April 6th, 2003

elijah

Gyah...

Just finished watching Office Killer with Carol Kane, one of those random cable-surfing finds.

That is *so* not the movie I needed to see tonight, especially with the hour turning to midnight and me sitting in my apartment alone. Christ. Fucking creepy little flick. I mean, seriously. I'm a bit traumatized, I think. At least for the evening.

I want Kalima to send me icon requests, so I can go make icons for her and cheer myself up! Kal-eeee-ma!

Earlier today I felt rather like a social failure because I couldn't manage to...well, basically host a party where everyone gets along in fannish good cheer. But then I'm a social failure for so many other reasons of purely my own doing that it seemed dumb to worry about that particular issue. I mean, more critical to worry about is perhaps the mounting evidence that the longer people know me, the more I annoy them. You can only hide your neuroses and tics for so long, or it could just be that their charm wears off. And also, of course, I lose inhibitions and show my true colors--which you kind of tend to do over time, with friends, sort of like letting out the top button on your jeans, feeling embarrassed and not deliberately boasting of your underbelly so much as just needing to relax, with the hope that people will like you warts and all--but really, if I were a better person, I'd be ever vigilant and ladylike and smile through my teeth with patient good humor until the day I keeled over into the yogurt at the supermarket and where the hell I was going with this thought is utterly beyond me.

Gah. I depress myself. Hmmm. Could it be because I'm drinking? Stupid drinking person.

Was trying to cohere a thought earlier about my liking for characters who are fucked up. I think I've said it all before, but hey, whatever. Like, here's the thing: I don't need or even especially want characters to be healthy or well-adjusted, or all situations to be happy. Kinks give me kicks. Sociopaths amuse me. The fictional ones. I mean, it's all about fiction. Fiction is where I go to get fucked in the head. People watch and critique episodic television in different ways. Some reviews talk about the emotional healthiness of a relationship or the moral wrongness of some act. And I often feel weirdly out of synch for not caring about those things. Generally, all I care is whether it's in character, and whether it amuses--as opposed to bores--me. And I'm kind of a stupid viewer, so I'm easy to please. I don't notice plot holes, most days. If eye-candy makes me gurgle like a baby, then I really don't look much deeper than what's on the screen. And by eye-candy I don't mean tits and ass so much as bright shiny funnies that poke my lizard brain in good places.

I sound disingenuous, maybe. It's not that I don't get analytical or critical. Am I stirring the shit on the question of whether art should be moral or not? Bleah. Touchy subject. I should not be allowed to post at this time of night without supervision.

But I do like happy stuff. I like happy stories. The fantasies in my head are often happy. They're often very domestic, where people cuddle in bed and buy potted ferns. Other times, there's rape and torture, but it's all so that in the end, we can have cuddling, and tearful comforting, and people saying: I love you, I love you so much, my god--don't cry, baby, I'd do anything for you--anything, sweetheart--what can I do to make it better? Because I'm sappy.

I mean, is there anything better than torturing someone in the depths of your head until they're weeping and anguished, and then handing them over to some tender lover to be coddled and petted and adored back into a state of bliss?

I think not. Except maybe those Cadbury eggs. Those are good.
elijah

without wild ducks

Purely random Pessoa quote: "We never know if that part of the day that ends ends with us in useless bitterness or if what we are is false in the twilight and that there is nothing more than the huge silence without wild ducks that falls on the lakes where reeds raise their rigidity that collapses."

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Well, now. Wasn't that cheery? Actually it gave me a Spike mood, which I quite liked.

I wasted time today, I failed to pick up my DVD player, I napped, I drank--but I also wrote. I did some heavy lifting on the sidelines story, plotty stuff, exposition, balls of yadda, which makes me feel all the more closer to finishing. I am pleased, and I hold out hope for this week.

See my lovely, forlornly new icon, taken from the latest collection made by poisoninjest.

Xander. I have been entertaining a story idea that blows in now and then like some lazy leaf on a gust of wind, skating across the floor toward my ankles as a distraction. I'd like to write a proper, if short, Spike-and-Xander story set season sevenish, or later. One where Spike finds comfort in what is blessedly ordinary. Given his recent resumption (if that's not a word, it should be) of duster and bad-boy tude, S7 Spanderness becomes a more distant difficulty, a train pulling out of the station, drawing away from the outskirts of canon and heading toward La-La Land. It's probably no coincidence, my getting caught by an idea just as it becomes all the more implausible. I am a perv.

I threw this into a doc file, a possible opening for such a story--well, set a few years post show. Nothing is likely to come of it anytime soon. It's just the kind of scrappy thing you flick off and toss in a drawer.

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Should I have a salad? Should I eat my last hard-boiled egg? Dear god, it's ten o'clock. The world is late and strange.