Truly. Deeply. Madly

I give. I'll write it.
Damn you.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1336031.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

I gave myself last night off. I picked up the book I'd been nibbling at around the corners of sewing frenzy, and tried to give it a solid go.

And spent the next twelve chapters bouncing off it. It's the second book in an urban fantasy series, and I had liked the first one enough to justify picking up the others, but now... I want to light this 'hero' on fire far worse than I ever wanted to bash in Anita Blake's skull, and that's a considerable bar to have exceeded. I despise this guy. He's a liar and a whiner and a possessive, nasty, dick-measuring gobshite junky without a single redeeming quality to him. He's a mean little John Constantine wannabe without actually being clever, or really intelligent in any capacity.

And the heroine! Oh my god, what is WITH this doormat? I definitely remember that she wasn't this passive in the first book, when she was a goddamned CID in Homicide with the London Metro PD! She's a dishrag in tight jeans now, whose sole purpose in this narrative seems to be to get lied to by the aforementioned jerkwad. Who is supposed to be her teacher, but who is actually teaching her nowt, while actively deceiving her about the very real dangers that are about to overtake her. Asshole. I know the story's over before it's begun if she does this, but I just really want her to shank the bastard and walk away. Tell him that if he's going to spend all his effort 'protecting' her, and have nothing left he can put toward trusting her, then her investment in him is officially bust, and he can keep the fucking sheets.

But then she wouldn't be on hand to inspire him to quit his infernal whingeing and save his arse. (Because she's sure as fuck got nothing to save him with, according to this book's tracks.)

Gnar. Chapter fifteen. By chapter fifteen I should really have some shred of investment in these characters, shouldn't I? I mean, especially since I remember if not liking them, at least liking the world in the first book?

And the worst part -- the VERY worst part of this whole thing is that last night was pretty much the only 'downtime' I'm going to have this week. And I've wasted it reading bad fiction. I broke my own rule in the interest of giving the damned book a chance, and now I get to take away a sense of frustrated disappointment from my night off instead of the satisfaction of a successful escape.

And what's more, I *PAID* for the fucking book, too. It's not like I spent the night reading bad fanfic online, I special ordered this wad of ink and paper on the strength of its predecessor.

Fie.

Next night off, I'm reading Avengers fanfic instead!

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1334886.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

( A spoilery meta on the use of the word 'sentiment' in the Avengers movie. )

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1334753.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Just got this lovely hat tip in the e mail inbox:




Congratulations!

You have been nominated at The Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards.
Please pick up a button and link back to us. It's not required, just appreciated.

Story: 5 Things That Never Happened to Rupert Giles
Categories: Best Crossover Book, Best Crossover Book Pairing


So that's a nice thing to trip over at the end of an exhausting weekend. I love it when my old babies get compliments -- it's like getting a phone call from an old flame who's in town and wants to meet for coffee. I think I'll poke around some of the other nominees and see what they're like. It'll stop me running off to watch The Avengers five more times this week, anyhow.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1334332.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Ok, so yesterday's post was slightly cryptic, and enormously whiney, but it's my journal, and I blow off steam as it suits me to do -- you all knew that was part of the deal when you signed on.

So today, I'll do a little backfill.

* I am hosting naturespirit's doe party tomorrow at my house.
* I have my annual OBG on Monday, an eye appointment on Wednesday, and if I remember correctly, another marathon dentist's session that week as well.
* Then on Saturday, it will be time for naturespirit and hotspurre's wedding.
* Somewhere between now and then I have to do all the laundry.
* We still have an incomplete back fence, because of weather patterns and wedding business, and that has to get fixed before the neighbors lose patience with us.
* And on top of all that, I have Henrician (1533) court outfits to make for aquila_dominus and me before Memorial Day weekend. I am not exaggerating when I say the to-do breakdown of those projects is four pages long.

Add to THAT, the fact that my brain is so thoroughly overtaken by New!Fandom that I am, no lie, dreaming about Avengers stories. And not only have I only seen it once, my writing buddy, dulcinbradbury hasn't seen it at all, so I can't natter at her about it when we hang out, and that is *Killing* me!

I might be just slightly overclocked.

So since we've got a break in the clouds this morning, I've stolen a half an hour to go out and sit in it, churn out some vitamin D of my own, and scrape a bit of the pallor off my skin to let the Welsh and Cherokee show through. But alas, the sunshine was short-lived. I'll post this now, get back to work, and keep my eyes on the sky for another chance to get out into it.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1334210.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

I have so very, very much work to do.

I want to dive headlong into New!Fandom, and spend all day online squeeing, and every night rewatching canon. I want to try and be virtuous and reclaim my traction on TF. I want to rest up, and recover a bit of my health that's been slipping lately. I want to get out and enjoy the New York springtime. I want to finish fixing my fence, and getting my yard in hand. I want to get things started on fixing my damned tub upstairs. However, if any of that happens, the other thing won't be done in time, and that is not an option.

Sigh. Yet again, I need a cloning machine.
Ah well.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1333943.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

( If you click this link and then whinge about being spoiled for the new Avengers movie, I swear I will bribe your neighbor's pet to kick you in the tonsils while you're masturbating... )

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That was my head exploding with new fandom love.

And lest I spoil anyone, I shall say nothing further, except that my 'unpopular opinion' of yesterday?

SO.
FUCKING.
STANDS!!!

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1333106.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Unpopular Opinion Of The Day -- Captain America is the best of the Avengers.

Yes, I know he's not as funny as Tony Stark, and he doesn't have tits like Black Widow, but Cap is officially my favorite of the Avengers. I really, REALLY like the basic morality of his character. He's doing what he feels is right, and he's doing it with every scrap of ingenuity, strength, and passion he has in him. The fact that what he feels is right usually involves protecting people weaker than he from forces that would grind them up into patties is just sauce on top for me, it's that ethical commitment of his, that internal, conscience compass he has, and his willingness to be open and unashamed of HAVING that compass that so many other "heroes" in the Marvel line utterly lack, *CoughWolverineCough* that makes him my favorite.

So yeah, his wisecracks might not be the best, nor his toys the shiniest, he may not be rich, immortal, borderline psychotic, or green, but he's the man who gets to save MY bacon, because I wouldn't trust any of the others on the team not to burn it while they were showing off.

Not a single other member of the Avengers is fit to lead. Not so much as an expedition to the toilet and back. Cap is their glue. Cap IS their compass.



This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1332541.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

The protagonists of the last three things you read/watched/played are the members of your zombie apocalypse team. How screwed are you?

* "Iron Man" watched on Tuesday night. (Tony Stark and JARVIS in a power suit that can pre-target for tandem headshots? Pshyeah!)
* "Iron Man 2" Watched last night. (Which gives me reckless/fucked up Tony, AND supercharged Tony, AND Heavily Armed Rhodie, AND Natalia-who-is-not-from-Legal too, thanks.)
* "Demon Bound" Currently reading. (In which I get a witch who is also an ex cop, and a necromancer who was, until recently, dead. However, I have not read it fully yet, and am farther along in option 2 of the Things I've Read list)
* "Madame Lalaurie -- Mistress of the Haunted House" Also currently reading.(In which case I get a sadistic 19th century psychopath with a taste for vivisecting her slaves. Still, one really could do worse when zombies are in the patch.)


So... yeah. I'm all set. Anybody want a scorecard? Or a sammich?

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The Benediction of Saint Anguish
By Catt Kingsgrave
Rating: Gen, with Opinions.
Wordcount: 1058
Genre: Free verse poetry
Warnings: references abuse, apologism, and suicide.
Author's notes: Yeah, don't ask me where this one came from. She just turned up, and I fed her.
Feedback: Yes please!
Linking/reposting: Sure, with credit. Just ask first, and send me a link.
Tips: If you're motivated, yes please.



Saint Anguish came and sat on the corner of my bed
That final night, when I could not breathe for thinking
And want of sleep wound tight around my throat,
So tight I could feel the promise of all my future slumbers
Sizzling away in fiercely cold light of waiting to see
How many more shoes there were to drop.

I don't remember what she wore; it could have been
A miniskirt, a nightgown, a burqua, jeans and tee,
Barefoot, running shoes, stripper heels, flip flops, combat boots
Or glass slippers, I could not really tell,
For her step was quiet, furtive, dark as shameful secrets
One knows one ought not to be ashamed of, and her face,
Her eyes, transfixed me.
I did not want to ask what hand had raised the orbital flesh
In a welter of florid rose and aubergine so tight the blue
Of innocent skies could only squint, though kindly, through the gloom.

Did she smile? I couldn't tell; it looked painful that she might try,
And I, tired, sick of smiles, rather hoped she'd spare us both
The cracking of her crusted lip.
I could not ask, though from deep beneath my pain
I wondered who had martyred her, and how, and why
I knew the prayer she would give in answer;
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not whine.
He maketh me to lie down when I have been clumsy
And fallen on the stairs again, or put my own face into still waters
Until I could not breathe at all.
Yea, though I stumble in the valley of the shadow of his rod and his staff,
I shall not flinch, for his is the power and the fury
Forever and ever…

Her stigmata told the story though; Holy sigils of right cross,
Backhand, arm-twist and hair-snatch illuminated the passion play
And threw her patient suffering into feeble relief.
Another, lighter night, I might have been inspired
But I was furious with shame, spitting, septic with a rage
That hymns with verses like mine, like Hers,
Always seemed to end up at that same refrain
And let us seek what harmony we may,
The unresolving dissonance leers out of the sustain.
And here sat Saint Anguish, Our Lady of the Stolen Peace,
And patroness of those caught fast twixt Deep and Devil,
Humming the tune under her breath
Where I in my Profundis could just hear,
And cradling her hands just so at her lap,
As though she'd smuggled in the simple answers there.
As though the simple answers could be truths
I had not yet, in a hundred sleepless nights alike,
Managed to consider.

I told her, through my teeth, I didn't feel like singing.
Said she could take her neatly folded hands
And whatever sweet surcease she'd come to peddle;
Razors, pills, rough oakum, lead in a copper jacket,
or starvation-empty air; and shove it deeper twixt her thighs
To where the sun didn't shine, but ought to.
A sanguine tear drooled from her lips
Where possibly had hidden half a smile
Until its shelter cracked and let her ragged voice limp out.
"I know." A heckling raven's tones the sweeter,
Aves, Alleluias and Please No's all drowned
In a sacrament of fingermarks and ashes.
"I know."

And did it anger me the more that she might say the words
Those words -- the same as every soul who did not know,
Who did not want to know, dared say in hopes that I
Who did know, would choose to keep my peace, --
In kindly ignorance, or that she might
Might very well know what serpent gnawed my roots
When whispers quieted upon my entry,
And glances tripped the wire between guilt and morbid pity?
Might know the burn of blame well meant,
Knit thick and patted down around my poor sad shoulders
By those who were sorry, so sorry to hear
I'd got what had been coming.

"You don't," A cornered snarl, a rattling tail, a flash of fang
As if this Battered Saint might fear the likes of such a strangled wrath
As mine, "You can't!"
And then she nodded, her fingers bloomed apart
Like spider lilies' petals
Curled out around the flower's inky throat
A single stamen up thrust, black plastic chromed with silver
Tip and heel, middle bulging out enough,
And just enough that I might tell for sure
It was a pen, and not an iron nail
That pierced her hands together, pinned flesh to bones and sinew,
Dripped red edit marks along her wrist and knees.
"Then tell me."

What burnt fool's finger can resist such fire?
What bruised girl's pride could stand aside
When asked for truth, but offered such a dare?
I pinched the barrel, tugged.
She lurched beneath the force, gasped out
In pain or glory, then was stoic and was still
As that black instrument gave up its hold
Drew free as arrows from the side;
A rib dug out, recycled in one's sleep;
Or child that fights its way to birth.

The black pen slithered free.
And she was gone, Our Lady of Apologies
Patroness of those who must surely have transgressed
Some way or other.
And her stigmata has stayed with me since that night;
Bleeding out in verse what truths I know,
Spitting thorny truth into the eyes of those who would deny
(Thrice before cock's crow, or beneath the jury's eye,)
And speaking in the ancient tongue of those who have been silenced,
Dowsing out the wounded though the bruises may not show,
And bid the world to turn and witness what the shining leave behind
As they clamber toward the glory, jest, and riddle of mankind.

Let Saint Anguish guard their secrets, make it cozy, calm and nice
And let those who die in silence find in her some faint solace.
I can rhyme and I can scribble, I can rant and I can sing
I will roar, I will accuse, I will condemn the whole damned thing
And when the shadows close around me
And my dreams are hunted raw,
When I can't breathe for the depression, and the words stick in my craw
Then I will write them out
This sleek black weapon here my best ally
I'll speak truth from deepest shadow
I will not be made to lie.




If you liked this little ditty, and you've got a buck to spare
Toss a nickel in the kitty, 'cause it's always nice to share.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1332137.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

I spent about three hours in the dentist's chair today. The right side of my lip and tongue are actually still somewhat numb, though frankly that could be a product of the swelling that's making that side of my jaw throb.

Sleeping tonight is going to be very difficult, I predict.

Oh, and this will amuse some who know me -- apparently, I have a ... teeny... mouth. No, seriously, these were the words of the dental tech when she was taking the x rays. Most people require five to get a full span of their teeth on both sides. I required three, and had some overlap. Sooooo though my bite be but small, it is fierce? I dunno if I can really retrofit Shakespear for this one.

Ah well. Luckily, I had British documentaries on Netflix, and hand sewing to do, so I could sit and not talk all night with relative impunity. Though I did not actually get the ice cream for dinner that I'd promised myself somewhere around hour two, when there were three instruments and four hands in my mouth all at once. Teeny mouth, my aunt fanny -- not if they could get all that in without putting one of their own eyes out!

For now, however, it's time for some acetaminophen, and the hope of sleep.
I'll not see you tomorrow -- I'll be on strike.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1331921.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Tomorrow, prove how much of the sky we hold up by giving your arms a rest.
Let the 1% carry the load by themselves for a day. If they can.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1331589.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Worked all bloody day long to get just over a thousand words of freestyle poetry.
Sweated steam to get the finish in, whereupon, in the final hundred or so, the Muse suddenly decides on a meter and rhyme scheme? What the Actual?

I whacked it about a bit with the delete key until it got its pretensions in hand, and brought the damned thing home, but still. A thousand words for a fucking poem? Seriously, Kalliope? Could we not occasionally do something short enough to SELL, perhaps?

Ah well. It's not like brevity's ever been the soul of MY wit, after all, so I guess I really just need to be thankful to be writing at all, and leave it at that.
Which I am, of course. My life is always better when I'm writing than when I'm not, it's just that I'm greedy, and want some value to show for the effort at the end of the day. Ah well... price I pay for falling out of fandom, I suppose.

Still, at least I've got something finished.

The Benediction of Saint Anguish, it's called. And yeah, you'll probably see it on this blog sooner or later. After it's had a nap and thought about what it's done for awhile, that is.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1331304.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Well then, ONTD, how lucky for you to have, yet AGAIN, the flash page on LiveJournal's log in. And how kind to show me a picture of Jo Ann Rowling smirking over a query as to whether fanfic is 'taking the lazy way out', as well. One could as well ask whether bitching about fanfic online is not, in fact, rather lazier, however I doubt such an argument would be worth the mudslinging come the totals, and I had much rather spend my time creating something that makes people happy, than in taking jealous potshots at people who create instead of just destroy.

Not that I have an opinion on such casual, nasty cultural vandalism or anything.

But I do have two middle fingers, which I will use here to illustrate and punctuate a simple statement of intent or two.



Fuck You, world, you may NOT shame me for my fanfic.
I will write what I like, and I will accept not a shred of censure for it. Nobody, fan, pro, or useless little webtroll has the right to judge me for the creative choices I make, including when and whether I decide to participate in the three-ring-all-nude-publishing-circus-and-integrity-auction.

And further, you may not shame me for whom I choose to fuck, or in what way, or how often;
for what I choose to eat, when, or in what amounts;
for how I choose to vote;
for what I choose to wear;
for what I do, or do not do with my hair -- both on my head and elsewhere;
for how and when I worship;
for what animal and human companions I keep in my life;
for how often I cut my lawn;
for which social media platforms I will or won't use;
for what I like to read;
for which direction I knit my socks;
for the phone I carry, its brand, apps, and ringtones;
for the music I like or dislike;
for the makeup I don't feel like putting on, or how I wear it when I do;
for the movies I like, and why;
and most of all, for what I choose to do, or NOT do with MY creative energy.

My life does not belong to you, and I will happily break that shame over your head if you wave it in my face once too often. You may not point out the mote in my eye at all. Your moral judgments on my critical failings are unwelcome, and should you feel genuinely anxious as to whether or not I know of them, may I heartily suggest that you go lie down and have a nice wank until the urge passes? If you can't create something out of that desperate urge to prove your superiority, at least you can relieve a little of the built up tension behind your fears of inadequacy that way.

With all the respect due to you,
Me

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1330737.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

I am the proud and exhausted owner of 8/10ths of a repaired back fence.

I am also a lucky woman, with some of the most awesome friends ever. Not only are they generous with their time and energy, they're smart, inventive, and good with tools as well.

I'll do a more complete post on it later, when I am less baked, but the short form is that I asked for a brute squad to help take down, repair, and reinstall what could be salvaged of the fence that's been propped up for the past two years, and of which all the posts had rotted out below the ground level. Yesterday, Dominus and I cleared the area we'd be working in. Last night we got a storm. This morning, half the fence was lying on the ground when we got up.

By the time the rain finally forced us all indoors, all but one section of the fence was back up again.

I say it again; I have awesome friends.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1330366.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

http://yourlogicalfallacyis.com/home

This is kind of an awesome thing to have at one's disposal during an election year...

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1330000.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

* A headache that feels like vise grips on my temples. Luckily, I also have advil, so that is potentially fixable.

* A leaky bathtub with plumbing so old and batrachian that our Master Plumber has never actually seen the like before. And which he is not willing to dig into without first researching antique plumbing supply houses, breaking a gigantic hole through the concrete under the floor, and potentially sealing the whole thing with an Elder Sign. I am a little terrified that stopping the leak from the tub is going to cost about the same as a car. Possibly a crappy car, but still.

* Sunshine. Music. My gal. Who could ask for anything more?

* An awesome speculative fiction story that's standing squarely over the gap between genre and not genre. Leaving me without a clue where to try and send it. I have a couple of suggestions in hand which warrant further investigation, but the temptation is there to just sling it up here, and see if maybe it's got the legs to go viral.

* A violin that hasn't come down from the wall in too long.

* A craving for sushi. Or possibly Nutella brownies. Or tacos. Cannot much tell for sure. I might just be really hungry.

* White lilacs blooming outside my office window.

* An urge to break out my kit and paint. Sadly this urge is unaccompanied by any urge to sit down with my drawing pad and come up with anything TO paint.

* Avengers' fever. Yes sir, I can boogie now, but Captain America never learnt to swing dance back in the day, and that's just a damn shame. (Yes, it's entirely possible that Avengers movieverse might just be my next fandom. Don't you judge me!)

* A doldrum going on the next scene of Tempus Fugitive. This is not a good thing. I need to break that doldrum and get some prose on, stat.

* Two episodes of Criminal Minds on my DVR that I have not yet seen. This will be relevant to my interests tonight, boy howdy!

* A sudden urge to see if it's possible to adapt the Betty Crocker Peanut Butter Cookie recipe for Nutella. Which almost definitely means that I'm hungry. So why don't I feel hungry? S'weird.

* A Way. It's not as good as a Plan, but it's sure as fuck better than a Notion, and less dangerous than a Brilliant Idea.

* Grubby feet.

* A metric fucktonne of sewing to get done.

* Socks that are intimidating me.

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1329852.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

</tr>

Read on	Title	Author	Genre	Pages	Stars
April 18	The Serpent Garden	Judith Merkle Riley	Historical Fantasy	480	***
April 6	Gil's All Fright Diner	A. Lee Martinez	Horror/Urban Fantasy	259	***
April 5	The Fourth Estate	Catharsis	Romance/classic pastiche	238	****
March 26	Can't Take the Sky	Catt Kingsgrave	Dark Fantasy/Erotic horror	250	Ummm...
March 24	Territory	Emma Bull	historical fantasy	audio	****
March 22	Discount Armageddon	Seanan McGuire	Urban fantasy	368	***
March 15	The Neon Court	Kate Griffin	Urban Fantasy	501	***
March 1	Heart of Stone	C.E. Murphy	Urban Romance Fantasy	Audio	**
February 22	Midnight Riot	Ben Aaronovitch	Urban Fantasy	290	****
February 11	The Fall of the House of Usher	Edgar Allen Poe	Gothic Horror	26	*
February 6	Sandman Slim	Richard Kadrey	Urban Fantasy	388	****
January 27	The Grand Tour	Patricia C. Wrede, Caroline Stevermer	Historical Fantasy	480	***
January 9	One Corpse Too Many	Ellis Peters	Historical Mystery	Audio	***
January 5	The Victorian Underworld	Donald Thomas	Historical Reference	346	*****

This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1329495.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

I just spent two hours writing up a post about how it kinda sucks to have talent, but no talent at making a living from that talent. Then I got all self conscious about it, and set it to private because the last thing I want to do is become yet another one of those journals that people skim over, or filter out, but keep on friended because they don't want to hurt the blogger's feelings, or create dramah.

So I'll find a quicker way to say it, and move on, shall I? I hate the colloquial phrase "Pimping your work" because it's way too goddamned apt. I don't want to be a carny barker in order to be accepted as an artist. I don't want to have to try and out-shout the sweatshop centurions of Madison Avenue, I want to create things of beauty, and to have my work, my life, and the way I live it respected rather than glanced over and dismissed because I lack an army of marketing execs and a street team. All roads lead to Madison Avenue, but really, I'd rather stay home and get work done.

And that's why I'm not successful. Don't give me the 'Free Market' sales pitch; I don't buy it. The free market is all about who can scream the loudest about their mousetrap, not about who makes the best one. I hate screaming. I hate standing up on the ballyhoo and shaking my booty to try and get folks to take an interest in what I do. I was raised to believe that if my work had merit, then people would want it. And to believe that if I had to heckle bypassers for their attention, and plead for scraps of their time and notice, and maybe, if I was lucky, a coin or two, that what I was doing was not art, but cheap trash. Art is worthy. It sells itself, and its quality is evident.

I have always striven to produce art. And, because the above fairy tale, like that of equal rights and post-racism, is entirely false, that is why my arts have never really gone anywhere. Which makes it a good thing that I'm not in a position of NEEDING to make a living on my talents. Because if I did, the utter bollocks that is my marketing nerve and business sense would have me eating out of dumpsters.

Some days I can manage to be optimistic about things. Some days I can hope that if I just keep at the art -- what I'm GOOD at, -- then the sheer weight of effort will bring something out of it. Yes, it's magical thinking. It's also sometimes the only thing that keeps me from just calling up all my Works In Progress files and deleting them. Writing, art, theatre, poetry, music, costume, dance, design -- these things I'm good at. It's just that the self-degradation involved in selling them grinds away a little more of what I need to produce those arts.

Bah. And I'm whinging again. Tl;dr -- I hate pimping. Mainly because it's taken the place of talent, and also because I'm no goddamned good at it.

There. That's enough bitching for one day.
Time to justify my oxygen intake if I can manage it.

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