This is just to say

The Art of Endorsement

Tue, 27 May 2008 19:14:07 GMT

Politics to me is just a more legitimate form of the paparazzi: it's the only time when we have a somewhat legitimate reason to mudsling and expect people to listen. I only made a short bullet about the LJ Elections yesterday and was going to leave it at that. Then this happened, and I'm enraged.

Maybe 'enraged' isn't the right word. Of course I'm angry that someone can make such racist & arrogant comments and call that an endorsement. Angrier still that other people will agree with said endorsement. But mostly, I'm disappointed. A big argument right now is over whether or not jameth supporters bashing fandom equals jameth bashing fandom. It becomes a question of whether or not a candidate is responsible for their supporter's actions.

That's not an easy question. You only have to look as far as the presidential election going on right now to see how convoluted the question of endorsement is, the most visible of these being Obama's controversial relationship with pastor Jeremiah Wright. I don't believe this relationship makes Obama a bad person or even un-American, but I do object to his early justification:

I can no more disown him [Reverend Wright] than I can my white grandmother — a woman who helped raise me, a woman who sacrificed again and again for me, a woman who loves me as much as she loves anything in this world, but a woman who once confessed her fear of black men who passed by her on the street, and who on more than one occasion has uttered racial or ethnic stereotypes that made me cringe.

To me, the difference between Obama's grandmother and the Reverend Wright is that the grandmother is family and the Reverend is not. Obama did not choose his grandmother, but he chose Wright. And that option of choice is the heart of the endorsement debate.

Each candidate caters to a certain demographic. Especially in an election with as wide a base as the entire LJ community, you can't expect to have the fans and the fan-haters at the same time. You have to pick a side. Ideally, the candidate should be able to say to his more rabid supporters: "hey, I really appreciate your support, but some of the things you're saying are losing me votes. If you really want me to win, please help me by toning it down a bit" and those who truly support him will while he distances himself from those who don't. Then, the candidate can start to narrow the chasm. I won't deny that jameth has tried to reach out to fandom, but until his proof becomes more concrete, I don't know if I can trust him.

It won't come as any surprise, then, that I'm pro-fandom and would be ecstatic if any of the pro-fandom candidates won. My personal vote goes to legomymalfoy whose endorsements come from people I trust in fandom. To make your own informed choice, there are many resources, both fan-friendly and not. The entire point is this:

In the end, it is all about you. Please VOTE.

Politics, as usual

Tue, 27 May 2008 04:18:09 GMT

[!!] Estelle's American Boy loops on my playlist because of her high yet somehow soulful voice and easy but danceable beat. I adore the way she looks--half pin-up, half life-sized doll and her eye make-up is perfect for winking.
[&] Sooner or later, we're going to have to discard the notion that every election contains a perfect candidate who backs every bullet point on our agenda. Or at least, you know, I'm going to have to learn to compromise. Politics on the Obama v. Hillary v. McCain side still leaves me deeply dissatisfied, but the LJ Advisory Board Elections seem a little more straightforward. After checking out the candidate's platforms and reading some admittedly biased entries, legomymalfoy has my vote.
[?] I mentioned to bookshop that for the longest time, my parents had me convinced that the only reason I was conflicted over whether or not to pursue medicine was because I was spoilt and untried. Not to say that they're wrong: choice is a luxury since I'm not worried about bare survival. And as long as I have that luxury, is it so wrong to take it?

After shadowing different sorts of doctors for about a week here in Nashville, I don't really know if I want to be a doctor. At least, I don't not want to be a doctor, but I want to be a lot more before that inevitability sets in. I want to, you know, go to Europe and live in a furniture-less apartment because I spend all my money on raw materials (for construction crafts) and haute couture clothes and most importantly, have some semblance of an independent life before marrying and having children like my mother's so eagerly anticipating.

Before I got to Nashville, I was dead afraid of having my first child after the age of 28. Ideally, I wanted my first child at 25--less than seven years from now, which if you think about it is very, very soon. Life is too short, but too short for what? Oh, priorities.
[#] GQ ran an article in January 2008 entitled "All My Children" that literally made me fall in love with the magazine. It's not posted online, but the copy is written by a middle-aged man with a wife and two children who was an opportunistic sperm donor (fifty bucks a shot) in his twenties. As his marriage sours and the internet booms, he's faced with the all-too-accessible option of meeting his donor children:

Lately, I've been reading a lot of children's literature--one of the joys of having kids--and I've been struck by how few protagonists actually have both parents. In fact, they're almost all orphans. Harry Potter. Luke, Leia, and Anakin. Pippi Longstocking, Heidi, Anne of Green Gables. Tom and Huck. Practically everyone in Dickens. Superman, Batman, Spidey. All orphans. Moses, Muhammad...orphans. Even Jesus, technically speaking, was a DCP [donor-conceived persons], at least if you believe the Gospels.

We love a good orphan tale, not because we pity the parentless, I think, but because we envy them. Whatever heartache they may feel, they get to start over, hit the reset buttom, shake the Etch A Sketch. They're free. The truth is, there's no certainty when it comes to identity. Who we are is fluid. It can change in an instant. The more you know about what you're supposed to be, the less freedom, ultimately, you have.

In the end, the anonymous author weighs his responsibilities and decides to devote more time to his "legitimate" children--while leaving the other door ajar. The same issue included an amusing article about NFL cheerleaders. Also, James Marsden in beautiful clothing and prep school poses. It doesn't get any better than that, amirite?

That said, GQ and Esquire now rank among my favourite magazines. Apparently, old-boy attitude, pretentious snark and a ~~witty~~higher quality of writing completely floor me. I even find the womanizing amusing from time to time. But really, why can't women's magazines cover as much ground?
[?] For general audiences: how do you stay organized on LJ? I am so close to imploding.

The South Side Of The World

Tue, 20 May 2008 02:19:43 GMT

The Bible Belt is baffling to me, but then again, so is the South in a nutshell. Is it because I'm from the Midwest, where it's acceptable to go shopping in your sweats? From California, where same-sex marriage has just been legalized? Either way, I don't think I've ever got the South outside movies like Sweet Home Alabama and Gone With The Wind.

Which makes it particularly Ironic that I'm going to be in Nashville for the next two weeks. Life's different down here: case in point, the oncologist who I came to shadow. She practiced for a while in LA before coming here. By her account, she goes to work at 9am in both cities, gets off work at 5pm in both. Except she saw thirty patients a day in LA and only about ten here. It took her the longest time to figure out why, but in the end, it's all in the efficiency. In LA, the visits went like this:

Patient: I am experiencing pain.
Doctor: Here's your Vicodin, next.

In Nashville, however:

Patient: Let me tell you about my sick donkey.
Doctor: OKAY.

My oncologist is a rather impatient, ambitious woman, so suffice it to say it took her a while to adjust. I think it's rather charming that she talks about tomato crops now. I'm liking the relaxed atmosphere, since it's summer and it should be like this everywhere: 80+ °F weather, rolling hills, swimming pools and tastefully parceled groves of trees. Does anyone know what the deal with flying the Confederate flag is now?

Some bites:
[!!] the ONION has funny but useless campaign coverage. Obama, of course has the best media coverage, but I have to admit, desperate Hillary is beginning to yank on my heartstrings.
[&] Following up on California and same-sex marriage, is anyone else happy that Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi are making a run for it? Along with pretty much every other gay celebrity couple that I didn't know were dating. The party's definitely on the West Coast this time, baby.
[#] What a crappy year for China. First with the snowstorms around Chinese New Year, then cyclones, Tibetan uprising, hoof-and-mouth jumping from animals to humans, and now the earthquake. I can't decide whether or not I want the Olympics to be cancelled.
[$] I spend upwards of a hundred dollars on magazine subscriptions yearly, so it's pretty amazing that something of mediocre fashion caliber is being published online. Free era? Yes, please!

Past-Blasting

Mon, 19 May 2008 23:30:48 GMT

Before I get started on honest-to-goodness writing, I want to organize and close up my (LJ-)past a bit. In the next week or so, I'll be organizing my memories and getting a new profile, etc. up. I might also purge some old journals. Anyway, today's entry is a look back at my writing: how it's grown up, or in many cases, not.

I've gone through my old writing journal and picked out what I feel to be pieces worth holding on to. They're works I can truly say I'm proud of because they represent the best of what I could give at that time. Of course, everything is nicely cut for convenience.

In other vaguely related news, I have a new layout thanks to gossymer! Working out a few kinks, but otherwise pleased. The header is my lame attempt at Photoshop--I'd pull something awesome-looking off the net, but crediting is complicated. Fitting in with the theme of this post, Slate.com is running a three-day coverage of procrastination, which definitely delivered as advertised.

:title Ordinary
:fandom Tenipuri: Gen, light Sengoku/Muromachi
:note I think this has always been one of my favourites because every time I wrote the word "Touji", I really meant me. Even today, it still reflects a lot of my fears; it's the most honest thing I've written.

Twenty Things Touji Will Always Deny

1. In his mind Touji is neither Muromachi nor Touji, but simply me and all the incarnations and capabilities that come attached. As visualization he thinks that it looks something like brainstorming: the all-central me surrounded by lines that go to mathematics and tennis and old Pacino movies. There are actually quite a lot of them - lines, that is - and it makes him happy to think that he might just grow up the renaissance man, art and science and religion in one. How wonderful, he thinks, it is to be unique.

Inside, Touji is afraid of being normal.

2. Given twenty differentiable objects, Touji knows that there are 2.43290200818 x 10^18 differentiable ways to arrange them. He's always been good with numbers like that - math is his highest grade, at a steady 98% that is exactly one point three five standard deviations above the norm. "Isn't that a bit much?" Kita (the only other second year on the team) asks him. Touji shakes his head and shows Kita exactly how permutations work.

"And what's the point?" Kita asks.

Touji doesn't have an answer; his lies and truths sound the same no matter which order he tells them in.

3. One mistake people tend to make with Touji is assuming he is cold. Calculating. Aloof. One out of three isn't bad, but Touji is none of those things when it comes to tennis (which is life). His favorite subject is Japanese (Touji's teacher says he is too passionate; haikus should be more graceful) because Touji likes handwriting on white paper and the smell of fresh ink. Touji is the first member of the team to cry after Yamabuki is cut from Nationals (Dan is second), and Touji is known at school for his magnificent fits and surly moods.

Out of everyone, it is usually Sengoku who receives the brunt of Touji's circles, Sengoku who steps in when Akutsu gets unruly and the Jimmies are annoyed and Touji's fist is clenching and Dan still doesn't understand. Touji remembers the day he started crying, not because he wanted to or anything, and Sengoku patted his head gently while suggesting he remove his goggles, lest he drown in his own tears.

Being the passionate person he is, Touji is afraid he'll mistake Sengoku's kindness for something else, and keeps his distance. He snaps at Sengoku on good days and punches him on bad, but Sengoku is like a puppy with the mind of a bull.

4. Touji only wishes he could find a small girl because Touji is not very tall or wide; girls who can snap him with one hand scare him, to say the least.

5. At the same time, Touji likes the feeling of his mother hugging him: it is safe, warm, everything simple that happened before school and tennis and life. However, he does not think he could find a girl like that, and thus has given up. There is always the other option, as Touji's father is never home and his mother has long since adjusted to his sister's sexuality. But Touji doesn't often like considering that.

6. Tennis, after academics, is a big part of his life and though he doesn't mention it much, he would like to be better. But Touji was never built strong or stable and he has knees that collapse at the first sign of running; Dan works harder at tennis than him, though Touji takes some pride in having more natural talent. He finds his position ironic in that his place is a respectable first singles, yet he never sees play because by the time it gets to him, Yamabuki has either won or lost and it isn't as if his score would've made a difference.

It seems to happen a lot - the title sans the talent, that is.

7. If there is one thing he takes pride in, it is his archive. The internet is Touji's world outside tennis and school (when he thinks of his life he thinks of it in three spheres, with his mother in the middle and his sister and father off towards the sides) and there he is neither Muromachi nor Touji but me. He has a site named kiyosumi (online psuedonym) and he contributes to math forums, Japanese poetry sites, and the occasional tennis analyses. When he has time, he updates the built-in blog with surveys, speculations on life, and shout-outs to friends he's never seen.

Online, Touji is a completely different person and it sets him free. He is a worried, angst-ridden teenager who only wishes he could make a difference and be remembered by someone and is friends with people like "nekoneko" and "yuki-chan". (He saves face by reasoning that at least one of these is probably a boy in disguise. And by probably he means is.)

One day, someone leaves him a message. "hey touji," it says, neon green and bubbly font. "you stole my name."

8. Touji knows he will probably grow up in his father's shoes: travel agent who spends most his time away from home, tasting exotic foods with potential clients or shuffling papers in an Osaka office. He had a dream, once, and somehow:

He was in school and in love. College, really and he'd been kicked out of the house after he'd pursued literature. He lived with his partner, who supported them while he went to school and worked on his first novel. He wanted to go to Shangri-La, but the sex was fantastic and his partner had great lips so that was more an "if we can" than a necessary thing. Touji should've been more surprised at being disowned and sleeping just three inches above roaches and mice but somehow, it felt nice.

9. He dreams because he doesn't have much of a past to look back on: school, tennis, tennis friends. His mother's always been there, but he doesn't consider this yet. Maybe when they're older.

10. There are 3,628,800 different ways to arrange ten different objects, which means if Banjii-san and Dan are counted, there are 3,628,800 ways to arrange the lineup of Yamabuki's team. Touji wonders sometimes how they ended up with the one they have, but it works and dysfunctions in an appropriate manner, so he throws out 3,628,799 of them.

11. The inner Touji is never as certain of things as he'd like: not sure what brand or even type of ice cream tastes best, whether he should flat or spin serve the next game or if he even cares about love. In public he is loud and opinionated but when things aren't happening and people aren't talking, Touji's face stops working. His mouth relaxes, his eyes droop, and his nose might twitch but usually stays still.

This is probably where people get cold, calculating, and aloof, but Touji can't really help that.

12. The face-not-working thing, as Sengoku elegantly phrased it, is probably a result of Touji not knowing what face to make. Which means, again according to Sengoku, that Touji is internally conflicted and it shows through in his aura and karma and actions. Sengoku then offers to be Touji's psychiatrist - that earns him a punch to the face.

13. It isn't that he doesn't interact with his teammates as much as he doesn't remember their interactions - light slaps on the back and words that are more exhalations than sentiments stick in his mind only because they are rare. He is not the easiest person to get along with, with his moods and such but most specifically, the way he just doesn't like to talk to people. He talks to their intelligence much of the time, which is why he finds Dan such an annoying brat and Akutsu nearly impossible. The Jimmies and Kita and Nitobe and Kita are fine but doubles pairs are pairs for a reason. Banjii isn't given to speaking much during practice.

Which leaves Sengoku. He finds that often to be the case. Which leaves Sengoku. It really, just rolls off the tongue.

14. Touji would use the word "cynic" to describe himself. The proper word probably goes more along the lines of "hopeless" and "romantic" with a dash of "sarcastic bastard" thrown in but "cynic" is what Touji aspires to be. Cynic means that Touji wouldn't be disappointed when he loses his service three times in a row. Cynic means that Touji wouldn't buy three lucky charms and knock his head thirty times to ensure Yamabuki's ride to Nationals. Cynic means that Touji wouldn't sit on his bed after a cold shower and wonder (in a longing sort of way) about other girls and boys. Cynic would be the shield between Touji and the rest of the world, the barrier that keeps the non-friends out and Touji in; Touji desperately wants [not] to change.

15. At the end of all his thought processes, Touji cannot help but think he is despairingly normal. Depressingly normal. Unredeemably normal. Painfully, naturally, achingly. Normal.

16. Sometimes, he wonders if life would be less normal if his family died and he were an orphan. Then he stops. Touji leads a normal life - he should be thankful, but he knows he isn't.

17. He tries to avoid thinking about Sengoku, the smiling enigma that's always there to give him a helping hand or a not-so-helping one, as it often turns out. Sengoku seems to delight in plucking him from class (the teachers all adore him) using some inane tennis excuse or another, then dragging him to the roof where all they do is stare at the sky and how blue it is. Then Sengoku starts talking about America and how blue blue the sky must be there and wouldn't it be nice to go see it? He usually nods along because Sengoku seems happiest when he does so, and roof-time is indulgence because once they're back on the ground, he'll be Muromachi the Grouchy again and Sengoku, Sengoku won't change.

In a way he thinks he envies Sengoku, but in another way he can't imagine setting himself out there for the world to see. But then there have always been signs of someone deeper in Sengoku, and then he is envious again. He is not extraordinary, but Sengoku seems to think he is.

18. Touji found his goggles in a snowboarding store off Shinjuku, where his mother used to shop before his sister came out (she works odd jobs up and down the stores and though mother has forgiven her, Touji senses that it's still painful to visit). Looks-wise Touji wasn't much and he'd been wanting a pair of sunglasses since the new soda commercial had come out; his mother was looking for winter caps when he found them, lying on the ground screaming bloody attraction at him. What followed was logical: he tried them on, he liked them. He showed them to his mother, who indulged him, and after she paid he never took them off again.

19. (There were three main reasons Touji chose the goggles.

One: they hid his eyes, which he didn't very much like because they were big and watery and made him look like a girl.

Two: they were cool and he wasn't so by average they must even out and Touji would be halfway to cool, which really was better than nothing at all.

Three: they were tinted blue, which meant by association the world was tinted blue and besides liking the way his mother looked in aquamarine Touji thought the world looked better (nicer) in this particular shade. In junior high he learned of the existence of rose-tinted glasses but the similarity didn't strike until Sengoku pointed it out.)

20. In accordance with being normal (whatnot with fear of) Touji is afraid of taking chances. The me that is neither Muromachi nor Touji isn't sure it's ready for a we or plural forms of anything as of yet, especially when it doesn't know what it's going to do with its life or what it's going to major in or what's even important. But the not-ordinary extra-ordinary people like Sengoku never seemed to care about what me wanted. Those people just lean down and say that eventually me becomes we anyway especially if you reflect it in two mirrors and don't worry this won't hurt a bit.

Touji closes his eyes and settles in for the ride.

:title red white&
:fandom Tenipuri: Atobe/Fuji
:note This piece was Lewis Carroll-inspired, and for anyone familiar with my style, his is almost as different as you can get. I'm verbose, he's sparse; I dance around the point, he guts it. This was my attempt to be more direct.

"I think we have trouble communicating," said Fuji from his couch; it was blood red in a white room with blinding walls, and he had lain down three minutes after his arrival.

"Oh?" the doctor said, "and how does that make you feel?"

"Vaguely troubled," admitted Fuji, "What do you think?"

"I'm here to listen," said the doctor.

"Oh." Fuji said with a trace of remorse. "He likes his women, you know."

-----

There was a party at the Residence that night, which Fuji attended and did not enjoy, though he had not expected to anyway.

"He likes his women young," Tezuka said.

"They're better young," said Fuji and rested his arms on the white marble balcony. "It's good wine," he said and emptied the cup.

"Are you bleeding?" asked Tezuka.

"It's the wine." said Fuji.

"He likes his women young," said Tezuka.

"They're better that way," said Fuji and knew that Atobe would finish with her before midnight; he would climb into Fuji's bed smelling of fresh sex and perfume and the next time Fuji surfaced, he would smell dead flowers and Atobe.

-----

"Is it the fidelity?" said the doctor.

"No." said Fuji. "I think it's the communication."

"But if you did communicate," said the doctor, "would you want him to be faithful?"

"Is that a possibility?" asked Fuji.

-----

There was a set table on the third floor, second corridor, first room of the Residence that night, Fuji's doing of white plates and scarlet roses, lightly perfumed candles that smelled like burnt and flowers. Romance, thought Fuji, is a act better left for one.

"I have a date with Natalie tonight," said Atobe, "We'll be home late."

"Oh," said Fuji.

"Wait up," said Atobe.

"Of course," said Fuji. He put away the unused plates and swept up the rose petals (they were dark and so smooth) and he straightened the table. Again, maybe, tomorrow, he thought, and climbed into bed.

-----

"That was last night," said Fuji.

"Do you love him?" said the doctor.

"Perhaps," said Fuji. "He's like a virus."

"Plague," said the doctor.

"Love," said Fuji.

-----

"I'm going," said Fuji quietly.

"Where?" said Atobe.

"The doctor." said Fuji.

"You waste my money," Atobe said, "seeing that psychiatrist."

"Sorry." said Fuji. "I think I may be sick."

"Just go." said Atobe.

"Thank you," said Fuji, and closed the door and wept.

:title Anagram
:fandom Tenipuri: Power Triangle
:note I will probably always consider this the coolest thing I've ever written, just because it's incredibly nerdy. All I did was anagram the word desire (or anagram multiple words to form "desire"), but for some reason it has always makes me giddy.

To Fuji, words are but letters rearranged and from desire Fuji finds sire and deer, ire and red. In Spanish Fuji finds sed and es, French produces rise and German sie. It is a messy page when he runs out, full of thirsty deer and angry its that stem from the word desire. Fuji frowns and throws the paper away. Desire, to Fuji, does not make sense.

---

Tezuka feels concepts rather than words and desire is the flame that says I'd rather win and don't let me lose. Desire, Tezuka reasons, is not letters or words but summations of hard work and dedication. Fuji mentions that, when Tezuka says this wrapped in sweaty covers, Tezuka's desire is missing a "s". Passion then, Tezuka adds and leans down for another kiss.

---

Paradise is troubled when Ryoma comes to town, a boy who knows desire as only achievement and domination. He is missing an sr, Fuji says and Tezuka merely nods and asks the first year for a match. Pillar has no s, Fuji points out when Tezuka comes home from his long long game. Pillars does, Tezuka replies and lays down and falls asleep.

:title Love, Actually
:fandom Harry Potter: Lily/James
:note I rarely write het and I rarely write fluff. This bit had both, so I guess that made it doubly-rare.

the day after their first date, lily writes i love you james on the third page of each of his textbooks, in glittering red ink that she's spelled to smell of rose water. the chances that james will find and read one of these notes are slim to none; james would never pick up a textbook--unless lily dropped it--and even then would treat it like spoiled cheese, handing it back as soon as possible. but lily is romantic. if fate had any sort of compassion at all, james would find the notes.

--

the funny thing about james is that he is just as insufferable after the first kiss. more so, because he wants more. "enough, potter--" lily is not sure she has the self-control to push him away, not when their love is so young and new and hot. "come on, evans," james teases and lily is sure her heart has melted and reformed at the bottom of her chest, like rehardened wax that is still trying to beat. it couldn't be so painful, so jolting, so wonderfully distracting otherwise.

--

it feels to lily like she has become two different people after james arrived, not the before james and after james of most relationships but as lily and as evans: the girl who loves james and the girl who would love nothing more than to slap him. lily believes that this must be how schizophrenics feel, always conflicted in their mind(s) when james catches the snitch and runs a hand through his messy hair and lily squeals and thinks this is my boyfriend oh my god oh my god while evans is muttering something about pricks and bludgers. two people, one head - lily wonders if she is going crazy.

it wouldn't surprise her if she was, since her mother used to call it love.

--

"the astronomy tower is much too boring," james says and thus they never go there for snog sessions (though they do snog, and quite often). instead james enjoys taking her out on his broom, though lily thinks she may refuse tonight because james became fixated with her neck the last time and nearly crashed them into a tree. "how about the shrieking shack?" he suggests and lily wonders why his eyes look so molten and kind. "why did i date poor," she laments but it's quite a thrill when james leads her through the whomping willow, hand in hand and still fixed on her neck.

--

her girlfriends, gossip-hounds and worry-mongers though she loves them to pieces, want to know why she and james are out so late each night. truth be told, it is only lily's insistence that brings them back to hogwarts at all, where james cannot sleep in lily's room and the smell keeps lily out of james'. "nothing," lily blushes and for the most part it is true - james is gentlemanly though hilariously smitten, especially when he conjurs firewhiskey and recites shakespearean poetry (she regrets lending him the book) with his face buried in her lap. "i love you," lily whispers to james when he slips into post-drink blackouts; sirius usually arrives via some sort of mental esp a few minutes later and helps her carry him back to the dorms.

sirius is taking their relationship quite well, lily thinks, especially since she has essentially stolen james from his friend.

"i'm glad he's doing something productive," sirius says when she mentions it. "he never talked about anything but you anyway."

--

it takes four years before lily opens james' hogwarts books again, dreaming about harry's future and possible loves. james is buying her takeout (pregnancy can be unreasonable) though by the time he gets home she'll want ice cream instead; her husband, both lily and evans agree, is entirely whipped in a stubborn, loving sort of way. the book smells like potions and thestrals and faintly of rose water when she opens it and tries not to cry because the memories are too precious and painful at the same time. "oh, harry." she says and turns to page three, where i love you james is as bright red as the day she wrote it.

she is surprised, for underneath are the words and i you lily in matching gold script, messy, careful, and equally bright.

hello, world

Sat, 10 May 2008 19:27:25 GMT

The last post on this LJ is dated May 22, 2006 so hello, world: I'm back from my two year hiatus. The years have been busy--I graduated high school, finished my first year of college, found religion, lost a boyfriend, finally learned some social skills. I like to think that, just maybe, I've grown a little.

That said, the summer makes me want to blog again--though I've yet to decide what form my entries will take.

This is my (re)introduction post: to those still around on my f-list, long time no see. For everyone, enchanted. I'm between my freshman and sophomore years at state college; biology major, architecture minor, obsessed with pretty, performance arts. I hole myself up in the research lab most days; spend most nights trying to forget the lab. Once I fix my camera, this journal will take days to load (behinds cuts, of course). I'm putting off unpacking to write this entry.

As a final note, introduce yourselves! I'll stick around this time--promise. And you guys always end up rocking my world ♥.

tenipuri_just a phase

Sun, 07 May 2006 22:45:41 GMT

:title just a phase
:pairing d1
:rating pg
:comments it's...been a while, and i'm trying to figure out how to write again. anyway, here's an experiment. i don't like it very much, but i'm tired of deleting and rewriting and it's so choppy but that's the way it's supposed to be? there was an article in the tribune today which made me feel utterly worthless (it was about the top10 [highschool senior] students in the state and somehow that's depressed everything all day. hence, abstraction, hence, unhappy d1, hence, crappy writing. please excuse.

Summer, mid-July when the sun shines covered in clouds is when Niou's sister brings home chalk and Yagyuu wakes up to find that someone has drawn obscene objects on the sidewalk outside his window. "I'm getting in touch with my artistic side," says Niou when Yagyuu finds him camped outside the school, hunched over his knees like they were three and just learning the difference between a cow and a horse and the importance of anatomical accuracy, or inaccuracy in Niou's case. "Your artistic side seems to like vandalism," Yagyuu notes and Niou continues to draw Sanada in puke green on the wall outside the tennis courts.

"You mean Bunta does," Niou says and signs the drawing with a flourish. Yagyuu breathes absently, in, hold, out and watches Niou consider his drawing. "You're missing a mustache," he says and Niou eyes him before saying in a cautious sort of tone that "Sanada said okay."

When they are outside the hospital Yagyuu looks up into the clouds and thinks that it's third year, and when he looks down he rubs his eyes and realizes that Niou has drawn clouds in blue and white and below them, in bold red letters scripted, life is beautiful. Yukimura will appreciate it, Yagyuu looks up and says to Niou, "It'll rain tomorrow."

"I know," Niou replies. He holds out a hand, demanding to be helped up and blinking slowly in the not-quite-light that streams down between the clouds.

"It'll wash away," says Yagyuu with a finality that knows the blue will run into the red and the l will bleed. Yukimura will see it from his third story window; "I want green tea," says Niou in his best Yagyuu voice.

Sanada doesn't let them use the switch in inter-school games until third year, "it's not appropriate," he says and for all his calm Yagyuu watches as Sanada drops a flaming match into Niou's wide and open mouth. The wind is dead when Sanada starts with "I spoke with Yukimura this weekend..." and finishes when says Niou, "well, fuck" and suddenly, they have permission to use it.

The need to repeat it hangs in the air and "Sanada said okay," Niou says while he's showing Sanada exactly how much he appreciates it on the school wall outside the courts. "You think buchou talked him into it? I think he did, he was always a bastard, slapping me. We should go see him, not Sanada--" (he crosses himself) "--buchou, later. I'll draw him something. You know, thank him."

Yagyuu keeps meticulous count: they don't switch after that, strange because Niou has taken his glasses at least once a day if not more for years, but when he mentions this Niou just looks at him and says, "no need to hurry," before giving his cheek a loud kiss and Yagyuu feels his shirt (starch) push against the bubble in his chest.

His ribs ache from opposite but unequal forces and he says this to Yukimura the next time he visits, a few days after Sanada's benediction. There is screaming from somewhere in the hospital (Yukimura's brow wrinkles) and Yagyuu waits chivalrously. "I saw the drawing," says Yukimura in time, holding out a hand and when Yagyuu sits down uses it to rub the pressure point between Yagyuu's forefinger and thumb. "Will you tell him I said thank you?"

"He was thanking you," says Yagyuu, wondering what Yukimura thought when he saw the l bleed into the black sewer below the parking lot. The walls of Yukimura's room are white (Yukimura rubs hard and Yagyuu winces) and blinding and Yagyuu for a minute thinks that they need clouds to block out the brightness. There is more screaming.

Yukimura's soft breath (in, out, in) brings him back. "How is your family?" he asks and "coping" Yagyuu replies. Well, Yukimura's expression seems to say, what now and Yagyuu wants to reply that Niou has been getting bored (with him), hasn't talked to him at all since Sanada said "okay" and they ate green tea popsicles outside the hospital and Niou mashed his into the ground.

"Niou flooded the second story bathroom," he says instead. Yukimura laughs. "It was a girl's bathroom," he continues, "There was a girl in it."

Yukimura raises his eyebrow, innocent what can I do ("Niou rebels," he says simply) and Yagyuu wonders how Yukimura felt at the window, watching the rain wash away life is, blue, red, clouds and beautiful.

"Have you been bored?" says Yagyuu when he wakes up and looks out his window. He notes what Niou has drawn: a Yagyuu, without a head; another Yagyuu, without his arms; another Yagyuu, who has no fingers. "Congratulations," he says, "on being anatomically incorrect."

"You're kind of sick. I'm at the courts if you want to come. Bring cash. Let's have ice cream, your treat."

Niou's mural is still in sight when they stand outside the hospital, green tea popsicles in hand and Yagyuu is casually licking his while Niou gnaws at one end. "Hey," Niou says, "Who do you like being better, Niou or Yagyuu?"

"Niou," says Yagyuu.

"Me too," says Niou, "Yagyuu's just so damn stiff."

Ten feet later, Niou drops his popsicle and slowly uses his foot to grind it into the pavement. He grabs Yagyuu's glasses and rubs them while grinding at the green tea and he opens his mouth to quickly say, "You know, I've been bored. We've been doing this for a while. And everyone knows. Even Sanada knows, and he said it was okay. Let's take a break. I don't want to be Yagyuu. I'm Niou. We'll still play doubles, but let's take a break, okay?" He hands the glasses back.

Says Yagyuu: "Sanada--"

"--said okay," says Niou, and the rain starts falling (Yagyuu wonders). The next morning, Yagyuu wakes up breathing in, hold, out and feels the starch of his shirt as it holds his insides in; he gets to the locker room, and when he sees Niou, "my ribs ache," he says to his mirror.

miscellaneous_reading

Wed, 03 May 2006 22:49:38 GMT

i realize i've been mia for over a month now ; to ease the guilt, here's the cream of what i've been doing:

-- fiction
the hours	michael cunningham
art & lies : a piece for three voices and a bawd	jeanette winterson
a good scent from a strange mountain : stories	robert olen butler
the shipping news	annie proulx
the fountainhead	ayn rand
best new american voices 2005	francine prose

-- nonfiction
michael bamberger	wonderland : a year in the life of an american high school
dr. mardy grothe	oxymoronica : paradoxical wit and wisdom from history's greatest wordsmiths
albert jack	red herrings & white elephants : the origins of the phrases we use everyday

-- other
her majesty's dragon	naomi novik
blizzard of one : poems	mark strand
the scar	china mieville

-- fanfiction
monochromal	two lost souls
monochromal	the house
monochromal	call me not oedipus
monochromal	still life
two_if_by_sea	tailspin
didntyoupotter	snatch 1-3
kleos_fic	third degree
kleos_fic	law of motion
daegaer	like the smoke of a furnace
givemehistory	bull and butterflies

no writing (besides the requisite contests &essays) has been going on lately because i'm on a reading binge, which should end as soon as apweek(s) +ensuing hell passes.

i am halfway through my six aps.