Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

I did the weekend family thing. I came back with my eyes red, brain fried, back strained and I would do it again in a second. I got to do the female thing which I don’t get to do too much, being a socially inept loner with a gender unspecific brain.

I went to Villa Moda for the first time this week. Me mater got me there under false pretenses, and let me tell you all the funny stories you hear about women going at it over a bag during sales are all dirty lies. I was unimpressed, probably because I’m not into the designer label thing. Not against it, but I can take it or leave it. Didn’t think Dubai was that hot either. Also probable is that it was because most of their clothes were made for anorexic 12 year olds.

I love music. I love it in many forms. I was going through my old CDs and I found a couple of Pearl Jam Live Concert ones. I like Pearl Jam a lot. I don’t really keep up with any kind of ‘scene’ so I don’t really know what they’re up to, but man, they used to rock. Last Kiss? The apex of pathos when you’re a high school student trying to pose as independent, and not bad these days either. Wishlist, because hey tis the season. Black, see Pathos.

I found American Gods last Wednesday at Virgin. I tried to stretch it out, but I am not a junkie for nothing. Wound up sitting down with it on the ride back and resurfacing sometime before dawn with it lying decimated in my hands. So much for that. I liked it for a lot of reasons that I may or may not get into later.

Meanwhile, these were my favorite two lines.

Chicago happened slowly, like a migrane. -Page 79, First Sentence.

It says so much. How the city blends into the surrounding area, sure, but also exactly how you’re supposed to feel about it, the moment you set eyes on it. That line hits you right between the eyes.

I effin forgot the second line. I remember that it grabbed me, and I looked around in vain forsomething to use as a book mark. I almost regretted that I have too much respect for books to dog-ear and underline. I remember it hit me somewhere below my solar plexus. Ah well, it’s be something to find next time I read the book.

Once More Into The Breach

So tomorrow (today?) I’m going to the Kheiran Resort. Not because we don’t have a chalet, but because it’s the only place big enough to pull of something on the scale of what my family is planning to do. They’re having this huge weekend get-together of extended family, of cousins, second cousins, cousins twice-removed and God knows who else. I think they’re renting a total of about 20 units or so. Cool but weird. Which kind of describes my family. I love them to death but they’re nuts (Thank God).

I’m thinking it’s going to be tons of fun but insanely busy. I’m taking Jayne, but I don’t know if I’ll have online access or even time to get online if I do. Hopefully nothing too interesting will happen within the ‘sphere while I’m there. Either way, I’ll be back on Friday with many stories I’m sure.

In other news, you know when you’ve hit the upper threshold of geekitude? It’s not when more than half your library is sci-fi fantasy. No, it’s not when your speech is peppered with expressions exclusive to fandom (and mostly sci-fi fandom at that). It’s not even when you find it necessary to correct people who misquote your shows.

Hitting the upper threshold of geekitude is when you read anthropomorphic erotica with the pairing academia/pure maths and you think it’s cute, funny as hell and kinda hot. I… I think I might be a little shell-shocked. And a pervert. I’m sorry ok? I have a math kink. Math talk is just… it’s hot people!

Here’s a little quote:

Pure Maths iterated an algorithm in an attempt to hide its excitement.

"Take me," pleaded Academia. "Take me like a runaway freight train that leaves Boston at 9:18 travelling west at 143 miles per hour."

Pure Maths chuckled, its rich laugh reaching deep into its natural logarithms. "Party tricks," it sneered. "You want me to do party tricks? Applied Maths could do this!"

And:

"You want me to make you see uncountable infinities you've never even dreamt of?" Pure Maths asked, perhaps not noticing, perhaps not caring about the effect ending a sentence with a preposition had on its companion. "You want a long, hard Cantor's Diagonal Proof up against the wall?"

It was all Academia could do to nod acquiescence.

"You're going to have to beg."

For an anthropomorph so used to verifying its sources, this was not a problem. "I need you like I need footnotes. I need you like I need lecturers who mutter into the board rather than engaging with their students. I need you like I need Dilbert cartoons gracing the doors of my offices."

Full piece found here.

And Krispy before you shun me read this hyperbole/understatement romance.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

You know why I like Democrats? I like them because they’re internally focused. They care about things like social welfare, civil rights, rule of law. Most importantly, they don’t do much country building when they’re in office.

Remember Bush’s plan to spread freedom across the globe? How freedom was flowering in the Middle East? Remember how he planted the seeds in Iraq, and it spread to Lebanon and Palestine? (Almost Revolutions and Free Elections, w00t!) Well, it’s spread alright. Spread like a pestilence.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for democracy. My problem is with democracy that doesn’t come as a natural step in a country’s political evolution. America has to realize that they can’t play God, they can’t create countries in their image. It just doesn’t work that way. This is what comes from stomping around the world making demands; three countries in shambles, on the brink of civil war. Now I’m not discounting the extreme idiocy of the people involved in these conflicts, but I also won’t deny the affect of the US further destabilizing this already volatile region.

What I love about the whole thing is the sheer arrogance that goes into US foreign policy. See they were supposed to be greeted as liberators. They’re fixing our flawed systems of government. They’re freeing us from our terrible autocracies (if it’s in their best interest to do that, after all if it ain’t broke don’t fix it, financially speaking of course).

I will not even mention how freezing DPR Korea’s foreign assets probably caused them to step up their nuclear program. Or how they seem to have gone into the current six country talks with a ‘we will be obeyed or we will make your lives this much more miserable’ attitude which is just how you should treat a megalomaniac with nuclear capabilities.

Stupid arrogant neo-con FUCKERS.

End rant.

Meme Madness

I have so much Water Works trying to scratch its way out but the extraction process is stalled. I bomb Marzouq’s blog with talky comments and refresh Krispy’s, futilely, until now. I got tagged. A book meme.

It goes like this:

• Go to the closest book.
• Open it to page 123.
• Go to the fifth sentence.
• Post the next 3 sentences.
• Post the book’s name and author.
• Tag 3 more people.

Here it goes.

“He turned away from the body and looked for Fiver among the rabbits behind him. But Fiver was nowhere to be seen and Hazel was afraid to ask for him, in case to do so would seem like weakness and a need for comfort.
‘Pipkin,’ he snapped, ‘why don’t you clean up you face and stop the bleeding?’”

From Watership Down by Richard Adams

I was reading it a few months ago in an attempt to recapture childhood and hadn’t yet had the heart to stick it back on the shelf.

I tag:
Kwtia
Boojam
Mel

MIA Alert

I'm going to the chalet for the weekend, and I'm not taking Jayne (my laptop) with me. This means I'll be offline for a night and a day. If anything interesting happens in the 'sphere please let me know.

Wish me luck.

"Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth lasts for a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour.'" - Sir Winston Churchill

Ok, so I may be just a leeetle bit of a junkie. Hopefully the silence will be inspirational.

Bits and Pieces

Sometimes contentment is curling up with a dystopian (my favorite kind of literature) graphic novel and a cup of hot apple cider (Second Cup, you rock). Sometimes it’s spending the night with chili cheese fries and a cherry coke from Johnny Rocket’s and season one of Stargate (going awww at the titanium gatesheild).

Sometimes contentment is spending time with your family in full view of a twilight sky that would not have looked out of place in a renascence painting. Sometimes it’s hanging out with your uncles (who you adore) over smoldering coals and talking over everything from Good Will Hunting to the crappy music they used to listen to when they were kids.

Sometimes contentment is someone letting you know that what you do matters (thank you Krispy). Sometimes it is finding your best friend online for the first time in ages and poking fun at her just like you did in high school.

Other times it’s very far away, not at all important, and all you have is 200 words of fiction.

Short? Yes. Sweet? You tell me.

I haven’t gotten rid any of Ari’s stuff. People have dropped a few hints about helping me find some sort of charity to which I could donate some of his things. The truth is, I haven’t even started packing things away. I still pay rent on his place, and when I’m there it seems like I’m there waiting for him to get ready so that we can go already. He's always late, and I'm always impatient. Impatient for what, I'm not really sure. For more opportunities to strike out I guess. A little pool, a few beers, you’d think I’d loosen up some but I just can’t talk to chicks like he can. He’s always been the suave one where as I tend to impress with my amazing powers of stumbling over every word I say. No complaints though, some chicks are into the whole bumbling fool thing, so it’s not like I never hook up.

The thing is, of the two of us, I've always been the more dispensable. I’m the one with no attachments to speak of, no significant academic presence, the one with the transitory lifestyle. If my life had ended that night the ripples that would have been caused would have been very small, infinitesimal. And yet I’m the one left to knock around in my empty life.

That’s why it seemed so much simpler to get rid of my stuff instead.

Waste Not Want Not

Despite being more than a little attached to my mind, my mind tends to find bloody imagery more interesting than other things at the moment.

Well, bloody imagery and handball, since it’s the only national team that gives us reason to be proud. So we kicked the Irani team’s collective ass and breezed through to Thursday’s finals. Some moments in today’s game our players truly were poetry in motion, and the Qatari commentator whole-heartedly agreed judging by his flowery sometimes hilarious metaphors. Go Blues. We may get something glittery *and* gold methinks.

Anyway, back to the wet works. A continuation of last post’s piece.

Blood. Lots of it slicking my hands as I tried in vain to staunch the flow. Had the bullet hit his thigh just inches to either direction Ari would still be alive. Instead his femoral was ruptured and he gasped out his last breaths in front of me, his hands and mine covered in his blood. So much blood, its smell so strong that I could taste it. Coppery tang and I kept gagging, but I couldn’t throw up until they came and took him away. Only then could I let my stomache rebel and the pavement was baptized with both our insides.

That was the first time I saw a gun up close. But the killing urge didn’t come then. Even after Ari’s death I still saw academia as a warm protective cocoon that would protect me from the harshness of the outside world. It was months before she revealed herself to be a fickle mistress who would lead you to your death as soon as warm your bed. I was naive enough to believe that we were victims of a random mugging, and it never crossed my mind that it was Ari’s research that put an end to my best friend’s life. Metzger may not have carried the bullet but a few whispers into the right ears and I watched the only family I had bleed out on a sidewalk. It was seven months and four days ago that I found out.

I finally get why he was so sympathetic, so understanding. At the time I was pathetically grateful for his presence. Right now I’m just glad that all I’d sobbed to him about was worthless sentimental crap about growing up in Ari’s shadow. I wonder how soon I would have joined Ari in the nether world if Metzger had gotten what he needed out of me. Now if only I’d get what he needed out of me, I’d know where to go from here.

Unfortunately, Ari and I hardly ever talked about work when we got together, which means I’m going to have to go through everything. This scares the shit out of me. Ari was brilliant, and not in my wildest dreams could I hope to come close. I only hope I can piece together what it was that got him killed before I end up in the ground alongside of him.

A Terrible Thing To Temporarily Lose Track Of

River Tam from Firefly (The Academy), Ender Wiggin from Ender’s Game (Battle School), Jared from The Pretender (The Center). Beautiful, terrible piece of fanfiction about post-Atlantis Rodney Mckay from Stargate: Atlantis.

A week of fantasies fueled by an amalgam of the above. I tend to live long hours in worlds of my own construction. Happiness is boring, pain is interesting. Sometimes they are worth writing, oftentimes not. I don’t fetishize pain (much), but I tend to lean towards flawed broken characters, because I find them more interesting. I may have an overly analytical mind.

Result.

I wipe my hands on the thighs of my jeans, leaving damp patches I can feel through the denim. It wouldn’t do to have a slippery trigger finger when the time comes. Time. It’s been seven months and four days since I decided to kill him. Six months since I bought the Berretta, 92, military, supposedly untraceable to me. Five months of trekking out to the northwest corner of nowhere and shooting tin cans into the dirt.

A sniper rifle would have been safer, but it meant more time and more effort. More than three months to be a decent shot and two more to be a great one. Plus, I wanted to smell his blood. I wanted to see his face, wanted to see the change from warm familiarity to shock.

I shower, shave, and put on my best suit. Put on my gloves; smooth Italian leather, bought special for the occasion. I arrange and rearrange my hair, adjust my tie, once, twice, three times. I feel like a girl getting ready for her first date. On my way out I stop by the picture one more time. I brush my hand across our faces, bright and jovial at last year’s faculty Christmas party. Arms over one another’s shoulders, faces flushed with drink, and I remember feeling so… fraternal. We could have been brothers, once upon a time. I feel fond, almost tender. I almost rethink what I’m about to do. Almost, because some secrets should never see the light of day.

The sidewalk is covered in gray slush and my feet are wet, but I can still feel sweat pooling at the base of my spine. My heart is in a marathon pushing through that final pain barrier in the last stretch, just a little faster, just a little longer. I finger the pretty in my coat pocket and keep my feet from picking up the pace. Musn’t be overeager.

It’s over much too fast for my liking. Recognition, pleasure, fear, anger, resignation flash too fast across his face. The first shot rings out loud, the other two less so. The crowd swells and closes. I slip away easily; the 92 down a sewer grate farther down the street. I regret not being closer. My mind toys with what it might have been like to feel the warmth of blood on my face, a small discreet splatter, but blunt objects are inconvenient.

He was my first kill, but I have a strong suspicion he will not be my last.