Lots of words, little substance. Star Wars.

Despite my best efforts, my attempts at arting this evening have collapsed, rather like a cake, which leaves an unappetizing mess behind. Covered in eraser marks and pencil smudges. My cakes are rather odd.

So, Star Wars.

The hot mess that George Lucas spat out in the nineties (I think?) was an attempt to follow up on his wildly geek-popular trilogy of decades earlier. A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi are formulaic and cheesy, but lovable for being so. The characters are memorable, possibly because of, and not in spite of, the acting abilities or lack thereof of the principal cast. I love these original three movies for the lols, is what I am saying. Then came The Phantom Menace.

Lucas decided it was finally time to make the first three films of his hexology (or however that is spelled...or however one conveys the idea of a double trilogy?) and he framed them around everyone's favorite character, Darth Vader. Vader's fanbase was in for a great deal of misfortune, however, because Anakin Skywalker is the whiniest man-child inflicted on a theater audience.

He is supposed to be becoming a respected Jedi Knight, but he throws tantrums at every opportunity, the difference between him and a two-year-old being that when he waves his arms around, he's holding a light saber, and people tend to die. His relationship with his wife, about 10 years his senior, just puts more of Lucas's strange relationship ideals on display . . . definite Oedipal complex. Eugh. At any rate, Ani is not who I had feels over yesterday (except possibly rage feels and creeeeeepy feels because Haydn Christiansen, while pretty, has the most effective rape face I have ever seen when he attempts to be seductive, or suggestive, or even just happy. It's just his face.) My favorite character in the first three movies, hands down, is Obi-wan Kenobi. (I am probably spelling that incorrectly as well.)

While in the older films, he dies fairly quickly and spends the rest of the series as a particularly pushy and vocal spirit ("USE THE DAMN FORCE LUKE SERIOUSLY JUST USE IT" --Obi-wan, paraphrased), he appears first in Phantom Menace as an apprentice himself (to Jedi Liam Neeson, and how cool is that? Also a favorite, and he also dies very quickly, which is annoying and heeeeeeeey just had another thought: what if the first three are actually about Obi-wan? Because his mentor dies at the end of the first, and so did Luke's, and it's Obi-wan who must, in the end, defeat evil...I am satisfied with this interpretation, and I am forever more going to watch the movies assuming Anakin is a side character. Yes.). Obi-wan Kenobi is Jedi Master of sass, which is a large part of why he is so excellent. He is Anakin's master in Attack of the Clones, and he remains so through Rise of the Sith. During these two films, a relationship between Obi-wan and Anakin is developed that makes clear how close they are; Anakin calls Obi-wan a father figure, and Obi-wan clearly cares for Ani as he would a younger brother. They are sent on dangerous missions as a unit, and it is only when they are separated that either one gets into serious trouble. Anakin's progress toward the Dark Side escalates dramatically each time Obi-wan is absent.

Obi-wan sees more than he wants to about his pupil. Still, he clings to hope, never believing the worst until the evidence is placed directly before him. He tries to refuse the order to kill Anakin. Their final battle is where I lost it. Anakin is obviously off his rocker. Obi-wan is confused and betrayed and so very hurt, and he tries so hard to end it before he has to injure Anakin, but Ani won't listen, so Obi-wan has to strike him down.

Obi-wan takes the blame on himself for what happened. He thinks he failed his student, his friend. I think he did the best he could.

He's why I cried yesterday while watching Star Wars, a very unexpected turn of events. May the Force be with him.

Mostly just hating on Terry Goodkind

I spend all day, every day, watching my focus dwindle and my mind wander off to the farther reaches of nowhere. No thinking happens.

Therefore, I get very, very easily distracted. I need to put my phone away, or something, before I get fired.

To combat this, I listen to audiobooks, or rather, one book and a comedy series. The comedy series is excellent, though I have listened to each episode about 10 times by now. The book . . . is not. It is, in fact, terrible.

The author does not know when to shut up. He repeats himself constantly and is in the characters' heads all. the. time. when there is little enough going on in there with which to concern himself. Every time I hope he is about to gain some momentum, he brings his narrative to a screeching halt by weighing the pros and cons and examining every possible angle and answering every possible question right then and there, usually in a character's thoughts, but sometimes he just comes out and has someone ask the stupidest questions, and maybe the questions could be raised, but right now? really? It is the worst book I have had the misfortune of listening to; at least when I'm reading I can skim over the really terrible stuff or just toss it down in disgust. It doesn't help that the book is set up to be in tracks that are 40 minutes long each, and I can't fast-forward on my mp3, so I am stuck in chunks of 40 minutes, no less, each time I try to suffer through a bit. I could just quit, but I am just invested enough in the overarching narrative (not the endless and endlessly idiotic side-quests, mind you, but the actual main quest narrative) to be the slightest bit curious about how they are going to resolve it. Perhaps I am also displaying some heretofore unrecognized masochistic tendencies. I care nothing for any of the characters. In fact, I think they are all either criminally insane or incredibly juvenile or just plain mentally deficient. I hate this book. The author has tried on an occasion or two to write sensual depictions or psudo-almost sex scenes. These attempts do little more than make me mildly uncomfortable at best, and leave me rolling on the floor laughing at their worst, their chief redeeming feature being his nigh unto homoerotic fixation on gleaming musculature. Fine, I admit this is hilarious to me. Score one for Terry Goodkind. The villain has the stupidest villainous quirk of which I have ever heard in my entire life. He licks his fingers and smooths down his eyebrows constantly. What?

This rant has gotten out of hand. These are my very strong feelings on this book. This stupid, STUPID book.

Remind me tomorrow that I had feels today, rather unexpectedly, over Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith.

These need to be examined.

Beginnings

A blogger I follow asked people to tell her how they found her blog, and I really wanted to say something.

I wanted to tell her that she was the first person I had encountered who was open and easy about a lifestyle that my environment had never before put in front of me. I wanted to tell her that she was the first place I learned about slash. I wanted to tell her that she was where I found Spock and Kirk and Bones and just Star  Trek, where I met with something I could be really passionate about for the first time in my life. I wanted to tell her that she opened my eyes to an entirely new set of possibilities, that she shaped my perceptions of the world and helped me to accept what I found without prejudice. She was my guide into fandom, and because of that introduction, I found and still have my closest friends.

I wanted to tell her so much.

But this was all a bit verbose and probably overwhelming and too . . . serious. So I just liked a post that said something sort of similar and left it alone.

I had to tell someone.

Thanks, Brittany.

100

100 bottles of root beer on the wall
100 bottles of root beer
take one down and pass it around
99 bottles of root beer on the wall

Also, may the force be with you.

Live long and prosper.

(100 seems somehow important. I am giving you important things that you should know.)

Something unexpected

In the moments he takes to himself to mull over the day

and rationalize what he cannot box away

He calmly thinks on his friends' hijinks

until one memory slips astray.

With growing concern he watches himself with a mental eye

as he dashes through tunnels and gives a cry

Caution tossed and logic lost

because he thought his friend might die.

His duty and his discipline require respect for all living things

but his fear is kindled and his blood sings

With the need to end any threat to his friend

Like a spirit of vengeance, Death he brings.

Shaken and baffled he pulls back from that line of thought

His careful reserve and control come to naught

In that moment he knows that his heart shows

A heart he did not realize he had got.

So he bottles it up and he files it far, far away

And saves its classification for another day

For now it will suffice to know he is not ice

He will allow it to stay.

It's late

Almost forgot about writing this evening. Made me question why I bother, anymore.

Perhaps because it makes me feel intellectual. Sometimes I stumble on things that I wouldn't have thought of otherwise.

Maybe I just like the sound of my own voice, and the only captive audience I've got is the internet.

Whatever the reason, here have been my few sentences for this post.

Tada.

Went out

I went to a friend's house for games, and I enjoyed the games muchly.

I am terrible at games. Still fun. Especially when nerd games. I try to be enthusiastic about things. That can be difficult.

It's later than I wanted it to be, though. Got to get some sleep.

Before it breaks

Found something that I wrote on a plate. The plate is in two pieces and I keep losing the bits alternately, so since I have them both right at this moment, I'd better type it up.

__

Fragile. Lovely.
rainbow in a soap bubble
Potential in it, and that's what is special.

   I can't tell you
      -she giggled.

Breathing on it when you talk about it sends it careening into oblivion
Lost 'til it's nothing, really, what was I thinking?

   It's a secret
      -she whispered.

There's another bubble burst to pieces goes a maybe smile never let be real

   If I tell you it'll ruin it
      -she sighed.

Confused but not really

I miss my friends, but I can't seem to bring myself to tell them so, or to ask to see them.
That would be needy and greedy and pathetic. If they want to see me, wouldn't they say something?
Perhaps not. Perhaps they are thinking the same things that I am.

It's just all so awkward. How does one people?

One starts by complaining less, I imagine.

Sorry.

What it means

He looks at me, and I look back, and I know what it means.
Our friends know what it means.
Everyone else in the world knows what it means.
Does he?

Sometimes I could swear he knows, and he torments me on purpose . . . but then again, he'd never admit anything like this to anyone. I doubt he admits it to himself.

So when he looks at me, I look back, and I know what it means.
We all know what it means.

Does he?

Shines like memory

Polished until it glows

A moment that I kept for days that were less warm, less happy.

For a moment our words matched, our eyes met, and you . . . smiled. Just for me.

I must have been red, because that smile had never been mine before. I had hoped, but never expected, and all of a sudden, there it was. Mine.

*snap* 

I froze the moment, closed my eyes and willed it to remain. 

When I opened them, it was over.

But it was forever in my mind.

Polished golden by frequent revisiting.

Your smile. 

For me.

Maybe I just hate myself.

I have a very long memory, but only for the worst moments in my life.
I don't keep happy things. I couldn't tell you when I've been the happiest I've ever been.

Instead, I remember shame. I don't even really remember details of how or why it happened.
I just know it was miserable, embarrassing, disappointing, humiliating, etc.
All of the above.

Why is that, do you suppose?

Zzzzz

I am so very very tired.
Fatigued.
Exhausted.

I rather like synonyms.

Rambling does no one any good.
Going to bed.

Diverged

The gap between
you      and       me
is g r o w i n g.
Has the river forked?

What matters to you is not the same as what matters to her is not the same as what matters to me.

A husband.
A child.
A wedding.
A career.
A kitchen set.
A house.

TV.
School.
Internet.
Friends.
Boys.
Mostly fictional boys.

I feel so young. You seem so old.
We stepped off at the same point. Same sort of boat.
Maybe your river is not the same as mine at all.

Terrible face-wise

It's that weird clenching feeling in your gut
the one where you want to twist up and curl over and roll off
where your arms flail and your hands flap and your fingers flutter
you're breathing quick and heaving great noisy sighing wails as your face contorts and your mouth curves down and hangs open like a tragedy mask

You shriek a bit, babble a lot, sob quietly into the pillow you shoved your face into

So unfair.

So attractive.

Angry

Always.

Simmering just under the surface, with a smile on top for decoration but not much else. When it slips it crumples, cracks, fractures into something pained and resigned and helplessly pragmatic; really, what else can be said or done to fix this? So all he has left is a quip and a shrug.

Beneath it, though, he burns. What's down there, deep, is throwing itself against the bars of the cage he's built painstakingly with easy words and slow breaths. He's terrified, and that only feeds his rage, because he's powerless against it and how could that not infuriate anyone? At war with himself, and he's already lost.

And so he knows that it's won, but he puts on his broken grin anyway, because he knows something else.

Even if it controls what he might do, he still controls who he is, no matter how scorching the heat or how violent the turmoil.

That's enough.

A sigh

It's been a few days, and a few days too long since last I set fingers to keyboard and let out a literary breath held.

Not much to tell but disappointment. I got books from the library and found the first, at least, to be much more boring than than it promised. I got audiobooks from the library and as far as I can tell, the first disc is the wrong disc, though it is labeled as though it is the correct one. In short, I have one disc of an entirely different book, and in a spy novel, one disc of ten can make a crucial difference in comprehension of plot, etc. Disappointing.

The week has passed quickly, however, and that is pleasing.

Not even sure what I mean

i wait and i wish

for more

than

this.

and what is this that i find it inadequate?
it is nothing at all which is why the void gapes like it does.

i wait and i wish

for more than

nothing.

Just go to bed.

I am very tired.

And a bit depressed also.

Not really sure why.

Couple of words

I smell of smoke.
Shower?

Nah.
Sleep.