Entry tags:
damnation, salvation, tragedy, wonder and metaphysics
Heh, I should know better than to post something I think is clever to Tumblr at 10 pm, even if I couldn't do otherwise because I am a stickler for meaningless accuracy. (For the record: audio post of the Ramones, "I Wanna Be Sedated," twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go, with picture of ecstasy-Finch dancing as in DW icon ("album cover" photo doesn't show up on my tumblr, just on the dashboard, or I'd link you). Cute but rather lost among the huge full-color spreads of POI caps and gifs and squee.)
But yes! Considerably less than 24 hours to go now! And I slept poorly and woke up at 4:30, so I'll have to take a nap when I get home this afternoon or I'll never make it till 11. Sucks being old. OMG I can't wait though.
Coupla recs:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sahiya wrote me a really nice little River/Eleven snowed-in interlude, Mortal Worries, which I love and will read again the next time it snows for sure. (Which is feeling more likely every day; it's about 40 degrees out there, though no frost in the forecast, thank goodness.)
Andsarcasticsra is working on a lovely POI series called Lost and Found, Harold/John, Harold/Grace, heading towards threesome I strongly suspect (because, I mean. What else can you do?). I recced the first story already and am so glad it's continuing.
I've been editing the early parts of Time and Fevers because a) I know at some point I'll need finalized teaser chapters, b) I'm waiting on teacup photos before I do things like think about covers or design a website, c) I felt like it. One of my favorite bits, under the cut:
“I brought you something else,” she said, producing a handful of books from her coat pockets. “It’s what I had extras of on the shelves; I don’t need them back.” He would not be able to touch the volumes until after she left and the screen was lowered, but his fingers twitched as she spread them out so he could see the titles. Andrew Marvell’s poetry, Othello, The Tempest, Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus, and Paradise Regained. “There’s more where that came from. I can’t get your body out of the cell, but I can help with your mind.”
He shook his head. “‘Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.’ But I will take the books, with thanks. There is no library here.” The eyes that met hers had a faint warmth in them now. “And like all providers of drugs I expect you wish recompense.”
“That would be appropriate, yes.”
He paused, lacing his fingers together. “American Arcadians are often fervent religionists, though it is not necessary for you to act that part. You must worship something, however. Or you must be in need of something. And I suppose you are.” The dark eyes flashed keenly at her for a second, then he lowered his gaze and went on. “The groups in which we met were small—no more than a dozen members—and only the leaders knew anyone outside the group, but I often thought I could recognize the others when I met them, just from the longing in their eyes. If they were not already initiates, they could be tempted to become so.”
“You saw it in Rinaldo?”
He nodded. “Fatal error. The man dissimulates as though it were breathing.”
“He was the one who put you in here, I suppose, but everything he said about you was the truth. You are an Arcadian. You did break your contract. You do owe money. How much?”
“It doesn’t matter. I have none at all. No funds on which to draw, no identity chip giving me the right to draw them. It malfunctioned long ago, and burned me, and I cut it out. I literally have no identity left in this century.”
She wished she had an old paper dollar to tuck between the pages of one of the equally obsolete paper books, though it was a gesture impossible to make in a world that no longer used cash. She had money to spare now. Pity was a more closely held commodity.
Slowly she piled the books together, from largest to smallest, and pushed the stack toward Brant until it met the gentle resistance of the screen. Damnation, salvation, tragedy, wonder and metaphysics. Words, words, words. Their eyes met again, seeking, and disappointed in what they found. She rose and pulled her coat around her.
“I know who you are,” she said, and left the room.
God, I love the two of them together. Also, Brant is another character I keep hearing Michael Emerson's voice for; he's disturbingly like Ben Linus in some ways, considering that I invented him in 2002.
*sits down to wait for actual ME voice* *except not really, ack, scurries*
But yes! Considerably less than 24 hours to go now! And I slept poorly and woke up at 4:30, so I'll have to take a nap when I get home this afternoon or I'll never make it till 11. Sucks being old. OMG I can't wait though.
Coupla recs:
sahiya wrote me a really nice little River/Eleven snowed-in interlude, Mortal Worries, which I love and will read again the next time it snows for sure. (Which is feeling more likely every day; it's about 40 degrees out there, though no frost in the forecast, thank goodness.)And
sarcasticsra is working on a lovely POI series called Lost and Found, Harold/John, Harold/Grace, heading towards threesome I strongly suspect (because, I mean. What else can you do?). I recced the first story already and am so glad it's continuing.I've been editing the early parts of Time and Fevers because a) I know at some point I'll need finalized teaser chapters, b) I'm waiting on teacup photos before I do things like think about covers or design a website, c) I felt like it. One of my favorite bits, under the cut:
“I brought you something else,” she said, producing a handful of books from her coat pockets. “It’s what I had extras of on the shelves; I don’t need them back.” He would not be able to touch the volumes until after she left and the screen was lowered, but his fingers twitched as she spread them out so he could see the titles. Andrew Marvell’s poetry, Othello, The Tempest, Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus, and Paradise Regained. “There’s more where that came from. I can’t get your body out of the cell, but I can help with your mind.”
He shook his head. “‘Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.’ But I will take the books, with thanks. There is no library here.” The eyes that met hers had a faint warmth in them now. “And like all providers of drugs I expect you wish recompense.”
“That would be appropriate, yes.”
He paused, lacing his fingers together. “American Arcadians are often fervent religionists, though it is not necessary for you to act that part. You must worship something, however. Or you must be in need of something. And I suppose you are.” The dark eyes flashed keenly at her for a second, then he lowered his gaze and went on. “The groups in which we met were small—no more than a dozen members—and only the leaders knew anyone outside the group, but I often thought I could recognize the others when I met them, just from the longing in their eyes. If they were not already initiates, they could be tempted to become so.”
“You saw it in Rinaldo?”
He nodded. “Fatal error. The man dissimulates as though it were breathing.”
“He was the one who put you in here, I suppose, but everything he said about you was the truth. You are an Arcadian. You did break your contract. You do owe money. How much?”
“It doesn’t matter. I have none at all. No funds on which to draw, no identity chip giving me the right to draw them. It malfunctioned long ago, and burned me, and I cut it out. I literally have no identity left in this century.”
She wished she had an old paper dollar to tuck between the pages of one of the equally obsolete paper books, though it was a gesture impossible to make in a world that no longer used cash. She had money to spare now. Pity was a more closely held commodity.
Slowly she piled the books together, from largest to smallest, and pushed the stack toward Brant until it met the gentle resistance of the screen. Damnation, salvation, tragedy, wonder and metaphysics. Words, words, words. Their eyes met again, seeking, and disappointed in what they found. She rose and pulled her coat around her.
“I know who you are,” she said, and left the room.
God, I love the two of them together. Also, Brant is another character I keep hearing Michael Emerson's voice for; he's disturbingly like Ben Linus in some ways, considering that I invented him in 2002.
*sits down to wait for actual ME voice* *except not really, ack, scurries*