August 6th, 2003


subject lines defeat me

Last night I fantasized about Daniel and Spike again. There needs to be another word for "fantasize" that conveys the narratives of the mind, while indicating that they're conscious--the word "dream" is misleading, and it isn't "daydreaming" at night. Other synonyms are imperfect. I guess I could say that I mooned over them. I moondreamed. I moondreamed that Spike went back to Colorado Springs to live with Daniel, and that Daniel in a calm, methodical way, constructed a web of false identity and lies to protect Spike from discovery, especially by covert military organizations like the Initiative or the NSA. And he orchestrated a deliberate series of gradual revelations to the team about his relationship: dropping small hints that allowed them to realize he was seeing someone, evading social invitations and playing the pronoun game so that they'd figure out that it was a man--letting them think he was worried about this issue, when in fact it was something else entirely. Using misdirection, but also acclimatizing them step by step, but with no immediate plans to say, hey, by the way, I'm seeing a vampire.

But then Jack figures it out, kinda sorta. Jack notices, in his Jacklike way, all these little clues about Spike that lead him to construct this elaborate, facetious suspicion that Spike is a vampire, a theory he shares with Sam, giving her dark, knowing looks while she rolls her eyes. So one night when he and Sam are over for dinner, he tries to trip Spike up with all these transparently clumsy questions and remarks, and every one makes Daniel tense further. It's just a jokey game to Jack, but of course Daniel doesn't know that, and he's paranoid on Spike's behalf enough to fear that Jack really knows what's going on and is just working up to taking Spike out--fearing it without really believing it, but that doesn't matter because it turns into a wacky confrontation and revelation that makes Jack and Sam gape.

The weird thing is that I can write stories in my head with perfect scenes, dialogue, and all those nuances of expression and delivery that would sell an insane idea--but I rarely retread and try to write a story I've already told to myself. In part because I have too many of those freaky stories and not enough time to ever write them, but mostly because I can't imagine being able to recapture and share that internal experience with other people, readers.

Google discovers for me that: "There is no ban on homosexual civilian employees within the Defense Department." But I don't know how reliable that is. This question has come up in discussion among SG1 fans, but I don't know if anyone ever compiled resources or evidence about current prohibitions and practices.

In other news, I can't stop listening to Kane's "Crazy in Love." It is a fast, upbeat, catchy song that I think could make a fantastic vid, but it doesn't fit Lindsey's character, unless someone managed to pull off a neat trick of perfect dark humor. But then I just like it for what it is.

I'm so tired today, and not 100% useful here at work. Maybe 55%. But at least I got some important stuff done last night.

I want to have 20 icons. Right now! Which reminds me--someone gave me two months of LJ time about a week ago, and I just rediscovered the e-mail in my inbox and wanted to say thank you. I love fairies.

no more net

Aside from fantasizing last night, I had this weird train of thought about what would happen if the Internet went away. Like, nuked, overnight. What would I do? I began compiling this whole list of coping mechanisms and reactions:

If the net went away, but we still had e-mail...
  • Fandom would rebuild a whole series of overlapping emergency communities almost at once, through ersatz "mailing lists" that were the e-mail equivalent of conference calls, and I'd "join" as many as possible.
  • I'd retain a pretty close addiction to online fandom.
  • I'd be deleting a lot more mail, more often, including lengthy stories.
  • Attachments would become very necessary, and I'd need to update my virus software.

If the net went away, and so did e-mail...
  • I'd dig out what few fannish phone numbers I have squirreled away and start calling people in a dazed panic.
  • I'd pursue byzantine attempts through long person-to-person chains trying to track down phone numbers of people I was very close to online but not off.
  • I'd end up joining an APA or twelve.
  • I'd finally buy a printer.
  • I'd go back to working on original novels and poetry instead of fan-fiction.
  • I'd feel lonelier than usual and I'd probably try and rebuild local fannish friendships that I'd let drift by the wayside--maybe even go out to meet new people, as I've avoided doing. Local fannish gatherings might take on some strange overtones.
  • I'd be out of a job, because I work for a dot-com.
  • I'd visit the library more often.
  • I'd buy more reference books. I would constantly be trying to find out tiny but obscure bits of information and cursing my inability to google for it.
  • Life might slow down. I'd like to think I might work out more often, go out and do activities I don't do now because I'm always going straight home and logging on. Volunteer work? Hiking?
  • I might take up painting again.
  • I would miss all the funny irreverent stuff you find online--cultural lore and humor and news parodies and The Onion and Betty Bowers and the Brunching Shuttlecocks archive and and Salon. I'd have to rely on networks and newspapers for all my information. I'd have to subscribe to magazines instead of getting content for free.

Et cetera.