around it, the dark tile roof on top. On the other side is an expanse of hot gravel, with a gaurdhouse off to the right and elegant pine trees to the left. Another wall rises around the palace, just as high as the first.

I pity the poor soldiers who once had to assault Japanese castles. It must have been hell. And Nijo-jo`s hardly the worst of them (it was more palace than anything else); Himeji`s a bloody maze of fortifications. Jeez.

In any case, following the broad walkway around the corner of the enclosure, another gate is set into the wall. This one is thatched, not tiled, but is far more impressive. The roof on the gate is curved upwards in the center rather than peaked on the ends, and the lintels are capped in elaborate gold filials. Gilded woodcarvings decorate the inside, once brightly painted but now faded: leopards and dragons, phoenixes and cranes, blue deer with golden antlers and spots, all playing among peonies and chrysanthamums.

The palace enterance is framed by the gate across an expanse of gravel, and is of a similar construction, with similar decorations. The roof is broader, of course, but the walls rise only as high as the walls that surround it. The shade of the expansive enteranceway is a welcome releif after the hot sun and the dust. Of course you take your shoes off-- sandals, for me, and the wooden steps were both rough and delightfully smooth to my bare feet.

Nijo-jo is famed for it`s "nightengale floors"-- the broad boards squeak when you step on them, caused by a facet of their construction I will explain if asked, but which is unromantically technical. Besides providing a pleasantly musical accompaniment to the tour, they also served a practical function; it`s virtually impossible to sneak around that place. Not that it would be possible anyway. First, though expansive, the construction is quite simple, the rooms large and rectancular, the hallways straight and wide. There is no furniture, and hence nowhere to hide. Unless you`re a guard, of course. Small closets intended to be occupied by said gaurds are pointedly placed in every room the shogun was likely to be in.

Every room is floored in tatami mats, naturally, and the screen walls are elaborately painted. One room has a motif of pine trees, another is decorated with exotic leopards and tigers, another with wild fowl. The shogun`s chambers were all mountains and forests in relaxing sepia and white rather than the gaudy gold leaf of the audience and receiving chambers. Elaborately carved wooden panels covered the expanse above the painted screens, and also lined the top of the hallways, allowing light to pass from one room to the next.

Even so the hallways were dim, and the rooms likewise. One room had lifesize models of the people who might have been in the castle, the shogun before his retainers. Their outfits were elaborate, their faces frozen in pale masks of adoration. Each bore a crest on his back; this one two birds, that one three commas, another interlocking leaves, all based on a circle pattern. Their trousers and sleeves trailed a good two feet behind them from where they knelt on the floor. I heard one Japanese man tell the Americans he was showing around that they were dressed that way on purpose, to make it more difficult for them to attack the shogun. They all had their swords, but it would indeed be difficult to attack any man while tripping over one`s trouser legs. So if that was the reason for it or not, it was nevertheless effective.

Like all palaces, Nijo-jo is built to impress, and it does. I no longer find it so perfectly exotic as I did at first-- ah, the voice of experiece-- but it`s still amazingly beautiful, from the painted ceilings to the plain wooden hallways.

Outide is a garden, lazily draped around a small pond. It too is elegant, with a small waterfall in one corner, and three islands connected by natural-looking stone bridges. As I stood there, watching, a small crane landed on one of these bridges and stood there preening and shaking out its wings, its long neck impossibly flexible, its legs as delicate as the ribs that supported the paper screens.
Tuesday, July 12th, 2005 05:53 pm
Having taken a look down my friend's page, and guessing that most of the people who have me friended are a) the only ones likely to be reading this journal, b) generally a trustworthy bunch, at least on a person-to-person basis, and c) quite talented, I hereby inform and invite all of you to join Eye of Unicorn, Tongue of Dragon!

This is a fond relic from earlier days being revived (dusted off? Raised from the dead?) by its distinguished editor, Lindsey, who I also happen to consider a friend of mine. She even selected one of my old stories to be mentioned on the website-- ah, the honor is so great I can hardly stand it!

Anyway, ET is always a lot of fun, both to read and to write for, and it provides an excellent outlet for creative efforts. Sometimes it's difficult to get other people to read your writing (most of the artists I know don't have this problem, because their work is so awesome, but it can go both ways) . . . I spent many years working in isolation, writing down stories that no one other than me ever read, starving for comments, criticisms, reactions, anything. ET is great for that, it's low-pressure, it encourages you to write, and it lets you connect with and appreciate others who are motivated mainly by their love of the genre.

The short, short version: go to the website. Submit stuff. Tell Lindsey that I sent you so that she'll like me. Enjoy the final product.
Thursday, January 20th, 2005 07:24 pm
Having just managed to break my needle while trying to sew trim on my uniform, I've decided to take a break. And give up on making it to martial arts tonight, because there's no way I'll have this finished in twenty minutes.

I mean, I broke the bloody needle. F-ing crazy.

Bloody is also fairly literal, in this case, since I've stabbed myself multiple times since I've started. Well, it's all for my love of Tang Soo Do.

" . . . assuming any of us can ever make up for anything we've done in the past. Maybe we can't. Maybe we just have to live with it, and get on with it, and do what we have to, never what we want to. It has to be done. I hope he can see that, someday."

Babylon 5 is full of good quotes. My mind moves this one to a slightly different context, to a different speaker, and the resonance changes to one of desperate inevitability. I used that to explore things that have always bothered me, concepts of a life shaped by terrible, uncontrollable forces. To explore what would happen if someone was moved beyond all hope of redemption, all possibility of forgiveness. Where the mind looped back on itself because of the boundaries maintained by itself, consumed in a fire of its own making.

I wanted that, the tearing sadness, the march of an unrelenting doom. Like a Greek tragedy, where men are at the mercy of some force beyond understanding, that is inside themselves, and that herds them without quarter towards their destruction. From it, I wanted to achieve that ideal of catharsis, the pity and awe that comes from watching greatness lost to despair. A star, swallowed by the darkness. A ship, sinking into the black depths, and that last ripple of its passage swallowed into the backs of the waves.

The courage to face that, the beauty of disappearing! The terrible power of it-- a power that is ours, to deny despite everything, to struggle even when we know it's futile, to dare to believe that we can triumph, that we can overcome!

He doesn't have that, too torn, too stained, too mired in the agonies of his own soul. He has borne too much to conceive of it, stood too long staring into the abyss to entertain hope.

But he doesn't need to. Because, better than hope, I gave him possibility.

Domination of Black, by Wallace Stevens

At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
Repeating themselves,
Turned in the room,
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
Yes: but the color of the heavy hemlocks
Came striding.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.

The color of their tails
Were like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
In the twilight wind.
They swept over the room,
Just as they flew from the boughs of the hemlocks
Down to the ground.
I heard them cry-- the peacocks.
Was it a cry against the twilight
Or against the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
Turning as the flames
Turned in the fire,
Turning as the tails of the peacocks
Turned in the loud fire,
Loud as the hemlocks
Full of the cry of the peacocks?
Or was it a cry against the hemlocks?

Out of the window,
I saw how the planets gathered
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
I saw how the night came,
Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks
I felt afraid.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.
Monday, August 23rd, 2004 11:27 pm
I was particularly pleased with this turn of phrase when talking about the previous meme:

"I am apparently both God and Satan with a little bit of New York Jesus added to the mix."

And now I'm pleased with the alliteration in the first scentence. These are some of the many joys afforded to the writer immersed in her craft.

Though I'm hardly immersed, because sleep calls to me insistantly. I already fell asleep on the kitchen floor for a good hour after dinner. You can do things like that when you have the entire house to yourself; no one will trip over you. You can also have some excellent sake with your dinner. You can also cook a tomato sauce with crab and onion and tomato chunks and oregeno and rosemary. You can also fail to find the garlic. You can also enjoy the cat's companionship in relative peace. You can also leave the dishes sitting until just before you go to bed.

This New York Jesus spent the weekend traipsing the city with the Uber PanReligion Apostle Posse. As grey as the clouds on Saturday, grey as my nomiker, grey as the soul of ashes. Black as goth haiku on Sunday, when the sky was blue and the weather perfect, feeling nearly as kickass as Hijikata-san in black wraps left to flow, a formal black kimono top, and matte black books half-laced in iridecent sparkle. See, I can pretend to be cool, sometimes. Saturday was art and inspiration, Sunday was a picnic in the park. Both days involved the most excellent [livejournal.com profile] majochan, [livejournal.com profile] yayoikh, and [livejournal.com profile] lazy_as_a_cat, and the sun-day enjoyed the additional company of [livejournal.com profile] vash_donutangel, and one other who shall go ninja nameless due to her lack of livejournal.

Everyone proved themselves just as cool IRL as online, saving of course for myself. But I do a fairly good job of pretending in both planes, so I didn't detract from the l337ness of my companions.

There is a way to touch someone's life and make it beautiful. A word, a gesture, the sudden understanding that you are a precious and valued creature, and your life takes on the dimensions of story, opens like a sky full of water and becomes life in truth. The ability is a rare one, to give the gift of becoming. Even if it doesn't last long, receiving it is like a sudden blaze of fire in the dry grass of your day, like the rush of dawn over the surface of the waters. And for a brief, glorious, insane moment, you are.
Tuesday, August 10th, 2004 03:00 pm
from Bookslut's article on ComicCon:

"12:34 PM: Someone asks what makes an interesting story. Chuck Austen has an acronym for the occasion: R.S.V.P. -- Relationship, Stakes, Vulnerability, Passion."

Wanted to make sure I remembered that one.