Loading new art...
To all those Vampire fans out there, I give you Aurelia Giovanni.
Aurelia Giovanni by ~Natural20 on deviantART
(click for full view)
Inked in angsty WoD style, of course. Stock from
More art at the devArt (link in sidebar)
Hope all your Christmases were beautiful!
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Coffee poem from 7 am:
I tease my coffee.
I stir it slowly at the center
and steam rises hesitantly
in patterns like serpents
escaping the bowl.
It turns
and takes the sugar
like mother's milk.
And I let it sit
so I don't burn myself
but it's always stronger then.
I like my coffee like I like
my men: ready when I am.
I tease my coffee.
I stir it slowly at the center
and steam rises hesitantly
in patterns like serpents
escaping the bowl.
It turns
and takes the sugar
like mother's milk.
And I let it sit
so I don't burn myself
but it's always stronger then.
I like my coffee like I like
my men: ready when I am.
Monday, December 18, 2006
I HAVE INTERNET!!!!!
France Telecom is finally working properly. After nearly a month, I now have internet in my room. Soon Katie shall be hooked up as well, and lo, there shall be chatting and video.
To celebrate, here's the edited version of "A Bathtub Story." Comments, please!!
When Helen came home that afternoon, I had already been staring at it for a good two hours. It was indeed a remarkable fixture: smooth white ceramic with a bronze inlay that resembled some grotesquely stiff scene off a Grecian urn. Four clawed legs held the monolithic structure a good six inches off the floor. There was something oddly frightening about its presence in my living room. It didn’t match the red leather or the spindly wood furniture motif at all.
“Gawd, Howard, it’s freezing in here!” Helen called from the kitchen. “D’you leave the door open again?”
I did not answer immediately. Despite two hours’ bewildered pondering, I was still far from intelligent speech. I finally managed to squeak out a very confused, “H…el…en?”
She did not seem to hear my plea for attention, so I pulled myself together and called out, “Helen!”
“What is it, deah?” Helen entered, stood beside me, and barely glanced at it.
I tried to take a sip of my coffee, but it had long since gone cold and I had never reached the sugar bowl in the breakfront by the window. The room-temperature bitterness did nothing to help my mood. “Helen, why is this bathtub in the living room?”
For a moment, she shifted her weight to her left foot, seeming a tad nervous. “Motha sent it. Parta my inheritance from Grandpa Smith.”
Now, why Helen’s mother would send an enormous, tacky washroom fixture from her New Jersey home to our Vermont ski cottage in the middle of January was very much a mystery to me. Other questions that popped into my head included, “How did my wife inherit a bathtub?”, “What’s going to happen to next week’s party?” and “Why did I marry this woman again?” However, the question of its placement in the center of my living space was still foremost in my mind.
Helen answered my unasked query with great haste. “The d’liv’ry guys wouldn’t carry it upstayes, and there isn’t room anywhaya else on this flowa.” She put an arm around my tense shoulders and said, “It ain’t so bad, Howard. I think it’s…homey.”
I wanted so much to tell her that she was horribly mistaken, that the mass of porcelain in front of me was about as far from “homey” as I could imagine. Instead, I forced a smile and said, “Maybe you’re right, honey. And if you like it, well, I’ll get used to it.”
“We’ll try to move it tamahrow.” Giving me a quick peck on the cheek, she went back to the kitchen and started a fresh pot of coffee. I heaved a great sigh and edged around Helen’s inheritance to my armchair, where I remained inanimate for the next forty minutes.
I tried not to let the bathtub bother me. I went on with my life. The next week, we hosted our little get-together as planned, even though it was still in the same place on my authentic Persian rug. Helen filled the bottom with ice and used it to hold the drinks, which I thought was completely tacky. The guests, up from Newport for a little skiing, found it “avant-garde.”
I had been staring at the disgustingly ornate bronze taps for some time when one of the guests, a potential client of Helen’s, approached me. He had slicked-back blond hair and an annoyingly high-and-mighty attitude. “Look at the exquisite tahnish on the bronzework,” he said to me, as though he thought it was put there on purpose. “Simply mahvelous. So authentic. And it plays so well against that old rug of yours. Harold, where-ever did you get this masterpiece?” His familiar tone broke me out of my unwilling reverie. He spoke the way I used to speak in modern art museums, before I realized that modern art had no purpose.
“Helen’s…mother sent it,” I replied, letting him make what he would of my comment.
“Well, your mother-in-law has fine taste,” the man said, taking a bottle of champagne from the tub. He poured it into a red wine glass. I felt like pointing out the flagrant error, but decided against it. It was best to avoid offending clients.
Helen came into the living room with a fresh tray of hors d’oeuvres. As she rounded the corner, she bumped into the bathtub and moved it just a hair further into the center of the room. I heard a tiny ripping sound and suppressed a scream. “Ain’t this a great pahty?” she said as she threw an arm around my waist.
My eyes settled on the tiny hole that our “avant-garde” decoration had torn in the beautiful rug.
“Sure is.”
After three months of banging my knees on the bathtub, I had had just about enough of its presence in my home. Helen, however, continued to get compliments on her creative decoration techniques. When her family came up from New Jersey, they simply raved about how well it “tied the room togetha, just like it did at Grampa Smith’s place” (although it had then been located in the proper chamber).
One night, we were sitting on the pristine leather couch by the electric fire when Helen made me snap.
“So I was tawkin’ to the Joneses about theya livin’ room and they kept sayin’ they wanted to put a sink in it. A sink, Harold! So I asked them why, and they said it was because of our pahty. Like I said, it really makes a house a home.” My eye twitched slightly, but I kept my silence as her grating Jersey voice continued to expound the virtues of putting things where they simply shouldn’t be. While she spoke, I glanced at the bathtub. Its mere presence mocked me. The artificial firelight glistened on the bronze inlay in a purely offensive manner. I found myself staring at it, captivated by the ugly wrongness of the thing.
“…And then they said something about a showah head as a coat rack. And it all stahted with our homey little bathtub, Howard. Ain’t that just priceless?”
I broke my gaze away from the monstrosity of a basin and stared at her in what I hoped was blatant and convincing disbelief. “Helen, for the love of God, it’s a bathtub!” I practically shouted. “There’s nothing homey about an antique bathtub in a living room! It doesn’t go anywhere!”
A silence heavier than the inheritance hung in the air between us.
“Howard…”
I decided not to answer.
The next morning, Helen sold the bathtub to the Joneses, who were all too happy to take it off our hands and out of my space.
When the delivery men arrived to take it away, I could have leapt for joy. They lifted the porcelain behemoth with great effort and carried it out of the living room toward the front walk as I poured myself a cup of coffee. I whistled a happy little tune as I treated myself to two teaspoons of sugar. It was leaving. It was going to go away and stay somewhere where I would never have to see it again.
Suddenly I heard a loud thud, followed immediately by another. “No,” I whispered as the burly men walked into the kitchen.
“Mister,” one of them said, “it won’t fit out the door.”
“It has to,” I said, my eyes wide with agony as I ran for the doorway. “It came in, didn’t it?” Sure enough, they had set it down in front of the door, scratching the hardwood floors beyond repair. I pushed at it feebly for a few seconds, but it wouldn’t budge. Finally, with tears in my eyes, I collapsed inside the bathtub, admitting defeat to my inanimate enemy.
France Telecom is finally working properly. After nearly a month, I now have internet in my room. Soon Katie shall be hooked up as well, and lo, there shall be chatting and video.
To celebrate, here's the edited version of "A Bathtub Story." Comments, please!!
When Helen came home that afternoon, I had already been staring at it for a good two hours. It was indeed a remarkable fixture: smooth white ceramic with a bronze inlay that resembled some grotesquely stiff scene off a Grecian urn. Four clawed legs held the monolithic structure a good six inches off the floor. There was something oddly frightening about its presence in my living room. It didn’t match the red leather or the spindly wood furniture motif at all.
“Gawd, Howard, it’s freezing in here!” Helen called from the kitchen. “D’you leave the door open again?”
I did not answer immediately. Despite two hours’ bewildered pondering, I was still far from intelligent speech. I finally managed to squeak out a very confused, “H…el…en?”
She did not seem to hear my plea for attention, so I pulled myself together and called out, “Helen!”
“What is it, deah?” Helen entered, stood beside me, and barely glanced at it.
I tried to take a sip of my coffee, but it had long since gone cold and I had never reached the sugar bowl in the breakfront by the window. The room-temperature bitterness did nothing to help my mood. “Helen, why is this bathtub in the living room?”
For a moment, she shifted her weight to her left foot, seeming a tad nervous. “Motha sent it. Parta my inheritance from Grandpa Smith.”
Now, why Helen’s mother would send an enormous, tacky washroom fixture from her New Jersey home to our Vermont ski cottage in the middle of January was very much a mystery to me. Other questions that popped into my head included, “How did my wife inherit a bathtub?”, “What’s going to happen to next week’s party?” and “Why did I marry this woman again?” However, the question of its placement in the center of my living space was still foremost in my mind.
Helen answered my unasked query with great haste. “The d’liv’ry guys wouldn’t carry it upstayes, and there isn’t room anywhaya else on this flowa.” She put an arm around my tense shoulders and said, “It ain’t so bad, Howard. I think it’s…homey.”
I wanted so much to tell her that she was horribly mistaken, that the mass of porcelain in front of me was about as far from “homey” as I could imagine. Instead, I forced a smile and said, “Maybe you’re right, honey. And if you like it, well, I’ll get used to it.”
“We’ll try to move it tamahrow.” Giving me a quick peck on the cheek, she went back to the kitchen and started a fresh pot of coffee. I heaved a great sigh and edged around Helen’s inheritance to my armchair, where I remained inanimate for the next forty minutes.
I tried not to let the bathtub bother me. I went on with my life. The next week, we hosted our little get-together as planned, even though it was still in the same place on my authentic Persian rug. Helen filled the bottom with ice and used it to hold the drinks, which I thought was completely tacky. The guests, up from Newport for a little skiing, found it “avant-garde.”
I had been staring at the disgustingly ornate bronze taps for some time when one of the guests, a potential client of Helen’s, approached me. He had slicked-back blond hair and an annoyingly high-and-mighty attitude. “Look at the exquisite tahnish on the bronzework,” he said to me, as though he thought it was put there on purpose. “Simply mahvelous. So authentic. And it plays so well against that old rug of yours. Harold, where-ever did you get this masterpiece?” His familiar tone broke me out of my unwilling reverie. He spoke the way I used to speak in modern art museums, before I realized that modern art had no purpose.
“Helen’s…mother sent it,” I replied, letting him make what he would of my comment.
“Well, your mother-in-law has fine taste,” the man said, taking a bottle of champagne from the tub. He poured it into a red wine glass. I felt like pointing out the flagrant error, but decided against it. It was best to avoid offending clients.
Helen came into the living room with a fresh tray of hors d’oeuvres. As she rounded the corner, she bumped into the bathtub and moved it just a hair further into the center of the room. I heard a tiny ripping sound and suppressed a scream. “Ain’t this a great pahty?” she said as she threw an arm around my waist.
My eyes settled on the tiny hole that our “avant-garde” decoration had torn in the beautiful rug.
“Sure is.”
After three months of banging my knees on the bathtub, I had had just about enough of its presence in my home. Helen, however, continued to get compliments on her creative decoration techniques. When her family came up from New Jersey, they simply raved about how well it “tied the room togetha, just like it did at Grampa Smith’s place” (although it had then been located in the proper chamber).
One night, we were sitting on the pristine leather couch by the electric fire when Helen made me snap.
“So I was tawkin’ to the Joneses about theya livin’ room and they kept sayin’ they wanted to put a sink in it. A sink, Harold! So I asked them why, and they said it was because of our pahty. Like I said, it really makes a house a home.” My eye twitched slightly, but I kept my silence as her grating Jersey voice continued to expound the virtues of putting things where they simply shouldn’t be. While she spoke, I glanced at the bathtub. Its mere presence mocked me. The artificial firelight glistened on the bronze inlay in a purely offensive manner. I found myself staring at it, captivated by the ugly wrongness of the thing.
“…And then they said something about a showah head as a coat rack. And it all stahted with our homey little bathtub, Howard. Ain’t that just priceless?”
I broke my gaze away from the monstrosity of a basin and stared at her in what I hoped was blatant and convincing disbelief. “Helen, for the love of God, it’s a bathtub!” I practically shouted. “There’s nothing homey about an antique bathtub in a living room! It doesn’t go anywhere!”
A silence heavier than the inheritance hung in the air between us.
“Howard…”
I decided not to answer.
The next morning, Helen sold the bathtub to the Joneses, who were all too happy to take it off our hands and out of my space.
When the delivery men arrived to take it away, I could have leapt for joy. They lifted the porcelain behemoth with great effort and carried it out of the living room toward the front walk as I poured myself a cup of coffee. I whistled a happy little tune as I treated myself to two teaspoons of sugar. It was leaving. It was going to go away and stay somewhere where I would never have to see it again.
Suddenly I heard a loud thud, followed immediately by another. “No,” I whispered as the burly men walked into the kitchen.
“Mister,” one of them said, “it won’t fit out the door.”
“It has to,” I said, my eyes wide with agony as I ran for the doorway. “It came in, didn’t it?” Sure enough, they had set it down in front of the door, scratching the hardwood floors beyond repair. I pushed at it feebly for a few seconds, but it wouldn’t budge. Finally, with tears in my eyes, I collapsed inside the bathtub, admitting defeat to my inanimate enemy.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Random écritures...
Writing by screenlight, now that late into the night is only 8:28, still brings me back to days of unlimited imagination. I miss freely writing without caring about quality or word choice. I miss overdone plot lines, too many plot lines, too many characters to keep track of.
Mostly I miss having an audience. There's only so much one person can laud and critique.
I miss villians with no motive but greed. I miss fanfic without accusation of plagiarism. I miss plotlines that made no sense at all, even at the time, and loopholes and breaking the fourth wall.
And then I look back and think, why did I ever do any of that?
And I answer myself, Because I wanted to.
She plays with heat:
Tries not to put the steam out.
Lights matches
and puts them in tea lights
to melt the fuel
as she steeps the chamomile.
Smiles.
Small flames ignite her.
Writing by screenlight, now that late into the night is only 8:28, still brings me back to days of unlimited imagination. I miss freely writing without caring about quality or word choice. I miss overdone plot lines, too many plot lines, too many characters to keep track of.
Mostly I miss having an audience. There's only so much one person can laud and critique.
I miss villians with no motive but greed. I miss fanfic without accusation of plagiarism. I miss plotlines that made no sense at all, even at the time, and loopholes and breaking the fourth wall.
And then I look back and think, why did I ever do any of that?
And I answer myself, Because I wanted to.
She plays with heat:
Tries not to put the steam out.
Lights matches
and puts them in tea lights
to melt the fuel
as she steeps the chamomile.
Smiles.
Small flames ignite her.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Sadness, but it's getting better.
My sweet Lovey died this week. She was nearly 15, and goldens never live that long. She was a real sweetheart. I'm doing ok with this, but I still sort of wish I'd been home.
Also, allergies are horrible because Besak can't decide on a season. I got some phytotherapeutic allergy meds this morning (the only thing at the pharmacy that wouldn't make me drowsy) so hopefully they'll improve soon. Between these two things, I've gone through a lot of tissues over the past few days...
I've started on the requested sketches. Rachel A, the card is ready but I have to photograph it before posting. Rachel M, I'll do yours today. Art is good. Jess, I still have to decide what I love most.
So yesterday Dad said I looked very French in the photo where I'm in front of Notre Dame, and he asked if I felt French. I said no, mostly I feel like a very out-of-place conservative American, and he said that's probably a good thing. And I think it's true. I'm pretty proud of wanting friendship before anything relationshippy, and relationshippiness before anything romantic. Here, things tend to go in reverse. You have sex with someone, then you get to know them, and maybe you become friends. That doesn't work for me. I'm gonna hold onto my conservative Americanness. Also, European men are weird. As are all men who try too hard to be European. Yesterday I made a great effort to avoid any and all male personages, because there were all of two men in the world that I wanted to see or talk to: my dad and Ken. The only men I've really related to, atypical men at that. Good men. Hugs to both.
Wow that was a Rachely paragraph. Made up lots of fun words. Hobbitty love, do you agree?
Too much coffee and not enough breakfast makes Bessie something something.
I miss Galesburg. I miss having vacation after exams, and eating lots of rich food with my family, and meal night, and pug. I miss Rhode Island. It's vacation time, but I won't have a vacation until Christmas. So very strange, this France place.
Is it bad that I've decided to live a Lovey-like life? Sweet, not judging, warm and fuzzy... Begging based on cuteness... Full of love and joy. I think it's a good goal.
Also, I should have internet in my room by next week. Joy and IM for all!
Much love to all,
~Bess the red-eyed
My sweet Lovey died this week. She was nearly 15, and goldens never live that long. She was a real sweetheart. I'm doing ok with this, but I still sort of wish I'd been home.
Also, allergies are horrible because Besak can't decide on a season. I got some phytotherapeutic allergy meds this morning (the only thing at the pharmacy that wouldn't make me drowsy) so hopefully they'll improve soon. Between these two things, I've gone through a lot of tissues over the past few days...
I've started on the requested sketches. Rachel A, the card is ready but I have to photograph it before posting. Rachel M, I'll do yours today. Art is good. Jess, I still have to decide what I love most.
So yesterday Dad said I looked very French in the photo where I'm in front of Notre Dame, and he asked if I felt French. I said no, mostly I feel like a very out-of-place conservative American, and he said that's probably a good thing. And I think it's true. I'm pretty proud of wanting friendship before anything relationshippy, and relationshippiness before anything romantic. Here, things tend to go in reverse. You have sex with someone, then you get to know them, and maybe you become friends. That doesn't work for me. I'm gonna hold onto my conservative Americanness. Also, European men are weird. As are all men who try too hard to be European. Yesterday I made a great effort to avoid any and all male personages, because there were all of two men in the world that I wanted to see or talk to: my dad and Ken. The only men I've really related to, atypical men at that. Good men. Hugs to both.
Wow that was a Rachely paragraph. Made up lots of fun words. Hobbitty love, do you agree?
Too much coffee and not enough breakfast makes Bessie something something.
I miss Galesburg. I miss having vacation after exams, and eating lots of rich food with my family, and meal night, and pug. I miss Rhode Island. It's vacation time, but I won't have a vacation until Christmas. So very strange, this France place.
Is it bad that I've decided to live a Lovey-like life? Sweet, not judging, warm and fuzzy... Begging based on cuteness... Full of love and joy. I think it's a good goal.
Also, I should have internet in my room by next week. Joy and IM for all!
Much love to all,
~Bess the red-eyed
Friday, November 24, 2006
1.----------
2.----------
3.----------
4.----------
5.----------
6.----------
7.----------
8.----------
9.----------
10.---------
see these slots? They're for the first 10 people who comment on this journal with a sketch idea that they want done. I'll sketch whatever you suggest. But be nice...
And I've already done Gitta's inner bitch, so that's not an option.
Meanwhile, I've taken up calligraphy. Sensei Mike said I had potential, albeit seven years ago, and heck if it's ever fun. So if you want calligraphy instead, I'll try to grant your wishes.
2.----------
3.----------
4.----------
5.----------
6.----------
7.----------
8.----------
9.----------
10.---------
see these slots? They're for the first 10 people who comment on this journal with a sketch idea that they want done. I'll sketch whatever you suggest. But be nice...
And I've already done Gitta's inner bitch, so that's not an option.
Meanwhile, I've taken up calligraphy. Sensei Mike said I had potential, albeit seven years ago, and heck if it's ever fun. So if you want calligraphy instead, I'll try to grant your wishes.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Things I Did in Paris
1. walk around a lot in the jardin de luxembourg
2. drink tea
3. eat crêpes
4. adore the musée d'orsay
5. detest sam in the musée d'orsay
6. bought boots of doom
7. took pictures of decapitated martyrs for jess
8. eat cheeses of various sorts
9. NOT get hangovers
10. go to mass at Notre Dame
11. purchase an awesome hat
12. watch a guy on the metro doing the goblin king ball thing
13. sing madrigals in the metro
14. see "le cid" at the comedie française
15. play with a pug at a church
16. see St. Mike squishing Satan in a public square
17. last-minute sweater shopping
18. translate the mass for Sable
19. forget boys for a while
20. write postcards
21. miss you all terribly
Gaming tomorrow for the first time since Larsson came to visit. 7th Sea is so, SO very needed right now... I got "posée un lapin" (stood up; literally given a rabbit) yet again and I'm still frustrated with Sam (but who isn't?). 7th Sea cures all... Especially when you make your teacher into a villian. Oh, the campaigns I shall bring you!
Love and pugs,
Bess, the Bisontine Wonder
1. walk around a lot in the jardin de luxembourg
2. drink tea
3. eat crêpes
4. adore the musée d'orsay
5. detest sam in the musée d'orsay
6. bought boots of doom
7. took pictures of decapitated martyrs for jess
8. eat cheeses of various sorts
9. NOT get hangovers
10. go to mass at Notre Dame
11. purchase an awesome hat
12. watch a guy on the metro doing the goblin king ball thing
13. sing madrigals in the metro
14. see "le cid" at the comedie française
15. play with a pug at a church
16. see St. Mike squishing Satan in a public square
17. last-minute sweater shopping
18. translate the mass for Sable
19. forget boys for a while
20. write postcards
21. miss you all terribly
Gaming tomorrow for the first time since Larsson came to visit. 7th Sea is so, SO very needed right now... I got "posée un lapin" (stood up; literally given a rabbit) yet again and I'm still frustrated with Sam (but who isn't?). 7th Sea cures all... Especially when you make your teacher into a villian. Oh, the campaigns I shall bring you!
Love and pugs,
Bess, the Bisontine Wonder
Monday, November 13, 2006
Paris is truly wonderful. Photos are up and uploading... more to come tomorrow. For the moment, there are a bunch on Facebook and a few in the devArt.
So Katie, Sable, and I were walking around trying to find the Comédie Française on Saturday when we saw a church with absolutely beautiful architecture. We went behind the fence to see it up close. All of a sudden, while examining martyrs, Sable shouts out, "Bess! Pug!" And lo, there was a little black pug running around. Her mistress called her, and she ran away. Then they passed by the fence, and I kneeled down and the pug came up to me! I petted a pug in Paris! Then the pretty pug went away.
Sable said, "Bess, you got a pug at a church. God loves you!" And when the Pope says that, you know it's true. Even if it is the Pope of another religion.
Nightlights 5 by ~Natural20 on deviantART
So Katie, Sable, and I were walking around trying to find the Comédie Française on Saturday when we saw a church with absolutely beautiful architecture. We went behind the fence to see it up close. All of a sudden, while examining martyrs, Sable shouts out, "Bess! Pug!" And lo, there was a little black pug running around. Her mistress called her, and she ran away. Then they passed by the fence, and I kneeled down and the pug came up to me! I petted a pug in Paris! Then the pretty pug went away.
Sable said, "Bess, you got a pug at a church. God loves you!" And when the Pope says that, you know it's true. Even if it is the Pope of another religion.
Nightlights 5 by ~Natural20 on deviantART
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
new photos up on the devart.
Sketches and Thoughts from France and Elsewhere
Cat's Version of the Casting Call for Lord of the Rings:
Casting crew: Do you have a horse?...Can you grow a beard?...Excellent, you're all in. Don't bathe for a week. The scruffiest and smelliest among you shall be your king. You there, what's your name?
An actor: Viggo.
Casting crew: You're king. And you, the other one.
Another actor: Bernard.
Casting crew: You can be the other king. Not quite as important, but you get a better palace.
Bernard: Sweet!
Casting crew: Now, which one of you is really crazy... John!
John: Yeah?
Casting crew: Do you want to light yourself on fire?
John: Hell yes!
Casting crew: Excellent. Now, who looks like John? David and Sean, you're his sons.
*David and Sean high-five*
Casting crew: Now, we need two women... There are two women here... And one of you speaks Elvish! Excellent!
7th Sea Thoughts
Scene: Samuel Bastos' apartment. Carol sits in an uncomfortable chair with impeccable posture. Samuel swirls a glass of wine in his hand.
Sam: They despise me, Carol.
Carol: I know, Sam.
Sam: They truly hate me. I give them too much work, they say. I set odd class hours and ignore proper punctuation.
Carol: I know, Sam.
Sam: I don't know what to do. (sighs) It's all going according to plan. Nothing to do but sit back and wait. Sometimes it's truly boring to be a mastermind.
Carol: Do you honestly think you can get away with it? (she struggles against her bonds)
Sam: Of course I can. They're so exhausted from running all over Besancon that they have no energy left in their little American brains to figure out obscure French university-educated plots.
Carol: You would think so, wouldn't you? (she smiles internally; the cat on the windowsill nods) I'll be free of your prison in no time.
Sam: (laughs) They'll never finish this jeu de piste! What makes you so sure the little drunkards will find _you_?
Carol: (with her small smile) You fool, Samuel. You sent Katie and Bess to the 17th century Citadelle.
Sam: (his face falls into a glare) What was that?
(Carol doesn't answer. Mincie bats a shiny d10 across the windowsill.)
L'enfance qui ronronne... ~Carla Bruni
I think my childhood purrs. It was fairly happy, and remembering it makes me smile. It's comforting to look back, about as comforting as a cat against my stomach or on my feet.
To ensure that the rest of my life purrs, I shall become a cat lady. I will live in a small apartment in Besancon with two cats. Small children will come to my apartment and ask for American cookies with "pepittes de chocolat" and pet my cats. My cats will purr and I will be happy. I will have smile lines and white hair.
Dicethoughts
For the moment, we wait. Huddled in our satin strings for warmth, we rest. We wait to generate random events that fall into a plan and out of the sensible. Life doesn't need to follow rules; you need to make your own corebook.
Writing Journal Feb. 29, 2005
“Why won’t you clean your room?” Mom bellowed up the stairs.
“Because it is my room! Because I can have no other!” Cat shouted back. She was big on twisting literature to suit her arguments. Besides, we were never going to get that disaster area anywhere near clean enough for Mom’s standards.
Cat flopped back down on the bed next to Pug. His name is really Bruce, but it’s just so much more fun to refer to him by his breed. You can call out “Pugpugpug!” and he’ll come running, too-big tongue flapping out of his tiny mouth and skidding around corners. The little thing doesn’t even answer to “Bruce,” much to my brother’s dismay.
Anyway, she flopped down next to Pug and opened her textbook. I was sitting on my bed knitting a scarf (the only thing I can knit) and reading a story for class. The cat, who was non-chalantly lying next to my leg, pretended not to notice the yarn, so that I wouldn’t suspect when she found an opportune moment and pounced on something else.
“I hate modern literature,” I muttered as the cat bit the hem of my pants.
“Why-ever so?” Cat asked with biting sarcasm as she stabbed at a photo of Hemingway with her mechanical pencil. “Stupid Hemingway.”
I dangled my shirt sleeve in front of the cat, who promptly attacked my shoe in a fit of jealous rage. “Because the writers of this bleak era have decided that nothing exciting happens anymore.”
“Oh, quit whining about it,” Cat said. “I have to deal with Hemingway again.”
“Yeah, Lenz loves Hemingway,” I said. That was understating the situation. Cat’s English teacher adored the writer, practically worshipped his every word. “We’re kind of in the same boat, you know? You have to read ‘Indian Camp’ for the second year in a row, and I have to read every aspiring author’s attempts to be Hemingway.”
“Hah, your life sucks,” she said, throwing Pug across the empty space between our beds and landing him on top of the cat. The cat immediately flew onto the top of my dresser and settled down between a vase and a stuffed raccoon. Pug tried to follow, squashed his face further, if possible, than usual, and jumped back onto my bed as though nothing had happened. He has the shortest memory of any dog I’ve ever met. Well, of any pug, anyway. Pugs aren’t really dogs. Cat and I decided that a long time ago.
“Maybe it does,” I said, stroking his soft ears and examining the ugly-cute face, “but I don’t have to publish its every detail to prove so.”
“Amen, sister,” Cat hollered, throwing her hands to the sky before hurling her textbook to the floor in righteous happiness. It flumped softly onto a pile of dirty clothes that I should have picked up last week.
Sketches and Thoughts from France and Elsewhere
Cat's Version of the Casting Call for Lord of the Rings:
Casting crew: Do you have a horse?...Can you grow a beard?...Excellent, you're all in. Don't bathe for a week. The scruffiest and smelliest among you shall be your king. You there, what's your name?
An actor: Viggo.
Casting crew: You're king. And you, the other one.
Another actor: Bernard.
Casting crew: You can be the other king. Not quite as important, but you get a better palace.
Bernard: Sweet!
Casting crew: Now, which one of you is really crazy... John!
John: Yeah?
Casting crew: Do you want to light yourself on fire?
John: Hell yes!
Casting crew: Excellent. Now, who looks like John? David and Sean, you're his sons.
*David and Sean high-five*
Casting crew: Now, we need two women... There are two women here... And one of you speaks Elvish! Excellent!
7th Sea Thoughts
Scene: Samuel Bastos' apartment. Carol sits in an uncomfortable chair with impeccable posture. Samuel swirls a glass of wine in his hand.
Sam: They despise me, Carol.
Carol: I know, Sam.
Sam: They truly hate me. I give them too much work, they say. I set odd class hours and ignore proper punctuation.
Carol: I know, Sam.
Sam: I don't know what to do. (sighs) It's all going according to plan. Nothing to do but sit back and wait. Sometimes it's truly boring to be a mastermind.
Carol: Do you honestly think you can get away with it? (she struggles against her bonds)
Sam: Of course I can. They're so exhausted from running all over Besancon that they have no energy left in their little American brains to figure out obscure French university-educated plots.
Carol: You would think so, wouldn't you? (she smiles internally; the cat on the windowsill nods) I'll be free of your prison in no time.
Sam: (laughs) They'll never finish this jeu de piste! What makes you so sure the little drunkards will find _you_?
Carol: (with her small smile) You fool, Samuel. You sent Katie and Bess to the 17th century Citadelle.
Sam: (his face falls into a glare) What was that?
(Carol doesn't answer. Mincie bats a shiny d10 across the windowsill.)
L'enfance qui ronronne... ~Carla Bruni
I think my childhood purrs. It was fairly happy, and remembering it makes me smile. It's comforting to look back, about as comforting as a cat against my stomach or on my feet.
To ensure that the rest of my life purrs, I shall become a cat lady. I will live in a small apartment in Besancon with two cats. Small children will come to my apartment and ask for American cookies with "pepittes de chocolat" and pet my cats. My cats will purr and I will be happy. I will have smile lines and white hair.
Dicethoughts
For the moment, we wait. Huddled in our satin strings for warmth, we rest. We wait to generate random events that fall into a plan and out of the sensible. Life doesn't need to follow rules; you need to make your own corebook.
Writing Journal Feb. 29, 2005
“Why won’t you clean your room?” Mom bellowed up the stairs.
“Because it is my room! Because I can have no other!” Cat shouted back. She was big on twisting literature to suit her arguments. Besides, we were never going to get that disaster area anywhere near clean enough for Mom’s standards.
Cat flopped back down on the bed next to Pug. His name is really Bruce, but it’s just so much more fun to refer to him by his breed. You can call out “Pugpugpug!” and he’ll come running, too-big tongue flapping out of his tiny mouth and skidding around corners. The little thing doesn’t even answer to “Bruce,” much to my brother’s dismay.
Anyway, she flopped down next to Pug and opened her textbook. I was sitting on my bed knitting a scarf (the only thing I can knit) and reading a story for class. The cat, who was non-chalantly lying next to my leg, pretended not to notice the yarn, so that I wouldn’t suspect when she found an opportune moment and pounced on something else.
“I hate modern literature,” I muttered as the cat bit the hem of my pants.
“Why-ever so?” Cat asked with biting sarcasm as she stabbed at a photo of Hemingway with her mechanical pencil. “Stupid Hemingway.”
I dangled my shirt sleeve in front of the cat, who promptly attacked my shoe in a fit of jealous rage. “Because the writers of this bleak era have decided that nothing exciting happens anymore.”
“Oh, quit whining about it,” Cat said. “I have to deal with Hemingway again.”
“Yeah, Lenz loves Hemingway,” I said. That was understating the situation. Cat’s English teacher adored the writer, practically worshipped his every word. “We’re kind of in the same boat, you know? You have to read ‘Indian Camp’ for the second year in a row, and I have to read every aspiring author’s attempts to be Hemingway.”
“Hah, your life sucks,” she said, throwing Pug across the empty space between our beds and landing him on top of the cat. The cat immediately flew onto the top of my dresser and settled down between a vase and a stuffed raccoon. Pug tried to follow, squashed his face further, if possible, than usual, and jumped back onto my bed as though nothing had happened. He has the shortest memory of any dog I’ve ever met. Well, of any pug, anyway. Pugs aren’t really dogs. Cat and I decided that a long time ago.
“Maybe it does,” I said, stroking his soft ears and examining the ugly-cute face, “but I don’t have to publish its every detail to prove so.”
“Amen, sister,” Cat hollered, throwing her hands to the sky before hurling her textbook to the floor in righteous happiness. It flumped softly onto a pile of dirty clothes that I should have picked up last week.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
ok, trying something new. hope this works!
Sam et la Vache by ~Natural20 on deviantART
can you see sam and the cow? please respond... i think this will work better than the strip o' pictures.
also... pug!
Pugshots 10: Pug on a chair by ~Natural20 on deviantART
Sam et la Vache by ~Natural20 on deviantART
can you see sam and the cow? please respond... i think this will work better than the strip o' pictures.
also... pug!
Pugshots 10: Pug on a chair by ~Natural20 on deviantART
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
As some of you already know, religious studies minors have to do a research project to finish off the minor. I have a few possibilities right now that would cross over nicely with the French major and have nothing to do with existentialism (or at least very little to do with it). Please advise!
1. Social and Political Impacts of the Secularization of French Public Schools ("laïceté")
2. Loss of Faith in France: the declining church attendance rate and its causes
On the non-spiritual front, I put up my curtains and I'm a pirate today. Happy Halloween! I also spent a small amount of time reading Dumas with a glass of white wine in the university café, which made me feel very very 7th Sea. I need 7th Sea!!! I'm coming back with the best Montaigne campaign to ever leave Montaigne alive!
To do:
Find plan of the Citadel (we have a 17th century citadel!)
Read Montaigne book
Read the rest of The Three Musketeers
Live
2 weeks till Paris!
1. Social and Political Impacts of the Secularization of French Public Schools ("laïceté")
2. Loss of Faith in France: the declining church attendance rate and its causes
On the non-spiritual front, I put up my curtains and I'm a pirate today. Happy Halloween! I also spent a small amount of time reading Dumas with a glass of white wine in the university café, which made me feel very very 7th Sea. I need 7th Sea!!! I'm coming back with the best Montaigne campaign to ever leave Montaigne alive!
To do:
Find plan of the Citadel (we have a 17th century citadel!)
Read Montaigne book
Read the rest of The Three Musketeers
Live
2 weeks till Paris!
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Things Katie Says
out of context, cuz it's better that way
"Just like you were wearing a sheep!" (illustration to follow)
Bess: I don't want to go to Sam's class.
Katie: I'd kind of rather stab him instead.
"Like if you had a kitten in your pocket!"
"Because we've decided, 'Screw the children! Let's live for today!'"
"But then I'd have intelligent life in my room with me, and that would be awkward."
out of context, cuz it's better that way
"Just like you were wearing a sheep!" (illustration to follow)
Bess: I don't want to go to Sam's class.
Katie: I'd kind of rather stab him instead.
"Like if you had a kitten in your pocket!"
"Because we've decided, 'Screw the children! Let's live for today!'"
"But then I'd have intelligent life in my room with me, and that would be awkward."
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Current mood: lonely
Dang... doing nothing is boring when you don't have a suite to do nothing with...
Life goes on as it always does. Next week I have very few classes thanks to absent teachers and All Saints Day, so I plan on doing... nothing...
I need a hobby. Fast. A hobby that involves going around and being active without involving lots of alcohol or expenditures.
Lately, my hobby has been negative existential thinking, and that's not getting me anywhere but depressed. Who am I? What is my purpose? And other angsty questions.
Maybe I just need a pug.
Photos of the room:
It'll be prettier when I put up the curtains I made :) Please send me letters! Or emails! Preferably with silly photos!
And for Damien, who's never seen her, here's my alter-ego who's been showing her face quite often lately: SUPER CHRISTIAN!!!
Hugs and pugs,
~Bess, the master existentialist
Dang... doing nothing is boring when you don't have a suite to do nothing with...
Life goes on as it always does. Next week I have very few classes thanks to absent teachers and All Saints Day, so I plan on doing... nothing...
I need a hobby. Fast. A hobby that involves going around and being active without involving lots of alcohol or expenditures.
Lately, my hobby has been negative existential thinking, and that's not getting me anywhere but depressed. Who am I? What is my purpose? And other angsty questions.
Maybe I just need a pug.
Photos of the room:
It'll be prettier when I put up the curtains I made :) Please send me letters! Or emails! Preferably with silly photos!
And for Damien, who's never seen her, here's my alter-ego who's been showing her face quite often lately: SUPER CHRISTIAN!!!
Hugs and pugs,
~Bess, the master existentialist
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Current Mood: pug?
FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE, SEND ME MAIL!!!!
I need contact with the outside world... if there hasn't been another rate hike, it's only 85 cents to tell me you love me by letter ^.^
The address is as follows:
Bess Karner
c/o Knox College
10 Rue de Fontaine Argent
25000 Besançon
FRANCE
Sameaddress applies for Katie, who has yet to stab Sam Bastos but probably will in the near future.
Please mark "Air Mail" for rapid delivery and lack of Bess explodey.
FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE, SEND ME MAIL!!!!
I need contact with the outside world... if there hasn't been another rate hike, it's only 85 cents to tell me you love me by letter ^.^
The address is as follows:
Bess Karner
c/o Knox College
10 Rue de Fontaine Argent
25000 Besançon
FRANCE
Sameaddress applies for Katie, who has yet to stab Sam Bastos but probably will in the near future.
Please mark "Air Mail" for rapid delivery and lack of Bess explodey.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Current mood: Existential
New plan: no Coke after 17h...
I managed to listen to three entire musicals and most of the Firefly soundtrack last night before conking out from Benadryl.
Will post pictures and fiction here shortly. Just moved into my room on campus. It's slightly smaller than a 5-name single, but there's a little more floorspace thanks to the lack of bureaus. I love my desk.
And, since this is a lit blog,
Poetry for the day:
On Passing a French Cemetary
Let ivy grow over my grave.
Let God make my body
a joy, a beauty; and a testament
to His power.
Make a place for birds to
nest in my headstone,
so that I may look back
and see new life
following my own.
New plan: no Coke after 17h...
I managed to listen to three entire musicals and most of the Firefly soundtrack last night before conking out from Benadryl.
Will post pictures and fiction here shortly. Just moved into my room on campus. It's slightly smaller than a 5-name single, but there's a little more floorspace thanks to the lack of bureaus. I love my desk.
And, since this is a lit blog,
Poetry for the day:
On Passing a French Cemetary
Let ivy grow over my grave.
Let God make my body
a joy, a beauty; and a testament
to His power.
Make a place for birds to
nest in my headstone,
so that I may look back
and see new life
following my own.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Current mood: nap...
France is tiring... too much work, not quite enough sleep.
Things everyone should know about my life in France:
*There's a guy in my classes who's like a clone of Scooter, but without the strippers
*The cross Erin gave me last year attracts more attention than the corset I got from Megan
*I have yet to find a cheese I dislike
*French poetry is more confusing than English poetry
*I have condemned myself to yet another presentation on existential theatre
*Apparently "The Three Musketeers" does not constitute good reading material (of course, I'm still reading it)
*Gaming is considered the pastime of murderous teenagers
*My church choir is made up almost exclusively of little old ladies who want to be my grandmother (and this is awesome), and is directed by a man who earned awards for music in the army
*Communion wafers are made of real bread
*It is forbidden to laugh in the library
*The dollar's still falling, thus making me poorer by the day
*Street vendors are the coolest thing ever
I don't wanna move to the Bouloie! I love my family!
Thursday, October 19, 2006
What the hell, George Bush? What the hell?
Knoxiens, please add me to the list of people ashamed of their president. It took me long enough.
Film everyone must see, regardless of religion: O Jerusalem. I cried. And I have come to the following conclusion:
There is only one type of war. There is no holy war, no just war, no civil or revolutionary war. There is only War, men killing men in the name of something or someone that doesn't want men to kill. God have mercy on our souls.
Knoxiens, please add me to the list of people ashamed of their president. It took me long enough.
Film everyone must see, regardless of religion: O Jerusalem. I cried. And I have come to the following conclusion:
There is only one type of war. There is no holy war, no just war, no civil or revolutionary war. There is only War, men killing men in the name of something or someone that doesn't want men to kill. God have mercy on our souls.
Monday, October 16, 2006
why, yes, angst is my middle name!
that being said, night went better than hoped. awesome indian food. we left before the real bêtises started. and the musee courbet rocks my socks.
world is very sunny. river no longer flooding parking lots. angst has receded accordingly. thanks for the concern, cat :) i love you very much.
bazaar in the place de marché today. finally got a wallet that holds all the jiving cards we need to survive here. and a crêpe with ham and cheese. and a waffle with chocolate. and a very very elicia scarf. thanks very much to katie for finding this glorious thing!
let's hope for a good week.
that being said, night went better than hoped. awesome indian food. we left before the real bêtises started. and the musee courbet rocks my socks.
world is very sunny. river no longer flooding parking lots. angst has receded accordingly. thanks for the concern, cat :) i love you very much.
bazaar in the place de marché today. finally got a wallet that holds all the jiving cards we need to survive here. and a crêpe with ham and cheese. and a waffle with chocolate. and a very very elicia scarf. thanks very much to katie for finding this glorious thing!
let's hope for a good week.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Je sens une grande bêtise.
I sense a massive stupidity.
Friday the 13th. It would have to be Friday the 13th, wouldn't it, to drive me to the brink of insanity and superstition. Frankly, I'm afraid. I don't know if it's warranted or not, but it seems to be the fashion for my brain cells and who am I to deny chemistry?
The class is planning something I don't agree with for Katie's 21st. Everyone knows I'm bad at sensing sarcasm, but so help me, if they're serious about any of it, there will be problems.
Right now, my brain is coming up with dashing plots that require a panache of 4 to pull off, and I have at most a 2. Add into that that this hasn't been the very best of weeks overall, and I might as well throw a towel at something. Most feasible plan at the moment: fake an attack. I might not even have to fake it, just hold it at bay long enough to make a nice explosive impact. Wow that sounds illegal and dangerous out of context...
Losing my English is fun.
verb: franglaire (to mix French and English in interesting ways)
je franglais
tu franglais
il franglait
nous franglaisons
vous franglaisez
ils franglaisent
What am I going to do with myself? I really need to find that French pirate, marry him, and set sail before anything panicky happens. Can one acquire psychiatric medications on the high seas?
I sense a massive stupidity.
Friday the 13th. It would have to be Friday the 13th, wouldn't it, to drive me to the brink of insanity and superstition. Frankly, I'm afraid. I don't know if it's warranted or not, but it seems to be the fashion for my brain cells and who am I to deny chemistry?
The class is planning something I don't agree with for Katie's 21st. Everyone knows I'm bad at sensing sarcasm, but so help me, if they're serious about any of it, there will be problems.
Right now, my brain is coming up with dashing plots that require a panache of 4 to pull off, and I have at most a 2. Add into that that this hasn't been the very best of weeks overall, and I might as well throw a towel at something. Most feasible plan at the moment: fake an attack. I might not even have to fake it, just hold it at bay long enough to make a nice explosive impact. Wow that sounds illegal and dangerous out of context...
Losing my English is fun.
verb: franglaire (to mix French and English in interesting ways)
je franglais
tu franglais
il franglait
nous franglaisons
vous franglaisez
ils franglaisent
What am I going to do with myself? I really need to find that French pirate, marry him, and set sail before anything panicky happens. Can one acquire psychiatric medications on the high seas?
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Friday, September 15, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
Well, as this is *officially* the lit blog, I might as well post my most recent poems here. Enjoy.
The Laundry Room
In the winter, wet clothes
cling to the agitator,
frozen together. A lamp
defrosts them
before the next step.
There is no heat
in the laundry room, which was once
the entry to a nineteenth century
cottage.
The door is flush with the wall and,
if guests have had too much to drink,
it is often mistaken for the way out.
The old tiles freeze
sockless feet
in the cluttered closet.
We ought to put a rug down.
Hopping from foot to foot,
I take the hot clothes
from the dryer,
pile them on the world's only
mahogany laundry table,
and bury my toes
in fresh warm socks.
9-11-01
Twenty-five copies
Of "Alice's Restaurant"
Seem so out of place.
and sketches, too....
Rendezvous
New-car-and-nicotine Buick Rendezvous smells like Canton. Grampa's arms are tanned to burned like the end of his secret cigarettes. Sunscreen is a luxury we can't afford. He breathes slowly. He breathes on purpose. It's a Jones thing, the Jones sigh, a memory of Wales as we drive to Bloomington-Normal. Speak up so he can bite back with the teeth that eat onions like apples to prevent scurvy.
The Laundry Room
In the winter, wet clothes
cling to the agitator,
frozen together. A lamp
defrosts them
before the next step.
There is no heat
in the laundry room, which was once
the entry to a nineteenth century
cottage.
The door is flush with the wall and,
if guests have had too much to drink,
it is often mistaken for the way out.
The old tiles freeze
sockless feet
in the cluttered closet.
We ought to put a rug down.
Hopping from foot to foot,
I take the hot clothes
from the dryer,
pile them on the world's only
mahogany laundry table,
and bury my toes
in fresh warm socks.
9-11-01
Twenty-five copies
Of "Alice's Restaurant"
Seem so out of place.
and sketches, too....
Rendezvous
New-car-and-nicotine Buick Rendezvous smells like Canton. Grampa's arms are tanned to burned like the end of his secret cigarettes. Sunscreen is a luxury we can't afford. He breathes slowly. He breathes on purpose. It's a Jones thing, the Jones sigh, a memory of Wales as we drive to Bloomington-Normal. Speak up so he can bite back with the teeth that eat onions like apples to prevent scurvy.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Hey, y'all! Damien told me I should post again... so here we are. In this post, you shall find:
1. a rant about yiffs (brief, don't worry)
2. chapter 2 of Midra
You are welcome to suggest ideas for sketches (visual or written) after the proceedings.
Rant about yiffs
Okay, so I posted my biblical anthro on the devArt. John the Baptist. Some stretch of the imagination, but my logic followed decently. Anyway, I got a lot of good comments on it. Except this one from silverfoxx87:
/rant>
Chapter 2 of Midra
1. a rant about yiffs (brief, don't worry)
2. chapter 2 of Midra
You are welcome to suggest ideas for sketches (visual or written) after the proceedings.
Rant about yiffs
Okay, so I posted my biblical anthro on the devArt. John the Baptist. Some stretch of the imagination, but my logic followed decently. Anyway, I got a lot of good comments on it. Except this one from silverfoxx87:
I would liek to sleep with this catman! DADADA XDDDD FAILS IN PELTI ask you, is it too much to post an anthro picture without getting a comment from a yiff? There's only so much I can take... and it's John the Baptist, for crying out loud!!! And he's a wolf! It says so in the description! GAH!
/rant>
Chapter 2 of Midra
When her alarm sounded at six thirty, Midra did not rush to get out of bed. There were still two hours until her first class; she could lie there, listening to the oldies, for a good half-hour before breakfast.
Like most felines, especially those at St. Frank’s U, she detested Mondays. Monday meant that she got five hours of sleep the night before starting five full days of horrendously boring classes. It also meant the beginning of another demeaning week as a waitress at Rusty’s. “Rusty’s International Club,” she often told her friends, “is just an excuse for rich men to get completely smashed in exotic ways.” The hours were awful, the clientele was awful, and the uniforms, frankly, sucked, but the pay was excellent. One week of the night shift could pay for two weeks’ tuition, room, and board at St. Frank’s, so she stayed on in spite of herself.
“Get up, sleeping beauty,” said her feline roommate Chibin Mayberry, bashing her in the head with a feather pillow.
“Fine,” said Midra, rolling off her bed into a pile of outdated news and fashion periodicals. She pulled on a sea-green robe that clashed horribly with her soft gray fir and blood-red hair, and walked the familiar track through her messy domicile to the kitchen. Chibin was already buzzing around making breakfast for…three?
“Why is there an extra plate?” Midra asked Chibin, fearing the answer.
A square-faced canine jock, wrapped in a towel monogrammed “MEOW”, stumbled out of Chibin’s bedroom, holding his hand to his aching head. He sat down heavily in Midra’s accustomed place and painfully sipped the black coffee in front of him. The pained, hung-over, and stupid visage was all too familiar to Midra; this idiot sat behind her in Econ. Every Tuesday, he cat-called her (pun intended) as she sat down. He was also a regular customer at Rusty’s.
Midra picked up a pan and a spoon and snuck up quietly behind him. She leaned her muzzle sensuously close to his pointed ear and shouted, “I’M SORRY, BUT YOU’RE IN MY CHAIR!”
“What the f…”
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, DERROK!”
He got up and ran out of the kitchen, Midra chasing him all the way with her pot and spoon. As she turned back into the room, Chibin glared at her, arms akimbo.
“Why did you chase Derrok away?” she asked with an angry, yet ditzy pout.
“Because,” Midra replied, sitting in the vacated seat, “you have to stop bringing home every drunken idiot who propositions you at work. Derrok is a sleaze-bag, a low-down scoundrel with the libido of three teen-aged males and the force to physically hurt you.”
“Well, maybe you need a scoundrel of your own,” muttered Chibin, stabbing a fork through three pancakes and shaking them onto Midra’s plate.
“Excuse me?” said Midra, bristling the whiskers on her slightly-too-long muzzle.
“All I’m saying is, it wouldn’t hurt you to bring a boy home every once in a while. Loosen up! Have a little fun!” Chibin flipped her hair, tossed a pancake onto her own plate, and started smearing it with low-calorie spread.
“I hope you’re not referring to the incident with Mr. Robinson. He’s a married weasel, plus he was drunk off his…”
“Not just him! I get calls from dozens of cute guys every week, asking who that hot feline waitress is.” She paused for a second. “It’s you.”
“I know,” said Midra. “I just don’t want to spend my years at St. Frank’s in bed if I’m not seriously ill or injured, that’s all.”
“We’re in college, Mi. These are supposed to be the best years of our lives!”
“And which one of my nine is designated for a slow, painful demise?” asked Midra sarcastically, opening Chibin’s newest Modern Furre Female and wincing at the fashions of the day.
Chibin scoffed and tossed her long, silky black hair.
“Stop doing that,” said Midra. “It scares me.”
“I’m just practicing for tonight,” she replied.
“Oh God, what’s the theme?” asked Midra, crossing her fingers and screwing up her face in wishful agony.
“España!” said Chibin. “Break out your castanets, sweetheart.”
Midra slammed her head into the table, but then raised it again with a non-descript consenting look on her face. “Meh,” she said, sipping her herbal tea, “it could be worse."
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Friday, September 01, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Thoughts on the nature of God...
http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/38962065/
(the image is too big to put up here...)
http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/38962065/
(the image is too big to put up here...)
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Well, life went on like it always does... Russian subs are cool. Pics to come.
I present to you, chapter 1 of Midra Wysterne's story. Hoorah for furre-fic... Please comment so I know you're around.
*1*
Midnight at Rusty’s International Club. A lithe young form sneaked out the back door into the alley and paused for a moment, listening carefully. The ruckus inside continued as usual, and she started walking silently away.
A voice rang out from inside the club: “Midra!”
She started to run, her gray cloak streaming behind her. Midra ducked around the corner and pressed her back against the wall, covering her face with her hood.
A crash of breaking dishes reached her ears, and a blonde weasel staggered out the back door of Rusty’s. He tried unsuccessfully to stand there for a moment before he called out again, “Midra! Come back!” He leaned against the brick wall unsteadily, waiting for a response.
“Go home, Mr. Robinson,” she replied from around the corner.
He took one step in the direction of her voice before having to lean against the wall once more. “Fine!” he slurred, and spat on the ground. “I’ll go home…to my wife…” He followed the wall to the door and stepped back inside Rusty’s.
Midra walked briskly to the front of the establishment and hailed a cab.
“Where to, miss?” asked the mouse inside.
“It’s not for me,” she replied as Mr. Robinson exited the club. “This guy needs a ride home.”
“No problem, ma’am.”
Midra helped Mr. Robinson into the taxi and shut the door after him. He looked up at her and said slowly, “You’re a nice girl. What’s your name?” She shook her head sadly and the cab drove off.
Wrapping the warm gray cloak more tightly around herself, Midra turned and began the long walk back to the dormitory.
I present to you, chapter 1 of Midra Wysterne's story. Hoorah for furre-fic... Please comment so I know you're around.
*1*
Midnight at Rusty’s International Club. A lithe young form sneaked out the back door into the alley and paused for a moment, listening carefully. The ruckus inside continued as usual, and she started walking silently away.
A voice rang out from inside the club: “Midra!”
She started to run, her gray cloak streaming behind her. Midra ducked around the corner and pressed her back against the wall, covering her face with her hood.
A crash of breaking dishes reached her ears, and a blonde weasel staggered out the back door of Rusty’s. He tried unsuccessfully to stand there for a moment before he called out again, “Midra! Come back!” He leaned against the brick wall unsteadily, waiting for a response.
“Go home, Mr. Robinson,” she replied from around the corner.
He took one step in the direction of her voice before having to lean against the wall once more. “Fine!” he slurred, and spat on the ground. “I’ll go home…to my wife…” He followed the wall to the door and stepped back inside Rusty’s.
Midra walked briskly to the front of the establishment and hailed a cab.
“Where to, miss?” asked the mouse inside.
“It’s not for me,” she replied as Mr. Robinson exited the club. “This guy needs a ride home.”
“No problem, ma’am.”
Midra helped Mr. Robinson into the taxi and shut the door after him. He looked up at her and said slowly, “You’re a nice girl. What’s your name?” She shook her head sadly and the cab drove off.
Wrapping the warm gray cloak more tightly around herself, Midra turned and began the long walk back to the dormitory.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
 | You scored as Mysterious. You wish to hide who you are from all those around you. You find it very hard to trust people. You also may enjoy the fun that comes from playing mind games with others around you.My advice Get out there and reveal the true you if only to one person!
What do your eyes reveal about you?(PICS!) created with QuizFarm.com |
 | You scored as Simon Tam. The Doctor. You have a gift for healing that goes beyond education. You took an oath to do no harm, even when your patients have tried to kill you. You are out of place where you are, being used to refined society. However, if you take that stick out of your arse you should be fine.
Which Serenity character are you? created with QuizFarm.com |
 | You scored as Malkavian. You belong to the Malkavian bloodline. The Malkavians are blessed with an "inner sight" which often gives them great perception and even clairvoyance. Many are sought for their counsel and insight. The drawback, however, is that they are all entirely insane. If a vampire is speaking in obscure riddles, it's a fair bet they are of Malkavian blood.
What vampire clan do you belong to? created with QuizFarm.com |
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
 | You scored as Shepherd Derrial Book. You are Book, a minister and passenger onboard Serenity. You are wise and spiritual but also brave and willing to fight if the situation calls for it. No one knows much about your past and you are content to leave it that way. You are always happy to offer advice or comfort to those that need it.
What FireflySerenity Character Are You? created with QuizFarm.com |
 | You scored as Peter Pan. Your alter ego is Peter Pan. You are a child at heart. Anything you believe is possible, and you never want to grow up.
Which Disney Character is your Alter Ego? created with QuizFarm.com |
Thursday, January 12, 2006
simplicity
If life was supposed to be simple, we wouldn't wear hats and coats or shovel the snow. The burden would lie in development alone and end quickly, before weather or tools or layers. Mayfly on the wind knows the truth and cannot share, for information is complication and he has no words to play the sage. I feel the need to break and spill the systems from myself so that I, too, may be so free.
If life was supposed to be simple, we wouldn't wear hats and coats or shovel the snow. The burden would lie in development alone and end quickly, before weather or tools or layers. Mayfly on the wind knows the truth and cannot share, for information is complication and he has no words to play the sage. I feel the need to break and spill the systems from myself so that I, too, may be so free.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)