October 10th, 2003


good morning, vietnam.

I dreamed last night that I was a young, rich debutante and that I got pregnant. I was angry at my mother when she revealed--only after the fact, thanks--that there was a high rate of birth defects in our family and that the baby had a thirty percent chance each of being born retarded, dead, or crippled in the legs. "Do you think I would have gotten pregnant if I'd known this?" I yelled. "No!"

I don't know what that's about. Writing, maybe. "Do you think I'd have written this story if I knew it'd turn out stillborn? No!" Or something like that. Not that I have any particular story in mind. Ahem.

My fantasies have turned sadistic over the last 48 hours and I have been excessively libidinous, which means exactly what you think it means. For years I've been able to anticipate my bloody cycle by the penultimate premenstrual stress day, when I get depressed, exhausted, or quasi-suicidal. But sometimes that day isn't the gloom day, it's the "Jesus Christ, will someone just shove their fist up my &!#@#$% and put me out of my misery?!" day. It's fucking distracting. Distracting by fucking.

Overheard. One of my most quotable co-workers to another, in a deadpan, by-the-way tone perfected by Steven Wright: "Oh, L----, would you like to be disheartened?"

Now I am bleeding and squint-eyed and dubious about the day ahead. But not entirely in a bad mood, I am editing to add, just so people don't get the wrong idea.

Rage, Gay Crusader!

Oh, wait....

As his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry approaches, 15-year-old Harry Potter is in full-blown adolescence, complete with regular outbursts of rage, a nearly debilitating crush, and the blooming of a powerful sense of rebellion. It's been yet another infuriating and boring summer with the despicable Dursleys, this time with minimal contact from our hero's non-Muggle friends from school. Harry is feeling especially edgy at the lack of news from the magic world, wondering when the freshly revived evil Lord Voldemort will strike. Returning to Hogwarts will be a relief...or will it?

-- From the Amazon editor's blurb for OotP

le sigh.

I keep doing this restless thing where I open a word file and stare at it, fingers poised, and type a line or two, and suddenly tendrils of fog swirl dramatically, parting to reveal the vista that lies ahead, the far-off hazy horizon indicating a narrative journey of great and terrible length that I'm just too damn lazy and unmotivated to start. And then I erase the 45 or 63 or 81 characters ("with spaces") that I've written and go lie down, applying a wet cloth to my head, kicking the palm-frond boy, and having my servant hand me a White Russian. Or my White Russian hand me a servant. I always get those mixed up.

I can hear Wesley's voice so clearly in my head these days. The delicate nuances of his words, spoken as if he is laying his fingers gently one by one on piano keys.

I can see Wes being dominant in a restrained, subtle way. English aristocrat, exercising a light whip hand, stroking the horse's flank.

I told Annie I'd post porn in her comments, but I never did, but I keep thinking of Wes owning Spike and keeping him thoroughly in line. He'd be so gentle to Spike, and Spike--the Platonic eternal Spike, sleek and pretty as a catamite--would follow his every movement silently with dark, hungry eyes. And sometimes Wes would say kind little spells that stripped away Spike's troubles for a while, a word to hypnotize him, a word to restore him, and while he was under, Spike would be like an animal, mute and incomprehending of speech, characteristic frown relaxed, worries cleared utterly away.

He's content, his humanity removed like a constricting business suit, and now he's wearing just silk pajama bottoms as he sits on the floor by Wes's chair, everyone talking around him and over him about the demon of the week, as he watches the fire and thinks feline thoughts.

Can I go home now? My Friday is calling.