Survived yet another flight. I’m invincible. For some reason these planes just won’t crash.

Quick update to let everyone know we’ve landed safely.
You kinda kill time thinking about everything at once when you’re trapped on a plane for a flight this long. I wish they offered methods to cure boredom with instead of security instructions. I know better than using the emergency chute with my highheels on by now!

I’ve started wondering how many people actually throw up into those neat little paper bags they provide during a single flight.
How often can you call a stewardess to your seat and ask for something they definitely don’t have on board, like a vegetable peeler or an ice bucket for your little beer can until they lose their 24 carat smile and tell you to piss off?
I’m one of those assholes that makes it their mission to bother the nice ladies with impossible requests. Maybe I’m just too fascinated by their fake friendly attitudes.
Also, do they get sore muscles from smiling like they just took the most successful dumb? I need to know.

At the same time I usually tend to imagine what is going on beneath. Picturing households, people having sex, arguing, dying, birthing children. And you pass them by just like you’re a bird roaming the skies, totally oblivious to everything that happens beneath the roofs you leave behind.

But hey, apart from that the band is alive and well and we once again disappointed everyone who wishes we’d disappear from the face of the earth. Sorry, gonna annoy you with our supposed rock music a couple of years more.

Jet-lagged greetings

sea-change  asked:

glad to hear you're feeling better! questions: are there any books you absolutely adore that we maybe wouldn't know about because you don't write fandom works for them? or poets that make you fall to your knees?

Well, I’ve done a lot of babbling about Cloud Atlas and Doomsday Book, but given that the former has been getting so much media attention lately thanks to the film adaptation that’s just been released, let’s focus on the latter.  Doomsday Book by Connie Willis is part of a slightly larger series known as the Oxford Time Travel Universe.  I think it’s by and far the best of this exquisite, odd little series, but to skip the others would be doing Ms. Willis a grand disservice!  She is, hands-down, the finest prose writer working today in the field of SF/F/Speculative fiction (and this may well sound like blasphemy coming from a Neil Gaiman fan, but, seriously, read all of this woman’s books), at least in this reader’s estimation.  If you want to read the whole Oxford Time Travel sequence, I suggest starting with Doomsday Book.  From there, find the short story called “Fire Watch,” and after that, read the remaining novels in this order: To Say Nothing of the Dog, Blackout, and All Clear.

(Did I mention that her other books are brilliant, too?  Especially Passage.  To this day, I’m actually not sure whether Doomsday Book or Passage made a bigger mess of me on first reading.  Probably Doomsday, but let me tell you, Passage is…okay, just read it!)

Seriously, people keep asking me, damn, what’s this Doomsday Book that keeps popping up in your stories from time to time?  I keep meaning to read it, but I just never do.  Okay, look: if I frequently mention a book, I think it’s utterly fantastic.  What are you waiting for?

As poets go, Louise Glück has always been at the top of my list.  Also check out Patience Agbabi, Richard Siken, Marge Piercy, James Morgan Nash, and John Gilham.

“I wish I were a fictional character,” I tell The Spouse [ … ]. Fictional characters are fundamentally functional. They serve a purpose. If I were fictional, I would be of use. I could be everything anyone needs or wants me to be, with no self to get in the way. I could have a world with rules. I could be distilled into language, not lost again and again in imperfect translation.

(All thanks due to the-oxford-english-fangeek for sending me the link to this article.  I said something eerily like this to my partner about six months ago when I was trying to articulate why, broadly speaking, with the exception of a relatively limited handful of individuals, I so largely prefer writing—the chance to be other people—to frequent face-to-face contact.  I’m very good one-on-one and even in groups of maybe three or four, but drop me into a situation like the ones my partner coordinates at least every few weeks—asking over five, six, seven other people from his gaming group or martial arts group—and I shut down.  I retreat to my computer and don’t come back out.  I can articulate myself from within the safe frameworks of fiction and verse, but to write something as personal as this without a filter would, I think, wreck me.  It’s rare and wonderful to find something that helps you make sense of yourself and explain that self to others.)

cissyswonderland  asked:

You are giving me Hastur/Ligur feels, I didn't even know it were possible. I suppose they ARE endearing, in their own way.

The thing about these guys is, I think, although they’re fallen angels like Crowley (albeit much nastier than he is), they are still just that—fallen angels.  Underneath the black humor and the cruelty, there’s still the potential to play with some kind of genuine…well, bond, if you will, or maybe even a twisted kind of care for each other.  I take my cue from Hastur’s reaction to Ligur taking Crowley’s bucket of Holy Water to the head: even though they’re the baddies, there seems to be some kind of honor among thieves.

(This morning’s Imagine Hastur ficlet has been brought to you by waaay too much thought put into thingies that take me no more than two to ten minutes to write.)

(Because, let’s face it: if it took my OTP six thousand and nine years [by my reckoning, at least, and we all know that my reckoning is terrifyingly specific] to get things right, all the while loving and admiring and protecting humanity against all odds, then, well, goddamn it, I am human, so I can be at least as brave and persistent as they were, and probably braver besides.  Love at and in spite of the end of the world: an example to live by.)

Re: Ghostbusters, a queer autistic female lead character? A kick-ass woman of color with encyclopedic historical knowledge of her city? Two high school friends who helped each other through constant bullying, wrote a book together, and help each other get over craving approval from the academic establishment?

I’M IN LOVE. Saw it last night, going again today.


Welcome to TAYLAIR! Your pilot today will be Blake, and helping us along this flight is the wonderful stewardess Renee. 

Your flight will depart on August 14th, and the return flight will depart on August 15th from Levi’s International Airport. Your seats will be B-stage on the 14th, and section 205 on the 15th!

Have a wonderful flight on TAYLAIR, where we never go out of style. 

Found poetry via media-player shuffle:

Put your MP3 player on shuffle, and then write down the first line of each of the first twenty songs. Post the ‘poem’ that results.

The first line of the twenty-first song is the title.

Pardon my editorial intervention (all I’ve done is add punctuation).  I did this back in 2008 and posted the result as a Facebook note; only on clearing out my archives tonight have I rediscovered it and realized the resulting composition is actually rather fascinating…


you caught me lingering

'i am not senorita,’
the old man told me by the pool
when rainy nights are soft with tears
maybe i didn’t like to hear
you said things i wouldn’t say―
'try to walk slow, try to walk slow’

i’m not a sailor
those days of warm rains come rushing back
in this dream of life and death
the mighty continents divide for a second time―
'mad girl, can you believe what they’ve done to you?’

(did you know, sometimes it frightens me
ambling madly all over the town
you don’t feel damned between sunrise and sunset?)

this garden that i built for you
changes the color of your eyes
when all the numbers swim together―
fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun’
you and i for so many years

(indian sky, let me lie here)

Guys, I’m dying. “Those are Crowley meets Hannibal Chau,” said my partner in abject horror as I opened these. Who bought them for me? My mother-in-law *_* I LOVE THEM.

ETA: Now that I’m sober enough to answer those of you who love these and want to know where they came from, these boots appear to be by a label (designer?) called Enzo Angiolini.  My mother-in-law says she got them at Macy’s.  They’re leather patterned like snakeskin rather than actual snakeskin, but, wow, very convincing.

Dear Good Omens Folks:

I see an incredible amount of distress on my dashboard regarding the following claim: namely, that all of the fic in this fandom is so goddamned angst-ridden and depressing.  

This makes me blink, because the stories I read (and have recced) have no more baseline angst than the novel does, and, furthermore, with the exception of CoS, none of my own stories contain any more baseline angst than the novel does (or at least I try incredibly hard to keep them that way, because, unless I’m setting out to deliberately construct an AU, I prefer to stick to the tone of canon).  In fact, I think that the novel on the whole contains far more angst than my own stories or any of my recs do!  Seriously, I had no idea there was an overarching impression amongst fans that there’s a serious dearth of non-angsty GO fic until I arrived on Tumblr.  Color me mystified.  Can I offer you a hug?

In short: there are places you can turn if you’re sick of angst.  Really ♥


Okay, why the hell is this not all over Tumblr and everywhere?

I have not seen such a moving piece of film-making in ages.


I’ve kept what you might call a Good Omens shrine for several years now.  The framed linocut of two angels is a Baltimore artist’s reproduction of a 15th-century carving somewhere in Westminster, London (I wish he’d kept track of where, as I did ask).  The model Bentley was a pain in the arse to track down, and when I finally did get it, I had to paint it myself.  The snuff-box isn’t Regency, but it is solid silver; it’s hallmarked WFG inside the lid, indicating that the maker was London’s own William Francis Garrud, who was a silversmith operating out of Holborn Circus in the late 1880s.  The entwined A and C engraved on the lid really clinched it for me (it might be an A and B, but, as a palaeographer, I can tell you that letter-forms are often an imprecise science).

Case in point regarding the inherent strength of working from a place of anger, at least according to my personal experience: I wrote two poems this year that were very definitely provoked by someone who was not only rude to me, but who also engages in a great deal of activity that pisses me right off.  One of these poems was written back in the spring; my anger was still so fresh then as to be incandescent, so while I was funneling a great deal of it into a prose writing project I had on at the time, I vented the more personal vein into verse.  The second piece, much shorter, was written in July; it has more of a retrospective air, but there’s a certain vigilance I feel in the wake of a situation settling (nothing is ever really settled, and there are certain arenas in which I consider myself perpetually on-call against asshattery).  The shorter piece sold to the first venue at which I submitted it, and in under twenty-four hours.  The longer piece from springtime is so oddly-structured and scathing that most places I’d been sending it, although they told me they considered it spectacular, didn’t know what to do with it genre-wise.  I’m happy to say, though, that it’s found a home as of today.  I’m talking about this because a) a few of you have seen the poems in question, and b) this topic seems timely given Gaiman’s stunning Guardian piece on the fury in Pratchett’s belly.  Anger is only destructive if you let it destroy you.  Set the world you abhor on fire and mold a new one from the ashes.  It works