October 12th, 2003



Pet asked for S/X recs. I'm not keeping up any rec pages currently, but the pairing page at AllAboutSpike.com is definitely a great resource:


I know there are probably many other rec pages, but I can't think of any offhand that I've visited recently.

There are more good S/X stories than are listed above, and if I ever get up off this couch and go to my other computer where my bookmarks and folders are, I might mention them.

Or I might stumble and hit my head against the wall and go to sleep, waking up with a terminal case of amnesia...so...sleepy. Pasta...kills.

Me, I want Wes/Spike recs. More more more. I have read all the ones on AllAboutSpike.com. Now people need to push and pimp new recs my way. Oh, and someone give wesleysgirl a writing grant, please? Specifically for the production of more Spike/Wesley stories, including scenes where Spike puts his coat around Wes's shoulders. And also with the rimming.

tiny movie blather, memories

"Sisters" really is an interesting old horror movie, not the least for its non-gratuitous use of split-screen effects and its sly insertion of contemporary socio-political conflicts into moments of highest tension--the eyewitness to the murder being a columnist who writes virulent anti-cop tirades and then needs to report the crime to the police. Very cool.

Some things lodge in our consciousness like thorns--Harlan Ellison's story "Whimper of Whipped Dogs," based on the NYC Kitty Genovese murder, has been a disturbing echo for twenty years now. Something about the time period and the incident in "Sisters" makes me think of it.

Oh my god--shot of a "Tab" cola can in the fridge! I'm immediately transported to the early seventies. I was born in 1969, by the way, and here's something that freaks me out heartily: reading the birth dates of movies stars who were born in 1980 or later. I find it hard to accept that the pretty young people I watch are *that* young. Our family used to have black vinyl couches. I'm just saying. The first two songs to make an impression on my childhood memory: "Daniel" by Elton John and "American Pie" by Don McLean.

The memories from childhood seem like something from a stranger's life. I remember eating vinegar on french fries in a park in Maine at night, with a tangle of tree branches above, in the black cool fall.

Another memory: bites of an exquisite cheeseburger at a beach kiosk, not long after I'd been feeling carsick. Apparently the memory of perfect taste after misery can make a deep impression.

Chocolate sugar-covered doughnuts from a box my dad bought at a supermarket, eaten as we drove to the harbor in downtown Bath, and I've never found any doughnuts like them since.

Teaching myself the opening bars of "Greensleaves" on a piano in the retirement home my grandmother stayed in--I can't believe I just remembered that. It's been so long.

Having my photo taken with Santa Claus at a ski resort in Vermont, on a slope in snowy winter with my cousin and aunt. Ski resort? Maybe it was one of those special Christmas villages you bring children to. But I can't remember anything else--why was I there? How old was I?

Sliding down a huge slide at a carnival, somewhere in Maine, at night--enormously tall slide, and I am completely alone and loosened from my mother's hands as I speed toward the bottom on some kind of mat.

The auction where my parents bought my childhood bed, a painted elaborate piece of furniture.

My father's Bath, Maine office when I was very little: black and white flocked wallpaper, the bust of the fisherman, the oil painting of a whale hunt. I am sitting on the couch waiting for something.

There's something to residual memories, a chemical signature that is evoked with recollection. You can describe the memories but they will carry no significance for anyone but you. It's nothing you can pin down, just: this was my life.

I can't believe how much disconnection there is between then and now. I don't really feel that who I am came of what I was. Nothing makes sense.