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Below are the most recent 25 friends' journal entries.
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| Wednesday, November 11th, 2009 |
sister_bluebird
|
10:34p |
Art and mood charting
Working on a piece that's a little too hard for me again. We'll see if I can accomplish what I'd like, or if I mess it up halfway through. It's like juggling rats. So far, so good, but they're so -squirmy-! And I know I'm going to drop one any minute now. Sleep schedule is rotating back - I'm going to bed anywhere between 9 and 11 most nights, though I was up till 11:30 last night. This seems absurdly early, but it's enabling wakeup times around 8 to 8:30, so it's worth it. The extra sunlight is making a difference. Of course, after dark I'm prone to lunatic beliefs, severe self doubt and big, dramatic cases of the hacks. So far I've not done too much that I oughtn't. Tonight hasn't been bad. I'm trying to get this painting done before the con, and I had a brief manic period that allowed for a lot of painting. Perhaps I must simply keep myself busy. Having time to kill seems to be a real problem. Must do laundry before the con and hopefully tidy a bit. Housework has been terrible, and I've been eating so much boxed stuff. There's breakfast cereal in my house now. How bizarre is that? Daily monitoring is now required to make sure I eat a non-starchy, non-allium vegetable instead of living on shredded wheat, bagels and potatoes with egg. Caffeine intake is unnecessarily high. But - writing work is getting done and I've done more art in the past month and a half than I did in most of the previous year, so it's not entirely a loss. Progress art up on the other journal again. Current Mood:  drainedCurrent Music: Corvus Corax - Fortuna |
shadefell
|
9:03p |
011 Changeling
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. Chicago, like all of America, does not have Fairies native to it. Some immigrants brought their pookas and brownies and kobalds and rusalkas with them, but most did not fare very well. Their places were already filled, for the most part, by the dark and secret beings native to this land.
The ones which did survive, of course, were the most terrible and stubborn. They are the blood drinkers, the shadow lurkers, and the stealers of children.
They do not literally steal children, no. They do not take a precious, tender infant and replace it with an enchanted stick or an elderly Fairy, some baby masquerade. Nor are they some groping excuse to explain away Autism or cerebral palsy or hydrocephaly.
No, they evict and devour the humanness of the child and fill that child’s body with themselves. The child looks and acts normal, grows and develops as normal, smiles and plays and throws tantrums as normal.
But at night, when you check on that child, and their eyes are open, you can tell. In the darkness their true nature is visible. Their eyes are sunken, dark pits; sclera, pupil, and iris all the same inky color.
When there are enough of them, when they are strong enough, they will begin preying on adults.
(Sorry this is late, Nesko had the day off for Veteran’s Day so we spent the entire day running errands. I need to set these up to auto post.)
|
samadi
|
7:37a |
I can't decide whether you should live or die
During a conversation with ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) sister_bluebird, we both decided that we really liked it when people we are interested in post progress reports or progress pics. I follow a lot of talented people on LJ, and while it's always really cool to see what they are doing, it can be a little disheartening to imagine they got there easily, naturally and completely without any bumps. It's not that easy for anyone, but when you just get the results, it's easy to think that. So, in an effort for transparency, and because sister_bluebird said she would do it too, I have some of the edits that I've done for the forthcoming novella "Strange Intentions." My writing is fairly pared down, and I do tend to believe that the words should pull their own weight, but apparently, it has the result of making my characters look and sound pretty stripped. So.... ( Read more... )So yes, that's sort of the interior of the writing I do. Kind of like looking at the seams. I can't even remember which one ended up in the version that I sent to the editor, and I am frankly a little scared to open the file to check. Now that I've done that, I'd really like to see how the other people who read my journal do their thing, whatever it is. If you have a thing that I'm not familiar with, all the better, but regardless, more process = better! Hmm, should probably hunt Grace down and see about getting our day started; I really, really doubt these fruit snacks actually constitute a healthy breakfast. Currently on the docket: A Tiger Striped Son With Gently Smiling Jaws Twelve Pictures From a Second World War |
| Tuesday, November 10th, 2009 |
sister_bluebird
|
11:26p |
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shadefell
|
3:39p |
010 Noises
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. They keep you awake at night, jarring you out of encroaching sleep or else jerking you out of paralyzing dream. It’s the sibilant hiss, the raucous rattle and clank, of steam heat radiators. Sometimes the hissing of the steam sounds like whispers, voices, malevolent snake demons from the darkest pits of Hell. Sometimes the metallic clanks and clangs sound like someone, somewhere, is beating the radiators and pipes with a wrench; possibly from the inside. It is easy to imagine some spirit or energy inside the radiators, inside the pipes, burbling away in the boilers squatting in the basements. It is easy to imagine their attempts at communion, at threat, at hostility.
You can relax. There is nothing living in the radiators, the pipes, the boiler. They are a simple, albeit noisy and often poorly maintained, heat source.
Of course, their noise is enough to cover up quite a lot of other noise and commotion.
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| Monday, November 9th, 2009 |
shadefell
|
7:21p |
009 Alterations
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. There is a small dry cleaner/tailor shop underneath the El. Across the street from it is the station, which has a snack shop and newspaper stand. It’s squeezed into a space exactly the width of the tracks, and the posters advertising services are sun bleached and faded. There is a closed sign on the door, and idle passers by who hesitate in front of the large window never see personnel inside the shop. It gives every indication of being locked and vacant.
However, if you try the door between 7am and 7pm, you will find it open. The bell over the door is loud and jarring, and it will summon a Chinese woman in her 40s. If you simply ask questions about prices and hours of operation, she will look at you stonily and not answer. If you bring a stained article of clothing, she will tell you to come back in three hours; when you do, the article will be cleaned of any and all stains, including those difficult to remove human protein stains.
The true wonder, however, is the tailoring services the shop provides.
Bring in a single article of clothing that is too large or too small, and state that it needs to be altered to fit you. The woman will come around the counter and measure your entire body three times, including parts of you that you wouldn’t think need measuring– the circumference of your skull, for instance, or the span of your hand. She will tell you to come back in one week, and charge you twenty dollars.
If you manage to return in one week, you will find that the article of clothing fits you marvelously and is immensely flattering; further, you will find yourself more charismatic and well liked than you normally are. People will show themselves eager to impress you and curry your favor. Each wearing of the article of clothing, however, will deduct one month extra from your life span.
|
shadefell
|
3:20p |
Quick Thing: POD
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. I’m pretty sure that when people ask “Is POD “worth it”?” they are asking how it measures up to:
1) contacting publishers and getting quotes
2) taking preorders
3) working out ISBN stuff
4) making room in their house/apartment/shack in the woods for five hundred boxes of books
5) mailing books out to people who preordered them
6) taking books to conventions/indy bookstores/etc
or
1) getting an agent
2) waiting for a publishing company to publish their work of genius
In other words, is the reduced money you get worth the time and effort saved?
However, my thinking may be colored by the people I hang out with, who tend to self publish art books and graphic novels/web comics collections. POD is asked about frequently by folks who have their first book together, and the people that I know who’ve compared POD versus self publishing pretty much all agree that self publishing is the way to go if you want to make actual money selling your thing.
|
sage_takeido
|
1:50p |
My birthday is one week away! Is it bad that I still get excited about my birthday? I'm really looking forward to next year when I turn 30. I'm hoping that my 30s will be exponentially better than my 20s were. Current Mood:  weird |
| Sunday, November 8th, 2009 |
shadefell
|
10:44a |
008 Killing Roads
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. If you sleep Downtown on a night with no moon, whether in a hotel room or condo, apartment or park bench, you may have a dream. In the dream, a man (or possibly woman, but something about him feels masculine) stands with his back to you. The two of you are on a dirt road, a dark and scraggly tree ahead and to the right; the moon is bloatedly full, a lurid orange color, low on the horizon. Once you’ve noticed him, he will begin to walk. You may follow him, in the dream, or not. The choice is yours; it is always yours.
If you chose to follow him, you will have recurring dreams featuring him in a changing landscape. The dirt road becomes cobbled, then paved. Shacks grow up, then houses, sky scrapers. You will travel through places you know in the waking world, and places you know only in dream. Finally, after months of these dreams (which leave you feeling drained and unrested on waking), you will come to a dwelling you know. Entering, you will find the person you love most. He or she will be asleep in their bed, and you have a knife in your hand.
It is your dream, and at this moment, you still have control. You may walk out of the room, out of the dwelling. You may walk down the road and wake and never dream of the man again.
Or you may raise your knife and murder the one you love, in bed.
It is only a dream: on waking, your loved one will be healthy and whole– or as healthy and whole as he or she was before lying down to sleep. From that moment on, however, your relationship will strain and weaken. They know, deep down, what you are capable of; what you are willing to sacrifice. And what do you gain from this loss of love, this betrayal?
From that night on, you will never be lost. You will always know exactly where you are, and how to get where you are going. Upon your death, this may prove somewhat stressful.
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| Saturday, November 7th, 2009 |
lex_of_green
|
4:06p |
I am a salivating dog. But so is everyone else, so I guess it's okay.* Working at Coffee of Annihilation can create some interesting pavlovian responses. Like, serving fresh coffee is an important priority for our store, so we dump the old coffee and brew a new batch every half hour. We've got a timer that beeps to tell us when this needs to happen. Thing about this timer, though... it's the generic cheap timer that everyone uses for everything ever. I'll be in another coffee shop, or even at home where Zim is using a timer to preheat the oven, and I'll hear this beeping sound, jump out of my chair, and be halfway across the room before I realize I am not at work and nobody needs new coffee. But that's the boring, normal conditioned response that that most Coffee of Annihilation workers develop after a while. Sometimes it gets much worse. You know the shift supervisor I call Dracula because of his nearly hypnotic vampiric charm with the ladies? Dracula sometimes flinches when he sees girls on the phone. Yesterday, I found out why. One of my other coworkers went to the laundromat a while back, and while she was there a couple of our regulars recognized and approached her. GUY: Hey, I think I've seen you at Coffee of Annihilation. COWORKER: Yup, I work there. GIRL: Oooooh, do you work with that gorgeous tall boy? COWORKER: ...Dracula? Yeah, occasionally. GIRL: Sometimes my friends and I come in just so we can take secret pictures of him with our cellphones.My coworker didn't really know how to react to this. I think she just smiled and nodded. When Dracula found out about what happened, he was super embarrassed. He's not the sort of vampire who revels in his dark power. He's much more the I MUST NOT DRINK OF YOUR BLOOD FOR IT IS WRONG AND ALSO KINDA CREEPY sort. It's too bad he also sings and plays the guitar. If the lady customers ever found out about that, they'd storm his grave in the day and defile his body. Dracula Dracula Dracula... I do work with other people too, you know. Like Lord of the Dance. Lord of the Dance has a masters degree and used to work as a professional performer and dance instructor until she realized how much she needed heath insurance. Yesterday, she started reading the business section of the newspaper in the back room. DRACULA: Are... are you reading the business section?LORD OF THE DANCE: What, don't you ever look at it? DRACULA: Nah, it's not my tambourine. LEX: Dracula? Did you just say the business section wasn't your tambourine? DRACULA: ...no. I said it wasn't my type of reading. LEX: Oh. ~~*~~later~~*~~ LORD OF THE DANCE: So I guess I should make another vat of mocha sauce... LEX: Oh, I just did that. LORD OF THE DANCE: Heck yes! Lex, you are my tambourine. * and it's extra super okay right now because a highschooler just called me an elf ninja. Aww. <3 Inaccurate, but I'll take it. I think she was dazzled by my piercings or something. |
shadefell
|
11:48a |
Schrodinger’s Asshole
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. So if you speak to a woman who is otherwise occupied, you’re sending a subtle message. It is that your desire to interact trumps her right to be left alone. If you pursue a conversation when she’s tried to cut it off, you send a message. It is that your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone. And each of those messages indicates that you believe your desires are a legitimate reason to override her rights.
Schrödinger’s Rapist: or a guy’s guide to approaching strange women without being maced, by Phaedra Starling, talks about how to a woman, every man who approaches her is a potential rapist and she has no way of knowing if he’s going to bust out the rapifying or not. Starling talks about the precautions she takes, and the fear she lives in when it comes to dating. I’m not trying to imply that she lives in cringing terror, because she doesn’t. But she absolutely lives a life of fear.
Although I’ve been sexually assaulted and virtually all of the women (and some men) that I know have been molested, sexually assaulted, and/or raped, I do not live in the same culture of fear that she does.
But I really hate being approached by men in public. I don’t immediately think they will rape me or do violence to me, although I have had scary moments. And I’ve had a LOT of men react sexually inappropriately towards me. What I hate is the assumption that THEIR TIME AND INTERESTS are more important than MY TIME AND INTERESTS.
When I’m on public transit wearing headphones and/or reading, I’m involved in something. When I’m drawing or writing, I’m involved in something. And that something? Is not other people. So when a dudely type person sits next to me, my gut clenches: not because I’m afraid he’s going to whip his dick out, but because I don’t want to have to try and turn conversation aside and listen to some bore drone on and on and on about shit or make ham handed attempts at flirting.
It has happened to me, and I’ve seen it happen to other people. One attractive young woman who spoke English as a second language, so she sounded “exotic!!!”. She had luggage with her and looked tired, she was obviously on her way home from a long trip. And this guy just kept talking at her, asking her questions which she answered politely and shortly before literally turning her head away from him. And he kept at it, finally coming up with inappropriate questions about where she lived and who she lived with. Oh, my, that is not at all threatening! He wanted her attention, and his desire for attention trumped her desire to be left alone.
And I know that dudely types struggle to walk the balance between “striking up a conversation” and “being an ass.” It can be hard to know if your interruptions are welcome. It can be hard for lady types as well. I’ve had to make that decision! Someone is reading “Blade of the Immortal” on the train. Do I ask about it and what other books that person likes, or do I sit quietly and let them enjoy their manga? It’s hard!
In my experience, a good rule of thumb is intent. I’ve had people interrupt my reading to ask about the book specifically, to talk about the book, to get recommendations. If it is straight up a dialogue about the book/reading it’s generally fine. I like books! I like book nerds! I like meeting new people! If it is a chance for the interrupter to talk about him/herself or start commenting on my eyes or shoes or something? Fuck that noise. That is being an asshole and I hate it.
And that kind of interruption? Dudely types don’t tend to inflict it on other dudely types.
This post was inspired by I, Asshole’s Personal Space and Being a Lady, which addresses the same original column.
There are exceptions to every situation, of course, but when the light changed and I walked away, I realized that women DON’T do this. Women do not interrupt people wearing headphones unless they need something. I pick a woman to interrupt, and I see other women at places like bus stops do the same. If a woman interrupts me, there is a good chance that she needs directions, the time, change for a dollar. If a man interrupts me, nine times out of ten it’s to say he likes my hair color. That’s nice; I don’t care.
Starling is right: if you behave like this, “your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone.” Put another way, a man engaging in these behaviors is not treating a woman like an equal. Would this man make four attempts to pay a compliment to a man on a corner who was also keeping to himself? If I had to guess I would say no.
We live in a culture that devalues women’s autonomy. Men consider themselves free to encroach upon the personal space of women constantly. They touch women, they interrupt them while speaking, they speak to them while silent, they demand that women smile. It is a basic tenet of the culture we live in, that a woman’s time is worth less than a man’s and that she should be grateful for any attentions paid to her. It’s interesting that I, Asshole notes that she and other women are more likely to interrupt women than men. I don’t think it’s just a safety thing, as in, “it’s safer to approach a woman than a strange man, all men are threats.” I think it’s an unconscious “men are more important than women” thing.
A lot of “rape culture” can be eradicated by one simple thing: treating all people with respect. This includes women. Men are free to walk down the street in tight clothing, read a book on the train, or get drunk in public without being hassled. Women don’t have that same freedom, because they don’t get the automatic respect afforded to men.
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shadefell
|
10:24a |
007 Fifteen Buildings
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. There are fifteen buildings still standing in Chicago which have plaster and lathe interior walls. Some of the buildings are single family residences, others are apartment buildings.
If you live in one of these buildings for at least three months, it is possible to hide something in the spaces between the walls. No matter the size or shape of the thing you want to hide, it will somehow fit. Once hidden away, it will remain there until the building falls (or is torn down), or until the City burns once more.
There is no way of knowing if your building is one of the fifteen until you try to hide something within the walls.
At night, when you sit at your computer or watch television, when you lie in bed trying to sleep, and you hear a faint scrabbling in the walls; a rustle and a rattle that might be mice or might be plaster falling? That is the sound of secret things, of hidden things, trying to escape.
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| Friday, November 6th, 2009 |
sister_bluebird
|
12:07p |
Rats Plus Angst!
Don't worry, the two aren't related. I completed a minor project last night, which had been waiting around for about six months, since the first time I flaked on it. So, of course, I hate most of it and went into the Art Angst Spiral. I've pulled out of the despair section (mostly) and have entered the grim "guess you'd better get to work" portion instead. Let's see if it'll last through this day's quota of nonfic writing to become either fiction or visual art. At the moment, yanno, I'm a failure, and merely mediocre at everything, and I ought to have specialized and become really good at something, so as to be marketable. Also, I should be less of a flake. (No, I don't need anyone to come talk me down off anything. This is just a case of the hacks. They happen, usually immediately following completion of a project). In rat news, I adopted a baby from the shelter about a week ago. He's my dominant-gene rat - standard coat agouti top-eared, or about as wild-type as a domestic rat can be. He's also half the sizeof my biggest older boy, shiny, friendly, and incredibly hyperactive. I have named him Aeneas, as he's a later, unrelated addition to Paris and Hector. Right now I have all three of them out, and have discovered that three rats constitutes a swarm. I have Lap: the Scampering. Photos if I ever remember to take and upload them. Back to work! Current Mood: twitchyCurrent Music: Schandmaul - Drachentoter |
tyrdinjer
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10:43a |
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shadefell
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10:46a |
006 Eternal Love
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. He is beautiful, and all he wants to do is love you: love all of you.
He is pale; light skinned with soft brown hair and pale eyes like water over stone or sand. His smile is sad and his touch is soft. He rides the El, and you can find him there at night. His hair is a little too long, too shaggy; his clothes are a year or two out of date. Many people don’t notice. He doesn’t look out dated, just… slightly faded. If you make eye contact he will smile that sad, soft smile — a shy smile– and say hello in his whisper of a voice. The train is loud, it rattles and shudders and screeches, and he is quiet. You’ll lean toward him to hear him better, but you will be able to hear him. The feel of his fingers on your knee is electric, thrilling.
You won’t remember what you talk about, what he says. All you know is that you like talking to him; he fills something inside of you and when he is gone you feel empty. Once you two have spoken, you will see him again, and again. He will move in with you within a week. He will cook for you, and watch you eat. His food is amazing; his sex even more so.
You will start losing weight rapidly.
He looks at you so sadly, with those big pale eyes, each glance an apology. He loves you so much, and in return, you hunger for his every look; his every word; his every touch. Your performance at work or school starts to suffer. Your friends notice that you no longer go out. They also notice that your excess flesh is dripping away like butter held over a flame. You look tired, drained. They ask if you’re well, if anything’s wrong. They irritate you. You cannot wait to get back home to your lover.
If you do not kill him, he will devour every last bit of you. He will take you into him, body and soul. It hurts him so: he does love you, truly. He loves every bit and part of you, even the parts you think are ugly; even the parts the world thinks are ugly. Nobody will ever love you as he does. If you do manage to kill him, that thought will taint every relationship you have for the rest of your life.
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| Thursday, November 5th, 2009 |
spiderific
|
10:04p |
Hello Peoples
So I realized this is the best way to keep up with and let people know how I'm doing given how many of my friends moved to different states. Two new things with me: I'm working at Gumby's now, and I am writing a ballad. Rhyming is hard, man. Especially doing it for like a hundred lines. I mean, I'm doing the traditional 8A-6B-8C-6B format, so that's only two rhyming lines per four, but still. Sometimes it's just so tempting to rhyme the same word with itself. I've avoided this so far. But it's only a matter of time. I mean, I find myself sacrificing what I wanted to say for something that I have to say for the sake of rhyme. But it's kind of fun regardless. It's a nice challenge. Even if I'm not getting the meter quite right. Screw iambic tetrameter I just want the syllables and rhyme right for now. Though I'll admit, sometimes it's a half-rhyme. I know that even great poets half-rhymed all the time, but I still feel like I'm cheating. Oh well, at least I'm cheating in an acceptable way. I'm also tempted to put a rhyming couplet of iambic pentameter at the end of each "chapter break", as it were. I'm not sure if that's tacky or not, it would just serve to better differentiate between "chapters." *shrug* Current Mood: TiredCurrent Music: Jack's Obsession--Nightmare Before Christmas |
shadefell
|
11:12a |
005 Municiple Buildings
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. You see them, sometimes, squat square one story buildings made of limestone. The windows are narrow slits, or nonexistant, and there’s a square plaque over the door saying “post office” or “municipal building” or something else vague. Sometimes there’s a very PWA carving of a blocky eagle clutching lightning bolts, or a design made of three thick straight lines. There’s always the “Y” symbol that Chicago uses, that reminder of the Chicago River’s odd shape.
The buildings always look abandoned; abandoned, but pristine. The windows, if they exist, are dark. The doorways are gated with rubbish blown against them. The small parking lot, if there is one, is surrounded by a sagging chain link fence; the asphalt is cracked and weedy. But the building is untouched by grafiti, nobody has tried to make a home in the doorway, no windows have been smashed nor have they been borded up. The buildings simply wait.
If you enter one, you will find it larger inside than it should be. The floors are clean, although worn from years of being walked upon. The murals that line the walls, representing a City at work, a People working together, are fresh looking and unfaded.
There is a dim glow to the inside of the building, enough to navigate by. If you are able to get to the center of the building you will find a small trap door set into the floor. Oil the hinges of the door, grasp the iron ring, and lift. The open door will reveal a small storage area so dark that it seems to absorb light. Reach in and you will find a small, square box made of bark. Open it, careful not to snap the string made of woven grasses, and inside you will find a human eyeball.
If you swallow this eyeball, you will be able to see beneath the masks that people — and those masquerading as people– wear as they walk the streets and sit in their homes. If you do not put an eye of your own, voluntarily, in the box and reseal it in its hiding place, however, you will not survive the year.
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| Wednesday, November 4th, 2009 |
shadefell
|
5:29p |
004 The Handprints
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. There is a condo in Edgewater that is new red-brick construction with balconies and fireplaces and granite kitchens with stainless steel appliances. One unit has never been sold, and although it has been rented by the management company from time to time the residents always break their lease by the second month. The smell of smoke fills the unit some evenings, accompanied by raucous banging and thumping, especially coming from the closet of the smallest bedroom. That bedroom has a white-painted closet which is very ordinary looking save for the small, brownish, smudged, handprints that circle the wall about three feet off the floor. No amount of scrubbing can remove them; when the closet is painted, the handprints soon reappear. They are faint at first, but within three days they are as dark as they ever were.
If a woman who has been unable to bear a child walks into the closet and closes the door, kneeling down, and touching each of the handprints in turn, she will find herself pregnant within a month. The child will be a boy with solemn eyes. When he is five, a fire will start in their home, and somebody who lives there will die.
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| Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009 |
shadefell
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12:04p |
003 The Rose
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. There is a small, delicate-petalled pink rose with long powdery yellow stamens that is native to the Chicago area. It is also very endangered.
A tincture made of 5 drops of that rose’s oil, 1 drop of almond oil, and 2 drops of dog’s blood, will grease any political wheels. It can be slipped into coffee, passed from flesh to flesh via handshake, or mixed into ink.
It must be reapplied daily or the results wear off quickly.
The rose will not grow outside of certain areas of Chicago.
Some have tried to substitute human blood for dog’s blood, thinking that will increase the potency of the tincture. It does, but the results are more likely to twist and betray the user.
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| Monday, November 2nd, 2009 |
shadefell
|
2:57p |
What is "Secret Chicago"?
For those of you who haven't been following my journal long, sometimes I do writing projects. My current one is called "Secret Chicago" and is inspired by 200 Phenomena in the City of Calgary. I'm pretty much trying to do the same thing, only duh, based on Chicago. And they have to be at least 100 words long. I toyed with keeping them between 100 and 140 words, but thought that might be too limiting. My next project may involve the 140 word limit, with no minimum. |
shadefell
|
10:42a |
002 Theater
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. It is common knowledge that ghosts cluster to Theaters like moths to light. Less common is the knowledge that in certain cities a Theater requires a blood sacrifice to be a success, a human soul spilt across the stage boards.
Every successful theater in Chicago has had at least one death dedicated to it. Theaters that close and reopen require a new sacrifice.
When the performers and crew do not respond to the Theater’s urgings, the Theater will reach out of its own volition and take a Sacrifice of its own choosing.
Sometimes it will make a very splashy point in doing so.
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sister_bluebird
|
9:41a |
Woohoo - Hair Length
We now officially have thigh length. Only in the technical sense - the longest ends are maybe a handswidth below my bottom - but still! And it's not actually significantly less convenient. Next target - knee? Up early because they stole my sunlight yesterday and I'm going to have to do something to stay sane. Current Mood:  tired |
| Sunday, November 1st, 2009 |
sage_takeido
|
8:24p |
Stolen from Lisa...like all my memes
Current Books: Magical Gateways, Business Law, Business Ethics, Business Communication, and Intermediate Accounting...only the first one am I reading by choice. Current Playlist: Florence and the Machine - Lungs Current Guilty Pleasure: Anything David Lynch: Twin Peaks, Mulholland Drive, Blue Velvet, Dune, The Elephant Man... Current Color: black, purple, burgundy, dark green, chocolate brown. Current Drink: Wassail!!! I made a bunch for the Halloween Party Current Food: Homemade bread and cheese, roasted root vegetables, brandied bread pudding with dates and apples Current Favorite Show: Twin Peaks Current Wishlist: A good job after I graduate, a house, a baby, more books, more incense.... Current Needs: a hug Current Triumphs: I cooked a whole bunch of food yesterday, some of it experimental in nature, it all came out wonderfully and everyone enjoyed it! (I am such a housewife) Current Bane Of My Existence: Lack of Money, Classes Current Celebrity Crush: Miguel Ferrer, circa 1989, when he was in his early thirties and before he lost all his hair...mmmm sexy voice Current Indulgence: Been buying too many movies, music, and books since getting financial aid this semester...I have to stop that soon. Current Blessing: My family: David and our fuzzy children Current Slang: "what's your damage?" (I love Heathers) Current Outfit: Socks, knit black pants, my favorite purple shirt Current Excitement: My birthday (only two weeks away and an excuse to make my friends spend time with me) One more years until 30! I'm actually looking forward to it! Current Mood: Tired Current Mood:  tiredCurrent Music: Florence and the Machine - The Drumming Song |
shadefell
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3:59p |
001 The Wardrobe
Mirrored from brigidkeely.com/wordpress. You may have seen an ad on Craigslist or Freecycle for this beautiful mahogany wardrobe. Although the legs are a bit chewed up, as though it has been pushed carelessly around quite a bit, the rest of the wardrobe is in excellent shape; especially considering that it’s well over one hundred years old. The wood is rich and glossy and always looks recently oiled. The hardware is clean and gleams gently. The inside is lined with ceder, and is still fragrant. There is a yellowed paper label on the back, but the writing is faded and indescript.
When owned by a person or family with no children, the wardrobe is a beautiful piece of furniture, solid and functional. When a child enters the picture, however, tragedy soon occurs. The child hides inside the wardrobe, is unable to open the door, and either suffocates or dies of fright. The family, distraught, sells the wardrobe for a pittance or gives it away for free.
On one occaision, an adult shut himself in the wardrobe. His wife found him several hours after noticing him missing. He remained silent from that moment until his death bed, thirty years later.
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sage_takeido
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10:32a |
Abrasive....
I was told today that I am too abrasive. It made me cry. I find that to be kind of a contradiction. I try to be honest and fair with people, but I got tired of being a doormat about ten years ago. If I am too abrasive, it is because I have had to be to survive. And I don't think I can change that now. In fact, I'm not sure that I want to change it. I must be unable to find the middle of the road between allowing people to walk all over me and being forceful when protecting myself and my interests. What is it that I am supposed to be? What should I be so that people would find my behavior most acceptable? I am so tired of trying to please other people. It seems like the old saying, "You can't please all of the people all of the time" should come with the caveat, "but if you don't kill yourself trying to anyway, no one will want to work with you." I'm also sad, because I don't think anyone will read this anyway. I'm not sure anyone is on livejournal anymore. Current Mood:  sad |
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