Life is totally boring without the occasional (metaphorical) coronary, right?
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.
So. I have this idea for a fanvideo. Actually it's not so much an 'idea' as a PLAN. Except. I can't do fanvideos at all, so I'm just going to PUT IT ON THE INTERNET and make the pointed comment that it's my birthday in October. :D (early October. NO SLACKING.)
SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT LIKE SPOILY THINGS.( it's an X-men PLANCollapse )
(it's possible I'm exhausted and, uh, slightly drunk. Although I came up with the idea this morning walking to the bus long before I had any beer, so.)
GO AHEAD AND JUDGE ME IN THE COMMENTS IF YOU WANT. I HAVE NO SHAME.
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.
- Tags:fuck., rl
- Location:my room.
- Music:We are not now that strength which in old days/Moved earth and heaven...
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.
Sometimes you have a friend who you get along with pretty well and hang out with a lot, and always have fun talking to. Sometimes you start anticipating each other, and playing off each other in conversation, deliberately leaving openings for one-liners that no one else is going to notice. Sometimes you stay up to absurd hours talking, or find each other to bitch about something small that nevertheless irritates the shit out of you, and commiserate, and have tea.
Sometimes you'll see how much more than usual the needling from others is bothering that friend, and when they stand up to leave you'll be right behind them with an excuse that you'll freely admit to them was a complete lie, even though you try not to lie as a matter of course.
Sometimes you'll somehow wind up feeling weird if you don't see them every day even for a few minutes. Sometimes you'll deliberately wind each other up, and the other will let you, even though they totally know about it, and will go along anyway for the amusement factor. Sometimes one will say something really stupid and upsetting but then notice and apologize before the other one can even tell them what and why it bothered them.
Sometimes something terrible will happen, and they'll listen to you for hours while you're cracking apart and ignore sleeping even though they're dog-tired because you're upset, and you'll wonder how on earth you got to this point from that terrible mutual first impression, but be too grateful for their presence to worry about it. Sometimes that hug, all the more precious for being rarely given, is the only thing that keeps the pieces of you from flying in all directions while you're trying desperately to slow your breathing and quiet the sobbing and stop making those horrible noises like an animal in pain.
Sometimes you'll suddenly realize that out of nowhere, all the more shocking for being so unanticipated, that you're each others' best friend.
Sometimes, this happens.
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.http://www.allposters.com/-sp/Carole-Lombard-Posters_i5247758_.htm
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.http://www.allposters.com/-sp/Jane-Russell-Posters_i342884_.htm
The other possibility is this one.http://www.allposters.com/-sp/Young-Widow-Jane-Russell-1946-Posters_i5108430_.htm
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.