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I did not expect, of all things, fucking *Casanova* to trigger the ever-loving fuck out of me.

We watched the David Tennant version tonight at my housewarming party.  It was an awesome party.  And a pretty enjoyable movie.

Right up until the final scene where the character hearing the story from Old!Peter O'Toole!Casanova is watching him die, and lies through her teeth over and over and over about his one true love being on her way to see him after decades of separation.

Except for the name, word for word, it was almost exactly what my sister said to my dying grandmother the last time I saw her.  Which is likely to be the last time I ever will see her.

And it was like a punch to the fucking gut.

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I'm not sure why I'm writing this, too late at night on far too little sleep.  I've been avoiding posting for some time now, for...various reasons.  Hell, not even rl ones.

Part of it is this: I haven't written a single original word in months.

Oh, I have some stories in my head, and I can write them down on a page even, in ways that I never have before, but they're all stories I've known for a long while now, and for one reason or another, haven't written down.  Yet as soon as I reach the boundary of that story, the end of what I know about it, I can't go on anymore.  I'm not tired of it, I even want to know what happens next.

But I've forgotten how to find out.

Perhaps ironically, since I've lost that I've been able to phrase my own thoughts, my own feelings in words that make me blink in surprise to look back on; turns of phrase that I look at in shock later, wondering how I pinned a concept in so few words, simultaneously understandable, and yet more poetic than I've ever quite reached before. 

"...where you miss them so much your jigsaw-puzzle heart skips a beat or two...",

I've known, more or less, that I can turn a phrase, even pretty well.  Perhaps the most telling indication is that some of the obligatory confused-kid middle-school poetry I wrote rather a lot of isn't only salvageable, but somehow, sometimes, even worth saving.

But those streets in my head where I used to walk, where I used to be bombarded with original character after original character, all shouting over one another to tell their stories, have fallen silent.  Even my dreams-usually reliable, if cracky, sources of inspiration-have gradually phased into either a: Doctor Who fanfiction, or b: outright disturbing semi-realistic dreams I can only half-remember, but are much more unsettling for that half-memory.

The first is fun, but unhelpful in writing stories.  The second is terrifying.

I remember sitting bolt upright and scrambling for a pen, babbling in half-coherent sentences to whatever unfortunate soul happened to be around, on fire with a new story waiting to be told.  There's still very little that can compare to that rush, where my semi-illegible babblings coalesce into a coherent story and I see my audience's eyes light up in response to that story, and all I want to do is write until the fire burns itself out.

It's not comfortable, exactly, but it's something I live for.

But I haven't felt it for months.

I had a tiny spark about two months ago, a mere ghost of what usually happens, and it was only grabbing two tropes I'm familiar with and linking them.  I don't believe it's been done before, and it's a lot of fun in its own way, and has its own twists and turns, but...I can't shake the feeling that it's not what's supposed to happen to me.  And besides, I have a cowriter, and while I've chatted plot and themes and characters with him, I have yet to contribute a single damned word.

It's like I can't make art anymore.  And it scares me.

Objectively this probably isn't true.  I have played the piano, after all, and that's music, but...it's been performance only, technical playing, nothing special; so I can read sheet music like I read English.  Big whoop.  I've been playing since I was six.  It's all practice.

I haven't dared touch my harp.  I've never been that good with it but when I'm playing my own, she's sweet enough to compensate for me, even when I'm slowly picking my way through a piece I've only heard.

I'm terrified that if I sit down at her, and try to play something, it won't work, and it'll only be strings vibrating at a certain frequency.  Or-and I know this is horribly superstitious but I can't help it-that her strings will snap beneath my fingers if I even try.

That the silence of what used to be the stories in my head will turn into silence on my harp, and slowly infect everything else until I no longer have anything to say.

Right now, I can still describe what's in my own head, at least.  My words haven't deserted me in that respect.

But I'm starting to feel like Echo.  That the only stories I know how to tell anymore are ones that I've already told, or aren't even mine.


Jun. 1st, 2011 12:20 pm
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So, I was just reading something on Autostraddle, like I do, and suddenly for the first time I seriously thought about bringing a significant other home with me to Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Me being me, this (currently hypothetical) significant other would also be female.

My family being my family...

1: where can I rent a helicopter team for immediate extraction if necessary?  I like to have these things planned well in advance.
2: omma go hide under the piano RIGHT NOW until I stop freaking out.
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I've been doing some reading.

...my dad really, really fucked up when I told him I was gay, didn't he.
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Oh, my life.  It's very amusing sometimes.

So, my roommate from last year, who I'm living with again this fall, and I have a running joke that her room is like officer's quarters.  Seriously, you should have seen it last year-there was a world map, and a vintage Army helmet, and boots, and peacoat, and a stuffed pheasant (no, really; we call him Conrad); the works.  Anyway, I teased her about it all last year, and for her birthday got her a vintage pinup girl poster.  This one.


Classy, no?

Anyway, I'm doing it again this year, and she wants a brunette.  I haven't come to a final decision, but I'm leaning towards this one.


The other possibility is this one.


Something about the second one bothers me though.  aliaras has been nicely analyzing the arty bits for me, and why they don't really work, and I agree with her...it's just that my roommate would *really* like the dress she's wearing...

Ironically enough, she's the *straight* one.

However, I plan to be mailing her pinup girls on her birthday for the rest of her natural life...which will be fun for her to explain to people... XD

Oh, my life.
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I bid you farewell in song lyrics.  So.  Here goes.

I've got my duds in order, for I must go down to the sea again.  I've set a course for winds of fortune on a brave and gallant ship, so come sail away with me on my life, my love, and my lady!  There's my horizon to chase...farewell, and joy be with you all.

If anyone can guess all eight songs I referenced without recourse to Google, they get major awesome points.

I love you all, and I will miss you.
dreamwaffles: (my fandom thanks you kindly)

I'm having a Facebook conversation with a friend of mine from school right now, and we're trying to assign blame to a situation.  Her most recent quote was, "Canadian Mountie!  Not my fault now."

The explanation for this one is really pretty goofy, so I thought I'd share. 

Actually, before I do that, here's the exchange, because it just gets...progressively sillier, and is making me kind of giggle my head off.

Me: (to a different friend) My fault or hers?
Her: Canadian Mountie!  Not my fault now.
Me: Vulcan pledge of allegiance.  Totally your fault.
Her: Doing the next step of Canadian Mountie does not override original Canadian Mountie!
That would just be chaos!

So, I'm sure that many of you are familiar with the phenomenon of "No Nose Goes", in which the last person in a group to touch their nose is the one whose fault it is, who has to do some sort of task the rest of us are too lazy to do, etc.  I have found that this is rampant at camps and wherever there are large numbers of lazy young people congregated.  However, there is something of a problem with No Nose Goes: if everyone is aware of it and becomes acclimated, it can become extremely difficult to determine who, in fact, had no nose last and now has to perform a task.

My dorm overcame this inherent difficulty by adopting a more advanced two-step system of No Nose Goes.  We call it Canadian Mountie.  (hence the icon, if you're on dreamwidth.)  Canadian Mountie requires both hands, and consists of one hand held flat and palm-down just below the nose, and one cupped hand hovering about three inches over the head in order to imitate a Stetson.

It is very, very silly to see in a large group of my dormies, some of whom like to present themselves as serious-minded people for some strange reason.  When Canadian Mountie goes, if you're not a Mountie, you're going to suffer the consequences of what normally would be the fate of one who had No Nose.

We actually have a slightly expanded sequence of motions, which performed in the correct order consists of:

No Nose Goes (index finger to tip of nose)
Canadian Mountie (moustache and hat)
Vulcan Pledge of Allegiance (hand in the Vulcan V placed over heart)
Pirate Hitler (left index finger under nose to imitate Hitler moustache, right arm extended in a Heil with index finger crooked like a pirate's hook)

These actions are actually fairly difficult to perform in rapid sequence and not mix up the fingers and such.  However, for practical purposes, our dorm uses only No Nose Goes transitioning to Canadian Mountie (in which case, the people who habitually carry beverages *cough* are usually shit out of luck.)

Anyway, the protocols for Canadian Mountie on Facebook are a little fuzzy.  Mostly I posted this because I find it hilarious.  If there are conclusive results I will edit to add them.

dreamwaffles: (Canon)


Every once in a while, I am reminded of just how amazing the gay community is.  For example: this.


This...made my life.  I love that song anyway, because Lily Allen rocks, but...this video makes me really, really happy.

Also Dan Savage is amazing.  See: this.  http://www.youtube.com/itgetsbetterproject

I'm debating submitting something.  On the one hand, there's not a lot I wouldn't give to be able to have a conversation with my 17-year-old self during my whole denial/self-hate/panic phase of figuring out that I am as gay as a gay thing that gays.  On the other...I hate, hate, hate public speaking.  Hate it.  The more personal things get, the more I do my level best to hide under a bush, as many of you know.  I can do dance concerts, sure, and music concerts are fine, but I don't have to talk during those.

My medium of choice for many things, if not most, is the written word.  Maybe I'll write something out and...do something with it.  I don't know.  Like I said, I'm wavering.  And sure, I could write a speech; whether or not I could actually read it aloud is another though...I might be able to do something with it if I collaborate.  I don't have time to do it anytime soon in any case though.

Whether or not I do, I'm stalking this youtube channel...


I made them last night for my housemates.  They were nom-licious, even though it was my first time ever making the recipe and I had to substitute broth for the consomme because the store was out.  I was terrified because the meat looked a little dodgy, but NOM NOM NOM and no one got food poisoning, so huzzah!


A very close friend of mine, the guy who was the first real friend I made at college (about four other people became friends at about the same time, but he squeaks in just before they did because we met playing Zombies vs Humans before we went to game night and joined up with the rest of the Jewfalcons), posted this quote on my Facebook wall at the beginning of the summer, when we were missing one another a hell of a lot and the sting hadn't faded yet.

"True friendship isn't being inseparable.  It's being separated, and nothing changes."

I'd like to add to that a quote from Due South.

"A friend is someone who won't stop until he finds you and brings you home."

I'm on my way, guys.  I'll get there. <3

4. LOVE!

Apparently I'm sparkly and glowy and shit, or something.  I keep finding myself with a stupid grin on my face that I can't seem to stifle.  I'm giving myself diabetes.  I would be horrified, but I'm too happy to care!

Sorry if I'm talking any of your ears off, btw; I can't seem to stop myself.  Luckily you guys don't seem to give the impression of minding, and even when I am asking silly questions about how to talk to girls you are noble enough to not laugh in my face.  XD


It is my favorite season right now, guys!  I LOVE FALL.  The leaves are pretty!  There are fresh apples and squash and corn!  OM NOM NOM!


The man's voice looks like clear forest green shot through with black glitter.  I can't stop listening to him.  HELP.  EITHER BY STOPPING ME OR SENDING ME MORE LAMBERT.  -facepalm-


Seven, four, and eleven have always been my favorite numbers.  Also forty-two.  But mostly four, seven, and eleven.

Okay, I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel, so...what is making you guys happy lately?  Feel free to ask me questions about any of the above!

dreamwaffles: (Default)

Welcome one, welcome all to the first post of my SEA Semester adventures!

Pictures inside! )
More pictures! )
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I'll be posting what's going on at my exchange program eventually, I'm working on a post this weekend to be uploaded soonish, but I've been reading atheist/ex-Christian/ex-Mormon blogs all morning and something occurred to me.

I can't help but notice that while ex-Mormon and ex-Christian blogs are a dime a dozen, the only ex-Zen Buddhist blogs I can find are people who converted to some form of Protestant Christianity.  I'm not entirely sure what this means, and I don't know if it can be regarded as a significant data point, considering how much of a minority Zen Buddhists are in this culture.

Of course, being a Zen Buddhist, I may well be biased in their favor.  However, I'm intrigued enough to throw it open to discussion.  Thoughts, anyone?  (I trust that you guys, o teeny flist, will remain civil and respectful to one another at all times.  Particularly, rl friends, if you ever want to eat my baking again.)

I may add more to this entry, but I'm actually quite hungry and haven't even had tea yet.
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I have no idea if this poetic form has a name. )
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So I've been reading a lot of blogs about racism lately.  I haven't yet formulated anything terribly coherent to say, but I thought I'd give at least a bit of a try.

Part of the reason that I'm largely incoherent on this topic right now is because I hadn't thought terribly deeply about racism, white privilege, institutional oppresion, etc. until I hit college.  Apparently a lot of people don't; I don't feel very bad about it either (though maybe I should) because, well, I'm only twenty, and as no one ever really bothered to talk very much about racism to me when I was a kid, it didn't really occur to me to think about it in high school.  It wasn't until I started reading a lot of feminist and gay rights blogs that I sort of blundered across the racism blogs.  (I completely missed racefail_09, because I'm honestly not very involved in the LJ fandom community; I stalk a few authors in large fandoms, but the only ones I really participate in are the teeny little ones where everyone knows everyone, like Wodehouse or Master and Commander.)

A little bit of background about myself, because this is a public post and while most of my friends know me, a lot of you won't: I am (in case you haven't guessed already) white.  Mostly German, Norwegian, and French, for those of you who care; most of my family's been in North America for several centuries.  I think the latest immigrant came over a little after the American Civil War, but most of my family had been here before then in either Louisiana, Quebec, or the Midwest.  (There is lots of military service in my family history.  Lots.)  But I digress.

I am also, in no particular order, a cisgendered female, a Zen Buddhist, and a lesbian.  I grew up in Seattle, for the most part in a rich, mostly white neighborhood just next to a neighborhood with three Jewish temples, two of them Orthodox, and went to Catholic school for thirteen years.  I go to college at a tiny liberal arts school in Portland, Oregon.  And finally, I'm a biology major who will probably wind up in botany.

And, relatively recently, to bring it back to my point (I have a tendency to wander around), I have started to become a lot more aware of issues surrounding racism.

I've looked at male privilege and straight privilege in quite a bit of depth before, but while these issues certainly have their similarities to racism, they are ultimately different issues.  Yes, I have experienced prejudice based on being female, and have at times been desperately grateful that I'm not an obvious lesbian at a glance, but as I mentioned, I've been doing a lot of reading, and I believe that by now I at least partly comprehend that my experiences have little to nothing to do with institutionalized racism.

Women's rights need to be addressed.  Gay rights need to be addressed.  But not in forums specifically for people of color.  That is called derailing!  I have learned this by reading some truly cringeworthy comments and the well-deserved smackdowns for it!

However, I find myself a bit paralyzed now.  I can accept that if PoC want their own space, I stay the hell out and shut the hell up.  Even though it's not very analogous, I think about it as I would think about a Christian prayer group wanting to come hang out where I'm doing zazen; okay, fine, they have good intentions, I'd be glad to talk to them later but could they maybe not come and use my Zen space where I'm currently trying to do Zen?  (actually, now that I think about it, that may be a better analogy than I originally thought it was.  Huh.)

But when it comes to racism discussions where I am involved and, hell, even allowed to participate...what do I do?  I don't want to derail; derailing is bad!  And I really, really don't want to talk over anyone.

Except, at this time, with the reading I've done so far, the only role I can see for myself is to be quiet and nod in such discussions.  Which, okay, if that's what I'm needed to do, then I'll do it wholeheartedly.  But I don't know if that's contributing or not, and I want to contribute.  I want to help.  I just really, really don't want to muck things up further.

I know that sometimes I will fuck up.  I am a human being, and humans fuck up on an alarmingly regular basis.  What I'm trying to find is a way for me to throw in and do my bit, because I feel like I'm not doing enough.

The answer I see right now is, "More reading!"  And I will be doing that; I will be doing a lot of that, and it's entirely possible I'll stumble across something tomorrow and feel kind of dumb about writing this post.

I just...I don't know, wanted to make my intentions clear or something?  Hell, I have no idea.  But writing things out tends to help me think, and I've written this much.  So, uh, I guess I'll post it and see what happens.
dreamwaffles: (Default)

What kind of world is this, where the matter of what’s in a significant other’s pants can lead to outright rejection and blanket social condemnation?


Apr. 9th, 2010 12:50 am
dreamwaffles: (Default)
this strange little thing
so small against an ocean
a candle at night.
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The more I read about working in the Arctic and Antarctic Circles, the more I want to go.

The further north (or south) the better.

I've just spent almost an hour going through websites with Arctic and Antarctic work opportunities.  Camp worker, general staff, science staff, boat handlers, mechanics-I don't care.  I would love to go to the ice.

I mean, I thought I was obsessed with the Gold Rush when I was a kid (totally obsessed, btw, you don't even want to know about my visits to the Gold Rush musem -cough-) but this is exponentially more than that.

...so.  Crazy?  Yes?  No?


Mar. 5th, 2010 08:30 am
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I know intellectually there are worse things, but lying alone in bed attempting to go to sleep when your roommate's elsewhere and trying and trying not to think about it and then suddenly remembering random shit like how she was always leaving her reading glasses on the counter and you'd have to take them to her and both of you would crack up about it every time is probably the most painful thing I've had to deal with ever.

And there's really nothing to prepare you for it.

I wish I could remember how I dealt when my friend Gina died when I was eleven. But I don't and I don't think it would help.

...aaaaand I have an interview today for an exchange program. Just to make it all fucking perfect.

I feel like the world's gone insubstantial and I could wave my hand through objects or people and walk through walls because nothing's quite there right now, and I have to go to an interview for something I really, really, really want to do because it's the only day the interviewer is in town.

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I have a list of songs that sound like sunlight.

Currently I'm listening to it, and reading fluffy SGA fic before I go study for my plant test.

Today was not a terribly good day, except for plant lab, which was as always amazing.  I love that class.

Tomorrow my dad is visiting and taking me to dinner.  I'm bringing friends with me, on his invitation.

But I don't know how much longer I can do this.


ETA: For the interested, here's a partial list of the songs I was listening to.  I've put the ones that look (sound?  Damn it, English is not designed for synesthetes) most like sunlight down.

They sound like other stuff too, each instrument and voice has its own particular color/pattern, but taken as whole songs, these sound like sunlight.  There are more songs that sound like sunlight too, but these were the ones on the list.

Why Walk When You Can Fly, Mary Chapin Carpenter
I'll Tag Along, Gordon Lightfoot
Sweet Carolina Rain, Kane
Om, The Moody Blues
I'm Gonna Be, The Proclaimers
Ride Forever, Paul Gross
100 Years, Five for Fighting
Fields of Gold, Sting
Shambala, Three Dog Night
Watershed, Indigo Girls
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Two things to address this post.  Both are slightly silly, and they are tangentially related.

One, I watched Hot Fuzz last night with a bunch of my dormies, and dear god how did I go so long without seeing that movie?  Apparently my friends who'd already seen it derived as much amusement from my reactions to it as from the movie itself.  I had seven guests, most of them piled somehow onto my bed, and we watched it with so much glee.  Afterwards we watched All Fired Up (a few people left), and let me tell you, it was a joy to see just how much sheer glee people got out of that movie.  I'd only seen part of it.  I think that my 21-year old male friend with WFR training got the most out of it, however, judging by how much he was cackling.  And to round out the evening, we watched Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, which only one of my guests had never seen.  The rest of us, naturally, sang along.  And although four of the original people had left, we gained three more random passersby.  And then I kicked everyone out so I could shower and sleep because by that time it was 0100.

Ah, college.  Such a sinful and depraved place, dont'cha know.  What with all the rampant movie-watching and tea-drinking that goes on in my circle of friends.  And, okay, okay, I admit it-I handed out Kit Kats.  My perversity knows no bounds.  Truly.

(but seriously, Hot Fuzz.  OH MY GOD.  I might watch it again tonight.  And I am buying it as soon as I have the opportunity.)

Tangentially related to last night's events of sin and perversity, Nick's peace lily made me really, really miss having a dorm plant.  My maidenhair fern died over break (poor baby, it was never the same after the heat wave, and the freeze this winter did it in -sigh-) and the African violet I had last year just wasn't happy here.  So I currently have no plant.

I want a plant damn it.  They are soothing!  They clean the air!  I talk to them!  All I have right now is a dried rose I got at the dance recital and it's very pretty but that's not a plant, that's decoration.  I'm a bio major, people!  I NEED PLANTS!

So, I've been researching plants all morning and I think today I will walk up the main boulevard where there are stores and find myself a new plant.  Perhaps a peace lily even, though that's a little large for the space I have.

My mom is kind of 'meh' on houseplants, but I love them.  Which is slightly odd, because I'm 'meh' on gardening.

Anyway, here's hoping I get a good plant soon.  And that this one lives.  -crosses fingers-

ETA: I bought a peace lily! :D
dreamwaffles: (Shippy Goodness)
Ignore me if you don't care about SGA )
tl;dr: hurrah, I might actually be able to finish Stargate Atlantis Big Bang!
dreamwaffles: (Canon Bitches)
Here, have a deviantart link.  http://ursulav.deviantart.com/art/Enlightenment-50453518

look at the picture first! )


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