apiphile: (not enough fart jokes)
[personal profile] apiphile
I mean not to be rude or anything, I do know Rent is strongly based on La Boheme (I mean the fucking song for one thing) but there's a certain distinct shall we say tonal and characterisation similarity which suggests to me a strong familiarity with Angels In America, now that I've actually seen it.

(I went to see an NT Live screening of Angels in America: Millennium Approaches with Ruthi last night as Part Deux of her now-very-belated birthday present, for clarity).

I spent the whole first act mostly hypnotised by the fact that Denise Gough in this production (but not in any of her official photos, it turns out) looks near-identical - if slightly blonder - to the way my mother did the year this is set, 1985. Mildly disturbing. Fortunately as no one in the play was a toddler, no one in it resembled me during that year. Or tbh any other year. One day I may develop the figure of Nathan Lane as Ron Cohn (oh hey I thought I recognised the character's name; it's the man who mentored Trump! GReaaettttaarrgk great)*, but I doubt I'm going to manage to look like anyone else.

Anyway, I now actually know the plot or rather selection of scenes that make up the first half of the play, I also now understand Marika's deep and abiding attachment to Miss Thang (Nathan Stewart Jarrett excelled in this role; I mean, the whole main cast excelled in its roles, and Russell Tovey gives good "conflicted innocent" thanks to Them Eyes and so on, but I am biased in favour of Nathan SJ because he is A BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL MAN); Andrew Garfield a tad too muscular to be dying of AIDS and specifically described as having a "weight problem", the angel impressively terrifying, and what old-time Theatre Studies Me would probably wax lyrical about in terms of the use of FX/LX is best forgotten about as technical boohooing. James McArdle, with whom I am not so familiar, keeps a good balance as Louis in terms of Actual Complexity (a fairly well-written character in general who treads the fine line between being loathesomely self-involved and cowardly and just genuinely and understandably terrified and filled with sorrow and pre-emptive loss, SparkNotes of course mentions the boring conclusion that Many Critics Think He Is A Stand-In For The Playwright because, you know, ALSO a Jewish Gay Man in New York. Staggering detective work there).

Documentary at the start with Tony Kushner had him ruefully pointing out that he would really LIKE the play not to be relevant any more, which unfortunately mirrors exactly what Martin Sherman said in the Q&A after Bent.

[It has been occurring to me as I work out this morning - btw eating a fucking chicken wrap at around midnight leads to a good work-out at like 7.30am; I assume it was the wrap because it certainly wasn't the four and a half hours of fitful sleep - the ways in which things could be played different in the script, in order to jerk audience sympathies in different directions while keeping the same dialogue; all the alternative versions of the same play kind of edging in on the solidified real choice, like little ghost plays].

"Do you have any Feelings about this play, Derek?" Well, aside from the tiresome repetitive feeling that always surfaces when someone vaguely identifiable is dying ("Shouldn't that be me?"), only the sense of humanity in physical comfort and how alien and occasionally wonderful it looks. There is a lot of touch in the play, more than is standard in male/male interactions in society where I live, and sometimes it looks a little bit like heaven. (Also on the subject of NSJ, d'you ever like, immediately have an internalised homophobia fit about finding someone attractive? Like: Oh great, now I have to hate myself some more).

* "Cohn is credited with introducing Trump and Murdoch in the mid-1970s, marking the beginning of what was to be a deep and pivotal association between them." Motherfucker could you not have got AIDS a little sooner

Mainly for diary reasons

Jul. 20th, 2017 05:22 pm
apiphile: (henry scott tuke)
[personal profile] apiphile
Still can't fucking stay asleep because my girlfriend snores like the end of the world. Managed to have a fairly nice dream which then degenerated into falling over and constantly getting sheep shit in my mouth. Did get to pet a lot of bunnies and hang out with Andrew's friend Supriya. Who is a real person and not someone my dream invented, I should clarify. Got up at 7am and managed to shift my shit to the gym before 9, which is a miracle. Everywhere is full of schoolchildren and the weather is abominable (I gave myself a change at the gym so it feels like a rest and also my quads still hate me from all the GOBLIN SQUATS so)

Bullied Lindsay into bleaching my hair, dragged my ass to Owen's cafe in the cunting rain and FINALLY managed to asspull a very vague and probably unhelpful 30-day grid guideline with a couple of sub-plot pointers which I will have to go over at some point and expand upon. A good start, though.

Ingested lunch, went to the pub with Jess with the idea of maybe trying to write a test scene but only managed a little dialogue before getting sucked into drawing nonsense and arguing about YouTubers I neither know nor care about (also I still cannot draw); umphed off to the shops which, as an excursion, kept getting longer and longer until we ended up having coffee again somewhere and mumbling feebly about gentrification (but I did eventually get my milk so WIN TIMES).

Returned, joyously flung off my pants, wrote my pissy complaint email to the NHS and sent it, rewrote and formatted Jess's friend's CV for her, typed up my dialogue notes from the pub, and am now fervently trying to finish eighty bits of computer admin while I OUGHT to be putting my pants back on and leaving the house because I have an NT live screening to go to with Ruthi and I can't very well tell her to go on without me since she needs my phone to pick up the tickets. ALLEZ! Today has been busy somehow.
apiphile: (quite enjoying this)
[personal profile] apiphile
#13
It was one of those parties that hadn't quite to managed to get off the ground. The same six people had shown up as always, two of them weren't speaking to each other, there was only half a bottle of vodka between six and one beer each, one of the controllers was broken and Sean had forgotten the DVD he was adamant he was going to bring.

"This is bullshit," Katy said, ten minutes after arriving.

"Shh," her boyfriend muttered. There was no chance they'd missed it; there was no sound beside the failed conversation droning gently out of Sean like air from a deflating balloon. The atmosphere was dire. Sean and Alison shouldn't have been in the same room together. In fact, in Alec's fairly invested opinion, the whole party shouldn't have happened at all. Deadlines were approaching, which explained why no one else was there, Katy hadn't done any work whatsoever, had cheated on him with her now former best friend's boyfriend and refused to acknowledge it had happened at all, bringing the total number up to four...

The overhead light, courtesy of Alison's cheapskate landlord, flickered and buzzed. The TV showed the title screen of and out-of-date racing game no one wanted to play. The smell of a cat which wasn't there any more still lingered in the air.

"Back in a minute," Katy said abruptly, getting up. Alec almost followed her, but by the time he'd made the decision she was back, the front door slamming open again, trailing a man twice her age and a white teenage girl, both of whom smelled strongly of weed. The teenager proffered a bottle of overproof rum, unopened, to the room in general. Katy snatched it out of her hands.

"I can't believe you don't know your neighbours," she said, addressing everyone, although the only people responsible for this state of affairs were Tanya and Alison. She held a note of triumph in her voice. "This is Ray, and his girlfriend – what was your name again? Zelda? Zeldaya?"

"Zelida," the girl said, twirling a pigtail; she was definitely no older than sixteen and she'd made a conscious effort to look younger. "You need mixers."

"I'm going to put some music on," Katy announced, leaping to her feet again with the rum firmly clasped in her hand. Sean caught Alec's eye and glared, half mouthing what the fuck at him.

Alec kind of understood: it was meant to be a quieter evening, although not quite this quiet, given the proximity of the submission dates for projects, but, well. A: if they'd wanted a quiet night for real they wouldn't have invited Katy, who was allergic to quiet, and B: well, Sean was one of the four even if he didn't know Alec knew, and he could fuck all the way off.

A loud howl of guitar distortion barked out over the sitting room and the older man – Ray, his dreads beginning to get lumpy and badly cared-for towards the ends like he'd given up on them at some point – politely offered around a joint. Alec had, to his father's disappointment, never much liked smoking it; he inclined his head and waited for Katy to come and pounce on it instead.

She didn't, only crammed onto the sofa between him and the arm of it, where there wasn't really enough room, and where Alec acted as a buffer between her and Alison. Maybe Alison knew. Katy immediately started talking nine to the dozen about a friend who'd been to Peru recently. Alec put his arm around her waist: the friend was fictitious, she'd been rehearsing the story at him for a week.

"I'm a boring person," she'd said, rinsing purple dye into the sink. "I have to have something to talk about."

"You could let someone else get a word in edgeways for once," he'd suggested, but she hadn't found it funny.

Now, with the curtain flapping against the window and Alison listening in despite herself, caught up in the lie, he felt an obscure kind of anger that the story hadn't ever been for his benefit. She'd interrupted enough of his life, phoning him or just showing up at his room, and the bullshit itself was again just to entertain some stranger.

He readjusted his arm until his inner elbow rested on her shoulder. Katy was shorter than she looked, shorter than he always thought she was, carrying herself like she was six feet tall and trying, usually, to start a six-footer's fights. "Of course," he said with a big, pleasant smile that had already been approached by a couple of modelling agencies, much to his disgust, once Katy had finally drawn breath, "there isn't actually any Edgar. She doesn't know anyone who's been to Peru. Or really anyone outside of this room barring, I think, a couple of guys from the Sports Science course--" he bit back on why she knew them, "--do you, Kate?"

He kissed her on the forehead and felt her tense like she was about to punch him in the ribs, not for the first time – as Alison snorted a small and victorious snort. Oh, she knew, alright.

"Of course," Katy said acidly, "with this for a boyfriend, you can see why I like to imagine I'm literally anywhere else."

"He's cute though," the teenager offered, sprawling on her back on the rug. Alec realised without caring that she was already drunk when she'd arrived; now her knickers were plainly visible, not that anyone was paying her much attention.

"You're welcome to him," Katy said, digging her fingernails deep into the back of Alec's hand.

Later, they had a screaming argument at the bus stop.

Katy left him there, waiting for the night bus, and vanished into the night. She didn't return for two days, and just as he was starting to wonder if maybe he should text her and think about apologising, she showed up at his window at 2am with a fresh tattoo on her tit, climbed into bed with him without mentioning the party or the fight or where she'd been, and distracted him, yet again, from his term project.

(no subject)

Jul. 19th, 2017 02:39 pm
apiphile: (fuck your ideals)
[personal profile] apiphile
Didn't go to Cambridge because I can't afford two train fares in one week, especially since my reasons for going were "being not here". Went to Muswell Hill to do my writing instead.

Here's one piece:

#12
"So," Ed said, when the ringing in his ears had died down,a nd the train had moved on again, "is this like a spirit quest … or a … some other kind of shamanic journey thing? … Do I have to take mushrooms? I don't get on with mushrooms. I'll hoarf."

Bodge regarded him for an uncomfortably lengthy minute, her ugly patchwork skin mottled by the stripes of fence shadows and unshaded orange sodium streetlight; someone down here hadn't had the memo about the LED bulbs in the other lampposts, or had a bee in their bonnet about them. She took a live rat out of her coat pocket.

"No," Ed said, looking at its brown and curious face. "Absolutely not."

Bodge shrugged and released the rat; it wandered off into the shadows with an air of insulting unconcern so unwarranted that Ed almost wanted to take it back.

"Stop expecting something fancy," Bodge suggested. "It's not the way I do shit." She held out her scarred, multi-tonal hand, palm up but mercifully rat-free, and said, "Take my hand."

Ed hesitated; she smelled of fox shit and had just had a rat on her hand and was probably crawling with germs even before that, but his bathroom was also probably worse on the germ front. He wasn't keen on skin contact with even the kind of people who washed their hands, regularly, with stuff that wasn't poo, but the alternatives all seemed to involve the threat of animal sacrifice, and he was even less keen on that.

He took her hand. She was very warm, and aside from the ridges in her palm, her skin was unexpectedly softy. Bodge closed her fingers over his and gave him an encouraging grin with mismatched teeth – he was sure one was a horse incisor. He was sure another was a fox canine. One of her eyes, the left one, was definitely not human. The other definitely was.

"Deep breath," Bodge suggested, gesturing to the manky railway arch in a general sweeping motion with her free hand. "It's about to get weird."

It was already weird, as far as Ed was aware, but he'd learnt of late that just because he thought he'd hit rock bottom didn't mean t the top couldn't just drift up further away. He read through the more legible graffiti around him and counted to ten; he'd got as far as seven and a silhouette of a gun firing out crows into a sunset, when Bodge yanked him off his feet and, without warning, straight out of sanity.

London boiled. The street belched and bubbled blood-red spheres from the knobbly cobbles beneath the bridge, swathed in the stink of slaughterhouses; he got the cold-veined feeling that ghosts were pressing their silvery, malleable forms into every millimetre of the air against his flesh, but refused to look.

The bubbles, red as the masque of death, contained worlds. Each world engulfed him in totality simultaneously, barraging him with potential Londons, the sticky sap of careless fabrications, rumours, tall tales and faith in the hundred personal variants of the vagrant City pouring like blood from wounds – slit animal throats glittering droplets of conviction in fiction – saliva dribbling down the chins of drunkards packed with 'knowledge' of shortcuts that didn't exist and now did – Asmodean strata as rooftops peeled away and the Devil on Two Sticks parted the secrets of the city like lips of a gash – the past and future circled into a Jormgundian ouroborous, a dog eating its own vomit, the endless branching roots – veins – roads – gangs and bombs and coins and mud and blood and fire, fire, fire, ashes and bread; plague-ridden corpses sauntering hand-in-hand with pantomime devils and impossibly poxy tarts – the Thames welling up around his legs, four-dimensional space, London passing through his cells not only now but always, from the second of its birth to the moment of his death -

Ed began to retch.

He felt the concept of urban divinity pass through the marrow of his ribcage like a physical object cheerfully thumbing its nose at the notion of mere universal laws. It hurt.

"Fuck right off--" Ed wheezed.

A bull, in a streak of temporal existence from zygote through to discarded pie fragments gnawed upon by rats, rubbed a shoulder against the arch. Both passed through each other. The bull unravelled into abattoir rejects hovering in vague spatio-temporal proximity to each other, became dogged and foxed-at; reassembled in the cacophony of a cattle-market as Ed's ears rang with auction cries, fox hunt calls, and gravedigger laughter.

Bricks exploded into the air and fell in hot, solid rain, the plink-plink of cooling metal; a brass band accompanied a hurdy-gurdy in the refrain of a Champagne Charlie classic scored by V2 bombers.

A cat screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Blood rose up between the bricks---

Ed looked down at his trousers. "Fuck's sake."

Bodge patted him on the shoulder. "Well, that's done. Have fun being a genius locii. If I need you I'll find you."

"Wait--" Ed muttered, still preoccupied with the humiliating evidence of his own existential terror, clinging damply to his crotch. "--What do I --- why is the ground further away?"

(no subject)

Jul. 18th, 2017 07:57 pm
apiphile: fuck you and fuck your fucking face (sire & dam)
[personal profile] apiphile
More dead people in London popping up to say hi: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-40641846

So anyway I *was* just going to go around the corner to do some writing ("some writing" = an attempted summary of my idiot book so far for the edification of [profile] wolfy_writes which I failed at btw)

but this outfit didn't seem appropriate for the yummy mummy cafe:

https://www.instagram.com/p/BWsDTWiBECQ/?taken-by=derekdesanges

so i went to camden and did the first act outline in a Costa overlooking the canal with a massive frostino (americans: this is basically a frappucino but from a different company and the coffee is nicer and the ice is thicker), then walked along the canal which was both nice and A Mistake (there are an upsetting number of people sleeping in tent colonies by the canal; it did not used to be like this. I don't understand how people can think things haven't changed for the worse in that regard. There are so many people who don't have fucking houses. SO MANY), and did the second act of writing with an iced matcha latte in Yumchaa, which overlooks camden lock market:

https://www.instagram.com/p/BWsPpwLBCdf/?taken-by=derekdesanges

(no evidence, at least nothing very big, of the large fire)

then i sort of ... accidentally kind of bought some extremely small denim dungaree shorts almost identical to the ones i used to wear 20 fucking years ago, except now they make me look like Slutty Gay Porn Boy as opposed to Wholesome Gingham Farm Girl. No photo yet. Wearing them this weekend to Brighton hopefully.

found this gem:

https://www.instagram.com/p/BWsVhjZhcgv/?taken-by=derekdesanges

then went down to my favourite cafe in the BOWELS OF THE MARKET for a nice cheap tea and an attempt at writing act three, but my brain just fell apart and my "favourite" status has been slightly revoked due to the presence of a cockroach (I don't hold it against them, there's not much you can do in that old building & anyway I pretty much just go there for tea); after a while I concluded that part of the reason everything was Bad was that I was hangry, so I went home. This involved wedging myself into several extremely packed trains. :/

https://www.instagram.com/p/BWsckMpBDvo/?taken-by=derekdesanges

spotted that on the way though

And I've spent all evening typing up edit notes and trying to make sense of my summary. BOO.

MASSIVE STORM THO.

Spider-man and the Bus Ride of Spite

Jul. 18th, 2017 11:58 am
apiphile: (wanted the opposite of this)
[personal profile] apiphile
The mission to hand-deliver my Pissy Letter to the clinic began at 4.40am in Canary Wharf. According to the bus route finder I should have been able to get two buses (the N550 and the N9), but there was a half-hour wait for the N550 so I decided to take the same route in smaller stages, and it went like this:

135 towards Old Street. Changed buses abruptly somewhere between Limehouse and Aldgate (Commercial Road?) by flinging myself off the 135's front doors and running onto the N15 directly in front, having observed through their back window that their destination was the same as the N550's would have been, ie, Trafalgar Square. Currently dark, dawnish light. A lot of very tired people on that bus, which had come in all the way from Romford. People starting their work day very early on Monday Morning. At least one barista on her way to City.

N15 to Somerset House; past Minories & Tower Hill, places I almost never go, as the sun begins slowly to climb towards our backs. Mind entirely taken up with what to do for someone experiencing an acid attack. Rehearsing the steps, what to say to emergency services.

At Somerset House there's a 15 minute wait for the N9. Get on the 6 towards Willsden having determined that it diverges routes at Green Park (and who knows, by the time I get to Green Park the tube might be running). At Green Park there's 11 minutes until the N9 but 22 until the tube; fanny around on free WiFi as the sun comes up and the postman next to me facetimes his family in a part of the world where the light suggests it's already late afternoon.

N9; sitting on the top front of the bus next to a boy of about 20, who fidgets so much that I think he wants to get up, so move out of his way; he beams and says he's not getting off yet, and spends the rest of the journey (to almost the same stop as me) smirking quietly. He is offensively pretty. The sun is up, the sky is clear; west London looks surprisingly beautiful, apart from the way every single stage of this journey has seen able-bodied, sober, "normal"-looking people sleeping in doorways, making me think of the 30s and mass unemployment and the way suddenly "having nothing" was a state reserved not for those in dire mental and physical situations who'd lost family support or the ability to live in homes at all (like Graham in my hometown who was effectively sleeping rough from "choice", in the sense that his PTSD was triggered by living indoors after a truly horrific childhood) but just something that was almost inevitable. Worried about winter.

At Hammersmith, 6.20am, walk from the bus station down to the clinic. With fewer people on the streets it doesn't seem as far at all. The sun is up although still low. Everything is green and gold even though the streets are still grey and brown as ever. Pass a cafe doing set breakfasts for £3.20, like something out of the distant past, but I'm not hungry. Deliver the letter.

Back at Hammersmith Station after a bus, grocery-shopping at Tesco at 6.30 am, inspecting individual carrots with a sense of cheerful dislocation from the world. Buy self a frappuccino on the grounds, somehow, that I've earned it.

Train with the rush hour commuters; edit a bit more of the short story, although it's now past the point in the narrative where I basically need to just cut the entire remainder and begin rewriting - somewhat annoyed/cautious about spending too much time on this when the book requires my attention more. Arrive home with the intention of going straight to the gym but spend too long in the bathroom and lose the will; decide to wait until after post-cinema nap, and spend the time before the cinema reading quite a large chunk of my dumb murder mystery, having decided that "dumb murder mystery" is all the mental energy I have left. Too tired to be angry with myself for not gymming or editing, which suggests my evaluation of that is correct.

Spider-man: Homecoming; probably one of the best Marvel films so far I think? no real spoilers but cut anyway )

My major complaints are: too much second-hand embarrassment for me to cope with and I was very tired so it felt like it was going on for too long.

Got home with the intention of taking a nap then going to the gym; what actually happened is that I was woken up around 9pm by Jess coming home from work, took another half an hour to get awake, decided I wasn't going anywhere, demanded pizza in celebration of Jess getting a promotion (but not a pay raise for three months because lol what is her fucking job even), ate that, and drugged myself back to sleep again.

But I went to the gym TODAY and have duly Mastered the GOBLIN SQUAT so whatever. And now I need to go do writing things.

Still looking for a proof-reader for Heavy though.

(no subject)

Jul. 16th, 2017 10:24 pm
apiphile: (i hate that thing you love)
[personal profile] apiphile
Been off for Ethiopian food and coffee (A+) and accidentally walked in on an enthused lecture on an abstract painting that was also taking place in the restaurant; eavesdropped on a woman explaining her experiences on mushrooms and also overcomplicating some Straight Dude Behaviour from a guy she'd been on a date with (LADY HE'S JUST BEING DISORGANISED IT'S NOT DEEP); sulked about George Alec Effinger being dead.

Have been editing things on the train at shit o'clock in the morning; had a weird but hilarious dream:

Well in my dream it was a guy called Roy. There was already someone in the bathroom trying to fix his hair and he was not hugely thrilled by Roy barging in all I need to shit // Roy lowers himself onto the seat. Dude keeps fixing his hair and chatting while Roy is there naked from the waist down and straining with a can you believe this fucking guy face on // Eventually he can take it no longer. He's sitting side on. Lifts his ass. Strains. Fires a massive clear silicon dildo out of his ass. It rebounds off the wall and hits hair guy in the face knocking him clean out // Roy rolls on the floor face down and complaining about how much his ass hurts while you [Marika] and I shriek with laughter // I'm visiting from foreign lands. I start telling him about how in my country we have stuff to help with the ass pain. At first he's like fuck off leave me alone but he gets hopeful. I'm like Roy you can buy it anywhere, they sell it at train stations // So he cranes his head up like what what and I go IT'S CALLED LUBE ROY

Marika informs me that this is Highly Likely.

(I am assuming that my post about Bent disappeared into the aether.)

Also I need to go see Susanne it's been too long (and I left a thing at her place).

Finally

Jul. 16th, 2017 05:29 pm
kat_lair: (GEN - glass silence of love)
[personal profile] kat_lair
***

A couple of weeks ago I went to see Wonder Woman. I cried three times during it. The scene of the Amazons defending their island, the scene of Diana crossing the battlefied... I did not expect to be so moved but there I was, crying, because 'I've never seen...' and 'finally' and the entirely unexpected emotional impact of that. I've been brutally honest about my reaction as well every male colleague with whom I've gotten to talking about the movie. Because it needs to be said. And because I hope that it helps them understand. Even if just a little bit.

And then today:




I genuinely cried again. Because finally.

And every single whiney fanboy who starts the argument with 'I'm not sexist but...' can take their male privilege and kindly go fuck themselves.


***

(no subject)

Jul. 15th, 2017 10:52 pm
apiphile: (not enough fart jokes)
[personal profile] apiphile
So I'm editing something for submission atm and it has to be quite short which means I have to abandon such fantastic passages as:

"All working," Alana said, pinching her lower lip. "Camera three is slightly misaligned but I don't think that's such a big problem as all that. Have you got the Squeezy Thing?"
"It's a remote clasping facilitator," Euan corrected, looking around. "It costs half a million quid."
"Squeezy Thing," Alana repeated, her nose almost touching the monitors. "I want to test it while we're still in light."


and as I am enoying my readthrough I'm thinking I'm going to keep the original and then fucking finish it as the novella-length thing it was originally intended as, because by the time I actually finish it the statute of limitation or whatever the official term is (exclusive publishing rights I think) will probably have expired anyway even if it DOES get accepted.

A Short List Of Small Goals Which Are Hopefully Less Unreasonable Than My Usual Goal Lists

+ learn how to pratfall properly
+ relatedly, sort out whatever the fuck the problem is with my squats; Linds and I spent a while (ass naked because why not) trying to figure out where I'm going wrong and why I can't get my weight far enough forward not to lose my balance - his theory is that I subconsciously want to avoid any strain on my knees, which I reasonable because I don't really have kneecaps? - but I think the aim is to work on goblet squats (GOBLIN SQUATS OK, GOBLIN SOUNDS COOLER) since those will encourage me to lean forward
+ take an emergency-situation first aid course/learn how to deal with acid attacks so that I don't feel like I'm going to let people down in the event that this happens to them
+ take the Alexander technique for Dance class that City Academy are offering
+ dance taster classes (therefore I am only committing to a period of maximum three hours apiece)
+ go to Cambridge for breakfast at some point
+ catch up on Preacher S2
+ stop tactically-eating food just because it's free, or at least limit quantities instead of acting like i have to stockpile it. starting with sandwiches/bread-based products, even if i have to convince myself they'll make me ill (they're certainly not making me WELL)
+ finish The Grandmother Virus, one scene at a time. Increase the limit on the overall length since worrying about writing too much is, ironically, restricting me from writing anything at all.
+ actually talk through Tourist's Guide with someone who won't let me keep changing the subject.
+ learn how to stretch
apiphile: (poetry)
[personal profile] apiphile
C&Ping the Big News of the day in from an angry FB status:

In truly magnificent NHS admin style, Charing Cross just sent me a letter (today, post marked yesterday) telling me that I missed an appointment on the 8th of LAST MONTH which I wasn't told about (they haven't contacted me since last October), and that if I didn't reply in writing within 4 weeks to a letter it's taken them more than 4 weeks to mail that I would be discharged from the clinic; i.e., they're punishing me for not doing something they didn't tell me I was supposed to do (am I just supposed to show up every single day on spec in case there's an appointment they've not told me about?), and have made it literally impossible to conform to their conditions for non-punishment. As in, I physically cannot answer their letter in time because the time had already passed BEFORE THEY SENT IT OUT.

I forced myself to go to the gym largely to calm the fuck down and reroute my thoughts to generalised "wah I'm fat and bad at lifting" thoughts instead of firebombing murder; then I came back and wrote a somewhat pissy and pedantic letter featuring phrases like "I am at a loss as to how I am supposed to do this" and "would appreciate clarification" which is Middle Class for "FUCKING EAT MY ASS YOU SHITS" and have since had my mood lightened by a) Trans Mafia friend offering his services to Sort It, b) another friend offering to Stab Them, and c) a third friend offering her experience of a different clinic doing the same thing and then trying to give her an appointment for a date that had already fucking passed. Classic.

I therefore elected to go massively out of my way this evening to have a stupid coffee slushie drink, joined a colleague in raiding the work fridge for the Good Sandwiches before the QA team get here and nick them without sending out the There's Sandwiches email, and also treated myself to uninterrupted train reading of pretentious stupid 18th century Grub Street hacks.

A book arrived today - one I'd added to my list during the Queer Art exhibition at the Tate and which does not even tangentially relate to my writing, a bit like the Umberto Eco-referenced one about the intention to invent a philosophically perfect language something something language of the angels, and equally impenetrable - HOWEVER it is also heavily underlined with some biro observations about the text, which is perfect; it takes very little for me to get obsessed with marginalia as opposed to the text itself (How People Interact With A Text is of course of considerable interest to me) and now I'm all about why the person who owned the book before me thought those passages were important, what they were correcting in the text in some of their comments, their translation of a Greek epigram, and what they mean by the remark "making the body a temple to art". Also I like that their handwriting really is not Academic Scholarly. It's like mine and they're a messy writer, keener on getting the idea down than having it beautiful.

How long until I can get drunk?

(no subject)

Jul. 14th, 2017 12:40 am
apiphile: (quite enjoying this)
[personal profile] apiphile
so ASIDE from the general feeling of Everything Is Bad which is linked to my inability to put food in me in sane ways (stop eating things that make you ill?) and struggling on with a bit of book-related test writing & pretentious reading, a bit of gym, when I would rather be asleep:

"Controversial right-wing figure Milo Yiannopoulos has sold just 152 copies of his book “Dangerous” in the UK after many of his alt right supporters cut ties with him."

He's still sold more books than me. Do you consider that justice? Are you really my friends? Do you want to be able to say that you let MILO YIANNOPOULOS outsell one of your friends when the capacity was in your hands to see to it that I outsell a fucking frothing far-right attention-seeking pisschild?

Also: considering going to cambridge on a jolly next week?

(no subject)

Jul. 11th, 2017 07:43 pm
apiphile: (not enough fart jokes)
[personal profile] apiphile
Been accepted into another anthology; as of now my immediate to do list is:

+ find someone to proof-read Heavy since no one will do a consistency read
+ character development for Tom o' Whitechapel
+ Rework & finish the existing merman story (which is currently already over 11k because boy did I meander when I had no set limit, and it needs to be maximum 7k and is nowhere near finished) for submission to the other anthology (have a bit more time than I did for the last one)
+ UNO roughly 4k short story dealing with some origin stuff/character voice testing for my main antagonist in Tourist's Guide.
+ DUO possibly also a short story of comparable length about Charity who needs to be fleshed out a bit more.

(I'm taking a break from wrestling with the plot outline because it hates me and I hate it)

gym today ... happened ... my body is still sore from it but also from everything else. I hate too spicily and in the process of wiping my nose damn near ripped out a piercing (always fun); was woken up by rain and now it is just raining steadily. I suspect most people are relieved but it is a bit of a bugger to go to work in.
apiphile: (poetry)
[personal profile] apiphile
A scene, Saturday night:

Man in kimono and heels who is chatting to us in the queue (his name was David): *says something largely complimentary about my "i sneezed in a craft shop" costume*
Rose: *immediately builds on this to be cutting but funny, as is our wont from the days of Lolocaust*
David: Now why did you just turn my nice compliment into an insult?!
Me: She's my friend? It's her job to make sure my ego never surfaces above "baseline non-suicidality".

As with all humour there's an element of truth; I prefer to be criticised to my face about things that I can change (writing ability, sartorial decisions, behaviour, giving of offense) and which are legitimate concerns (behaviour, giving of offense, mistakes). And historically, at least, I have mistaken a blend of abuse and praise (usually equally inflated and unrealistic) for "love" because that's what childhood was like. As an adult I've mostly weeded out the people who fall on the wrong side of the "friendly banter" line (Rose definitely comes under Bants rather than "Goodbye", obvs) but progress has to continue.

//

TODAY: Two days off from the gym and increased calorie intake has benefitted my core strength noticeably (planks, push-ups, and mountain climbers were a piece of cake) but biceps were horrible. Changed approach/form with rear delts because I think I was doing it wrong? And as I'd been avoiding the bench since my ignominous Crushing earlier I forced myself to go back and keep doing sets until my body had been adequately informed that it wasn't going to get out of lifting just by being a massive failure. six sets in all, twice as many as usual, FUCK YOU, BODY.

obviously my mood is taking a turn for the Fuck No because work, but I still feel moderately buoyed up.

also i managed to fucking detonate hot chocolate all over the work kitchen
apiphile: (maurice)
[personal profile] apiphile
I have a new superhero identity, almost-unanimously determined by about a hundred people, completely without contact or conferring.

Saturday

Let's cut to the chase: elementary mistakes were made in the construction of my costume. One was having a stomach made of flab rolls. The others were: don't spray-paint your hands with CAR PAINT without putting vaseline on them first; ensure EXTREMELY THOROUGH COVERAGE of sun cream or you'll end up burnt exactly where your necklace rubs and nowhere else; put the false eyelashes on BEFORE the eyeshadow and such or they'll just stick to the glitter and come off immediately; spray-paint your gaffer-taped heels for luck. Overall good though: https://www.instagram.com/p/BWR5hlVB58n/?taken-by=derekdesanges

We headed down to Marble Arch (me sweating madly in my Shield of Modesty windbreaker) for initial meeting with people we were meant to be marching with under the assumption they were a legitimate concern; after freaking out people in M&S getting more food Fiona and I met up with Ruthi and then with Suzy, who explained that it was a "bust into the parade and make a statement" deal rather than "infiltrate legitimately and THEN do the Direct Action" thing (which I wasn't overly keen on as these are not my "staging a die-in" shorts. These are my "dance and hold in your jiggling stomach" shorts); then met Maud, and finally Rose, before dividing - Suzy and Maud went off to be Trouble and the rest of us went to Portland Place to find the FEU rep for wristbands, and to begin a long, long day of being repeatedly stopped by people with every kind of camera - from analogue to ipad to tv camera - in order to pose for them and in one case also give a very brief vox pop ("What does love mean to you?" - I gave a lame duck answer because my brain was barking DO NOT SAY "FISTING").

We were directed to where the FEU would BE but then had to sit there forever, getting hotter and hotter, eventually glittering a few people at their behest, and watching varied groups go by, getting into place. Lots of random tourists (many many of them South Asian men? I don't know why but... cool? OK guys) wanted their photos taken with me. Presumably for Bants. When we tried to go take a toilet break it became immediately apparent that they were checking wristbands now and we'd have to wait for the rep; Equity FINALLY showed their asses up, we got our wristbands, WENT TO PISS oh my GOD - massive queue, horrible toilets, etc etc - got some damn horrible food - waited around for another small eternity with a selection of t-shirted union members (including one American who didn't want any glitter on him and also referred to it as "tranny herpes" while he was talking to us, LOUD SIGH) and also a gold merman...

Eventually got moving. https://www.instagram.com/p/BWSvDzoh02Q/?taken-by=derekdesanges I'll spare you a blow-by-blow account, but here are some highlights:

+ glitter makes you everyone's friend and some people's enemies.
+ my new superhero identity, as determined by yelling crowds, is "glitterman"
+ people will trade glitter for booze
+ tiny golden holographic stars look SO MUCH BETTER on afro hair than euro hair and i'm SO GLAD so many black people both in and watching the parade asked to have their hair glittered
+ rose & a couple of other people (one of the other NUJers) learned how to do the flag limbo thing - can't really explain - and did it to entertain the crowd every time the gap between us and the YouTube bus (so many corporations there - specifically too ones which have VERY PUBLICLY fucked the dog on LGBT content. Like YouTube) got really big or the parade slowed - huge roars of applause - the NUJer and the main flag dancer had FLAG DANCE CONTESTS which were also highly popular - rose and i had a glitter vs flag fight
+ the act of lobbing glitter in the air or sprinkling it behind you more or less constantly for 2-3 hours leaves you even more covered in it so by the end of the parade i looked like i was wearing a suit of armour and could not stop fucking beaming
+ literally people applaud a bit and as soon as you lob glitter they ROAR AND SCREAM it's like pressing a button? RTHE SHINY THIIIIIIIIIING
+ had to keep running to catch people up (did i take the opportunity to make salacious comments & gently cup the faces of men who demanded glitter beards? you bet your bum) and decided on an energy-saving bouncy skip instead
+ people even cheered me pouring additional glitter out of my bottle and into the bucket
+ small children think i'm literally fucking magic
+ "I'm seeing angels! are you real?" / "of course not, darling"
+ one guy's friends tried to volunteer him for glitter ("DO HIM!"), i gave them a stern lecture (brief) on consent, he gave me a heartfelt thanks, they said they were consenting for him, and i said "doesn't work that way bYYYYYEEEEEEE"
+ "we're from the BBC! can we film you pouring glitter over these people?"
+ rose: "i am LITERALLY bending over backwards to please the crowd" / self: "it's working, but i would like to point out that you are a hufflepuff and i am just buying their affection with shiny shit and it's equally effective"

it was bright, bright sun and clear blue skies all day. exactly what i wanted. barring being swept off my feet by a rich handsome bearded man (& the presence of maud and suzy) the entire damn thing was exactly, exactly what i wanted.

pics (will make future updates if i find any good ones by other people that are publicly available):
https://www.instagram.com/p/BWSvlhuB3Uy/?taken-by=derekdesanges
https://www.instagram.com/p/BWSvuBXBLoN/?taken-by=derekdesanges
https://www.instagram.com/p/BWSvzr4hwBD/?taken-by=derekdesanges

also i'm now in the pre and post-parade group photos with Equity (we were invited; one of the older NUJ people was clearly well past traditional working age and one of the actors - much older, "I'm 29 on my profile, it's just the HOT AFRICAN SUN which has decayed my features darling" - informed us that a previous NUJ marcher was 90, and we had the now-traditional argument where people underestimate my age my a decade) so that's... nice. It's nice to belong to a thing briefly and also to have NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR IT

we collapsed into the pub and tried to marshal our other queers (maud, suzy, and also charlie) while necking cider - this is the first year i've marched and not been violently dying for a piss at the end, due to my strategy of peeing LITERALLY EVERY TIME i found a toilet.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BWSwKi0htmW/?taken-by=derekdesanges
https://www.instagram.com/p/BWSwoM9hDOR/?taken-by=derekdesanges (new okc profile image y/n?)

while sitting we were bumped by a very young and very beautiful gay wearing the exact daddy issues t-shirt from prowler that i'd wanted but which wasn't in my size; he apologised for bumping us, i told him to apologise for buying the t-shirt i wanted and rendering it out of stock - he informed me "it's for a club night! i found out after i bought it - but the club's really boring?" introduced himself (oliver) and suggested that they might have re-stocked and then i could get one which "doesn't have make-up all over it" (gesturing to the foundation smears on the neck); "well," i said, pointing out the IMMENSE QUANTITIES OF GLITTER THAT I HAVE BEEN SHEDDING LITERALLY EVERYWHERE FOR TWO DAYS NOW, "i might find a way to mess it up anyway".

+ "moderately sparkly"

when we left the pub to get food the parade - which we were nowhere near the FRONT of - was still going. it continued as we disappeared up past trafalagar square (i'd have liked to have gone in, personally, but none of my party could have endured it - not even worth making the suggestion! and happy to accommodate in any case), being cheered at by random people who were sprawled in the closed roads, drinking, singing, holding hands, eating picnics in the sun, generally being a really, really, really good party. The kind where no matter where you go you're going to have a twinge of fomo from not being everywhere at once.

as brain meltdown was approaching for everyone i tried to minihitler people to five guys, was stopped for a photo by some people in pret who were SO FUCKING NORTHERN that i GENUINELY thought they were from another country entirely, and then just brazened the living fuck out of standing in five guys in my tiny pants and explosions of glitter (my order went missing, a fact which was pointed out to me by a concerned gay beside me...) on the way back down to the wetherspoons - there to meet with charlie and theoretically suzy and maud, who just stayed in soho in the end (another place i'd like to have gone but TOO MANY PLACES TO BE ALL AT ONCE) - a drunk scouser demanded a photo and also regaled me with the fact that her daughter was gay and that she'd be gutted she couldn't have come to pride since her parents hadn't even known it was pride weekend when they booked tickets for a musical as a delayed christmas treat (gosh the long-ago days of Coming To London For A Christmas Treat)...

Wetherspoons wouldn't let me in without a jacket (actually what the unsmiling door man said was "you can't come in here like that", and i said, "do you want me to put a shirt on?"; he was the only unhappy person we encountered re Pride); we kind of sagged over some drinks for a bit, then headed down to the RVT.

One conversation with a homeless man called Dean about tattoos and one queue outside the RVT (shorter than expected) where a man in a kimono and heels called David asked if I had a plan for getting the glitter off and what my tips were (he was very hairy & apparently this played a role in his normal avoidance of glitter - I'd thrown all mine over the crowd so no fear of any non-contact infection at this point!) & my only real answer was "I have not thought this through properly".

Contact with Charlie (and Charlie's friend Sian) was brief, I got a text from OKC dude who'd had the same "my phone is in my bag because my pants are tiny" issue that I did; a message from Jack-from-Tumblr suggesting they might come by (I don't know if he did or not, I never ran into him)... things were slow to get going & Ruthi had a small crash because SO MANY DAY. SUCH EVENTS; then MANY DANCE.

+ dancing in a tunnel under a railway bridge: the power completely went out at one point and everyone started singing we will rock you until it became apparent that everyone only knew the chorus, and then the song degenerated into the Jeremy Corbyn chant because that's what happens now? why is this man a meme; the 1967 atmosphere increased by the regular playing of the radio one jingle from 1967 prior to hits from 1967 (goddAMN there were some bangers in the charts that year, too - didn't realise "Scarface" by Prince Buster was that old and thought it was from the 70s but I guess The Specials kind of sampled it in Gangsters in the 70s so) - much to the delight of Rose, who is heroically obsessed with the Beach Boys & Brian Wilson particularly; also because it's fucking OUTDOORS TECHNICALLY, people were smoking. Which hasn't happened in a nightclub since I was about 18 or so? Maybe 20? And felt appropriate if slightly annoying at times. Age range from about 70 to 18. Elizabethan drag queen. Drag Queens in heels so high they were 7 feet tall.
+ Played one of the hits from the QAFUK soundtrack and I went quietly fucking mental given that this was finally, finally, everything (almost) that i had wanted and expected back in 1998, including that song.
+ acts were various; stand-out was John Smith's White Rabbit performance which was a genuinely unsettling strip tease involving the vomiting of rose heads and yanking rose heads from their vagina and ended in platform-booted, wide-eyed total nudity.
+ another act involved, between songs, a sudden cessation of music and the playing of interview clips with Marsha P Johnson, followed by the queens raising protest signs that read "Trans Power" "The First Pride Was A Riot" "Do Not Forget" and doing circuits of the stage to make sure everyone damn well knew
+ a couple of moments in which i had the familiar duckie feeling of "should i go home? i don't think i'm having fun" which normally happen when i've been drinking and am not enjoying the song and people aren't showering me in adulation (and lbf i had A LOT OF ADULATION on saturday); happily almost every time this happened i wandered out into the smoking area and then each time the same very large, muscular, and beautiful black man reappeared to tell me i was wonderful, demand hugs - for the purpose of transferring glitter - and at one point to just straight up rub his face on my face so he could steal more sparkle (he also lifted me off the floor at least once). i'm not making this up, i think? because it does sound like my brain just invented something to protect my ego. i swear he was real.
+ quite a few people (old lesbians & men with beards primarily) made me either pet them or rub my face on them so they could have some sparkle.
+ at the beginning of the night, i was at the bar - "I like your shine", quoth a man, "I was just saying so to my boyfriend. You're very sparkly." / "I prefer radiant."
+ "I have sneezed in a craft shop."
+ "I like your outfit" / "I'm not sure it really constitutes an outfit so much as a benign STD"
+ Ran into Beard Chris (I hate trying to differentiate between Chrises; there's Adams, Siddall, Chris Bee, and Mr Chris, and I can't even call the Chris I see at Duckie "Gay Chris" because I could equally be talking about Bee, who is at least bi), who was dressed as a GIANT BABY ("HELLO, I'VE COME OUT DRESSED AS A GIANT BABY") because he was born in 1967. "I'm going to be FUCKING FIFTY in September!" / "That's wonderful!" / "IS IT?" / "When I'm fifty we're all going to be underwater." He reminded me about the NEW STRAIN OF SUPER GONORRHEA which can't be treated with anything, "Happy fucking Pride! At least we've got PReP!" demanded a glitter beard, and vanished into the night.
+ decided that opportunities are created as well as discovered and went to dance on stage with a bearded man in tiny red shorts who'd been nice earlier. he was delighted. i was delighted. had the songs remained good and had i not been discreetly dying at that point, i would have stayed and danced on the stage with him all night.
+ "oh fuck - i saw you earlier but in the dark you stand out even more" was an interesting compliment.

around 1.30/1.45 my remaining gays - rose and fiona - were sprawled and denying any further ability to dance; while i could probably have put caffeine inside me and found more songs, i had already had so many instances of being knocked in the wings - it is exactly as annoying as i remember from my late teens to go to clubs or gigs wearing wings - and was also starting to ache and hurt and generally feel PAST IT, and did not want to be That Guy to my poor friends who couldn't exactly fuck off when they were staying with me ("Do not," I said around 5pm, "Let me go home with anyone. This is now your responsibility." / "What," said Rose, "if we just come with you and watch?"

a gay on the tube, in a discreet "never kissed a tory" sticker: "You look so fucking smug." / "I've had a VERY Good Pride, mate."

a gaggle of straight wood green Blokes at the chicken shop, when i went to get my Post-Dancing Filth: "D'you have a good Pride then?" - said with absolutely sincerity, no menace, and no mockery. ("Excellent, thanks.")

a random straight in the street, STAGGERINGLY drunk, "oh yeah it's FUCKING PRIDE! I LOVE THAT. I love the gays. i'm gay meself. nah nah. hahah. Shit, I've lost my lighter."

a large contingent of straight people outside the stabby pub, getting into a taxi, with undertones of Generalised Organised Crime* (not the glassing pub, that's a different pub): "oh shit!" / "oh wow that sparkle" / "YOU LOOK SO FUCKING GOOD"

* look, i know my area, okay.

unprecedented: took a shower and also scrubbed my hands with isopropyl and detergent and basically gave myself the most thorough wash i have ever had, prior to bed, in order to remove the seriously oxydised CAR PAINT from my ENTIRE HANDs.

Sunday

Dragged my ass out of bed reluctantly, dragged my friends off for a reviving milkshake (https://www.instagram.com/p/BWUvozWBME-/?taken-by=derekdesanges) and a reviving brunch (https://www.instagram.com/p/BWU0tmnBkFK/?taken-by=derekdesanges) and a walk along south bank (https://www.instagram.com/p/BWVYhTahb4R/?taken-by=derekdesanges) to the national theatre (https://www.instagram.com/p/BWVYmXnh0Er/?taken-by=derekdesanges) - in this rather well-arranged merchandising section there was one major missed opportunity (https://www.instagram.com/p/BWVYqF7hXOD/?taken-by=derekdesanges) and also a fantastic "artisanal" slingshot/catapult to tie in with the staging of Peter Pan; I picked one up and was about to say to Rose "tell me I can't have this", and had just opened my mouth when Fiona very firmly said "DO NOT. NO. YOU CANNOT." so. yes. I think we've agreed it's a bad idea. They also had Tom of Finland oven gloves; I limited myself to unicorn mini wipes and a card for Lindsay's birthday.

Bid adieu to my friends; went in to the "rehearsed reading" (kind of like a radio recording - bit of acting, mostly expressive reading) of Bent, starring Simon Russell Beale, Russel Tovey... some other people I recognise from various productions but cannot remember the names of. It was still - still - very horribly emotional. I didn't realise that no one else I was going with had seen the movie, either, so in the interval Suzy had a bit of a cry on me, and at the end I had a bit of a cry on Suzy, and Maud had a bit of a cry in general. There was a Q&A afterward, which was heavy on the history (always very interesting - the Q&A involved Martin Sherman, who wrote the play; an actor whose name temporarily escapes me but who portrayed Horst in the late 80s one-night-only production that was staged specifically to raise enough money to found Stonewall - he was facilitating - and the director of this particular staging, who is also currently directing "The Inheritance" which sounds... harrowing in a different way), light on the technical stuff - even the people who asked what I wanted didn't really get proper answers on that front. Also the fucking... audience. Were told. Questions, not comments. ONE person listened to this. ONE. Also some discussion in our group about parallels in the rise of nationalism in different countries (I was drawing on what I know of Japan in the 20s, Fred is better-informed than the rest of us on Italian fascism, etc).

We weighed up the potential "unicorn chaser" movie for dealing with watching Bent (I think we settled on But I'm A Cheerleader); I started wobbling/shaking halfway over the footbridge to Embankment, put some tea in myself, then walked much, much more quickly than I was expecting all the way to Chinatown while possibly hyperventilating. Did not find what I was looking for in Chinatown despite actually overcoming my general horror of speaking to someone who works for a shop in order to STRAIGHT UP RUIN THEIR DAY trying to find out if something was in stock; went for dinner and ... didn't exactly calm down as such, but definitely changed gear; https://www.instagram.com/p/BWVYeHth_uA/?taken-by=derekdesanges - carried on with my terrible, stupid British classic murder mystery which is all my brain can handle right now, and unfortunately was subjected to conversation at the next table from a young nerd man who apparently felt that his female nerd companion (French) might be the sole person left on this planet who is unaware that the fish comes raw usually in sushi. Yes. I'm sure she is. You patronising fuck.

Since I still wasn't entirely ... right ... I went to Soho and sat outside Nero on the corner of Frith & Old Compton Street with a milkshake and my nice cozy murder book; while I was moving chairs so some huuuuuuge bearish Arabic-speaking guys (it may have been Farsi or Turkish and I feel like a dick for not being able to tell them apart since they're all from completely different language families & it's like me saying I can't tell the difference between Danish and Spanish; on inspection of a video I think my initial assumption was correct - more "wa" sounds in overall speech, accent/rhythm definitely wrong for Turkish - which I hear a lot of at home & am more familiar with) one, who was very tattooed, got quite excited about my leg tattoos and asked who'd done them, so i took the opportunity to pimp out Biko's work and ended up having to find his instagram account for the guy & discuss where Biko works, when he's back in the country and how to contact him, as well as approving of his choice of future tattoo - not my choice of subject-matter but his quality-control was definitely admirable. For those about to make the obvious assumption, he was not hitting on me - he just really, really wanted to get something done by Biko, which is pretty understandable.

Hung around for about another half hour reading & trying to get a good shot of a street scene for art reference at some mythic future point when i have time for art again, then wobbled home. Way was slightly impeded by this: https://www.instagram.com/p/BWVk6nBBNOh/?taken-by=derekdesanges

Came home, despite prelude text warning of social/mental crash pretty much nearly got into an argument about the washing-machine but decided to be sad instead of angry.


Stuff from other social media

FB: I've had a lovely weekend of partying in huge crowds of happy drunk gays and then being emotionally destroyed by theatre and talks of ongoing protest, in an almost narrative demonstration of what we have, and what is needed to protect and advance it. It is nice to be shown and told by your elders that the often selfish act of making art about yourself isn't wholly without value; it is nice to be shown and told by your peers that your presence is, even fleetingly, not only tolerated but celebrated. I am ... I think sorry is probably the right word ... sorry for my own contemporaries who lose sight of that. I wonder if it's the act of being cheered as well as cheering that changes the perspective from spectacle to communion. I wonder if audiences should be applauded back. -- Anyway what I meant to say was that I've got stuff to do today (not much because I already knew today would be a write off), but I'm physically fucking hiding from it in Soho because I don't want real life to start again just yet. (8pm, Soho, Sunday)

TWITTER: Am really enjoying this weekend off from constant grinding internalized homophobia actually / I get to look at attractive men and not immediately wish i was dead / As a result of said comfort I've had more unstressful casual or intentional physical contact with friends and strangers than in many months / Big news: turns out when I'm not brim full of selfloathing I'm actually quite a nice or at least vaguely personable human / He says, having taken nearly three hours to recover from first tiny amount of crying since December / Being a normal person is hard but so is being an angry stressed robot person I guess.

(I have had too many epiphanies in my life to expect these to last; my "understanding" is always circumstantial and emotionally-driven, dictated by the moment. But it is temporarily nice. It is good to be free from myself, and also from my house, and especially to see the city just swamped - swamped - in beaming, warm, sparkling & painty people, many of them gay/trans as hell, and to have all of the straight people I meet be delighted, pretty much, rather than hostile.)

[i am now very poor and cannot go anywhere or buy anything, please buy my books, etc]

ETA forgot - a man in the crowd squirted me with a water gun in a less than HOORAY fashion and more in an "i'm a jerk" fashion so i THREW GLITTER IN HIS FACE muaah

The Hobbit Fic: Reunion

Jul. 9th, 2017 10:21 am
kat_lair: (GEN: castle with ghosts)
[personal profile] kat_lair
***

Title:
Reunion
Author: [personal profile] kat_lair / Mistress Kat & [personal profile] pushkin666 
Fandom: The Hobbit
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,778
Disclaimer: Not ours, only playing

Summary: When his letters go unanswered, Thorin travels to make his apologies in person. This turns out much better than expected.

Author notes: Largely an exercise in a) self-indulgent fluff, and b) getting the voices in preparation for a longer fic. Expect no literary greatness, only teeth-rotting schmoop.

Reunion on DW (our joint fic comm)
Reunion on AO3

***

Page generated Jul. 21st, 2017 06:53 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios