pipistrellafelix: (come into my lab)
I am cleaning out / organizing my room, at the moment mostly my bookshelves, which are an unholy mess & entirely too small for the number of books I actually own. I ran across my journal from several summers ago, in which I journaled / scrapbooked / made to-do-lists (a lot of them) / took notes for Arcadia rehearsal--which made me horribly nostalgic to read--& wrote scraps of poetry.

This is one of the scraps. Standard disclaimer applies to first drafts, ie, I have no effing idea what this means or where it came from; but for some reason I really like the tone of the narrator, which I find funny. I am not sure what to do about the ending (which I don't like). Thoughts?

You don't deserve this
level of perfection.
When I tell you I am an angel
I want it understood
that I am not being metaphorical,
or meteoric, or any of that.
In fact my total honesty
is the best thing about me
which is why I'm telling you now,
that I realized, over tea
and a pot of sticky rice,
that you may no longer
breathe my kisses or
feel my angel wings.
pipistrellafelix: (ginny)
I just finished a book titled Master of Verona, which is written by a Shakespearian actor/director, & is a backstory of sorts to Romeo and Juliet. It's also impossible to stop reading; I had read about fifty pages before, & read the entire rest of it (a few hundred pages more) tonight. It's wonderful--all full of plots & twists, settings that were evocative and confusing at the same time, characters with Italian names that I want to say all day, just the right amount of suspense and mystery without it being frustrating. (Also, apparently, two Shakespeare-related anagrams; I haven't found them yet.)

A few weeks ago I got all my old files back from Kristen, and some days ago I spent a couple hours before bed reading through a bunch of my fiction files. I feel ridiculously disconnected from them. The hundreds of megabytes of story based on the NCPS that Allie & I created feel so entirely connected to my two years at Northwest that I don't rightly know how to keep going on them. I have what feels like millions of fits and starts--files that number between one and five pages, no more--that are none of them bad, just lonely & unfinished. I rarely hate my writing; I just never finish anything. At the moment, I'm not annoyed, I'm just thinking. But sometimes that drives me crazy. How can I ever expect to be an author proper when the only things I finish a full draft of are poems, & them only rarely? I have a story (silly, but not bad), which I began in senior year of highschool. In three weeks I will begin my senior year of college. And is it finished? Of course not.

I have always wanted to do NaNoWriMo, although November is a terrible month for me. Mostly what I want is a reason to finish a draft, however botched & ridiculous it might be. If it's full, I can shape it. I can't shape bits & pieces of millions of puzzles that aren't the same picture. They all fall apart in my hands. Someday, at some point--sooner rather than later--I just want something done. Is that possible?

I leave in twenty days. I am going toward an adventure. It's my turn. It's time. There's just plenty that I'm going to hate leaving behind.
pipistrellafelix: (ship)
There is something about having properly curly hair that makes me feel like I can take on the world, & bedamned anyone who wants to get in my way. Also, goddamn but Arcadia is the most amazing play & just rocks my planet. I feel like I'm falling in love with the entire world when I'm onstage--and when I'm offstage, watching other people. God, theater....

Over the course of several bus rides yesterday & today I read J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey...the first part, "Franny," made me terribly discontent & upset, & then the second part, "Zooey," turned it around utterly & very nearly made me cry at parts, because it sounded so true. I think that's part of Salinger...you have to read him at just the right time for that story, or it does nothing for you. I've heard lots of people say that about Catcher in the Rye; for me, I happened to read it at exactly the right time for the story to resonate with me in the way I think it was intended to. F&Z was the same way. It shook me up a little, but ultimately it sounded true. I want to write true. Even if it's not real, I want to write truth. (Sometimes, you know, fiction is far truer than what really happened.)

ARCADIA opens Friday! Come see my show. I mean it. I've never meant it so much.
pipistrellafelix: (drawing)
Several links I just ran across, regarding the issue of posting one's artistic works online. Pixel-stained Technopeasant Wretchery Day comes from this post, which asks people to post one artistic work online, publicly and free (keep reading for the reason). The post also contains a link to the rationale behind this: SFWA's community & this post, a "rant" from Howard V. Hendrix, SWFA's current VP.
It's a fascinating piece, really--I'd say anyone involved in postable artistic works (words, photography, drawings, videos, anything) should read it. As one of the commentors said, "The Internet is today's public library," & while I adore the printed word like few things else, he has a point--the Internet is where a lot of new writers find a community & get a place in the world.

Hendrix has other ideas. Just a taste: "I think the ongoing and increasing sublimation of the private space of consciousness into public netspace is profoundly pernicious. ....
I'm also opposed to the increasing presence in our organization of webscabs, who post their creations on the net for free. A scab is someone who works for less than union wages or on non-union terms; more broadly, a scab is someone who feathers his own nest and advances his own career by undercutting the efforts of his fellow workers to gain better pay and working conditions for all. Webscabs claim they're just posting their books for free in an attempt to market and publicize them, but to my mind they're undercutting those of us who aren't giving it away for free and are trying to get publishers to pay a better wage for our hard work."

Call me crazy, but that feels a little like a slap in the face. Sure, [livejournal.com profile] field_of_ink, where I post all my works, is friend-only--partly for the private feeling, partly just to monitor who is reading it, partly because that is a way to keep it in my own domain legally so I could publish it later--but I have never once turned down a request to friend that journal, nor will I ever, unless I find someone purposefully maligning it in some way, which is supremely unlikely.

But I think the point of this posting--friends-only or not--is the sharing of it. I am not John Donne; unlike the 17th century gentleman poets, I don't have the advantage of a tight-knit coterie of like-minded writers with whom I share my work, who all live in close proximity; I can't circulate manuscripts like that. Livejournal is my version of coterie manuscript writing. It's how I share my work, ask for feedback, & read other writers' works, both by friends & strangers I've never met.

So, I will now hold my pixel-stained, technopeasant wretch head up high, & give you my latest poem. I doubt many people will see this that can't see it in FoI, but hey. It's the gesture I'm going for. So, scary & public, here you go:

metaphysical conceits )
pipistrellafelix: (actress)
This morning, though a long coincidence, I re-found the blog of a former writing teacher of mine, Shauna, who has chronicled in this blog her love of food, reformed into gluten-free cooking, since she found out she had celiac disease--posting recipes and photos and sharing herself with the world. She is of course a beautiful writer, & I spent at least an hour wandering through her posts, remembering her, reading her gorgeous prose about the sensations of food and her adoration of her nephew, and her infinite love for her fiance, a chef--all of her stories lend me a indescribable glow.
It probably didn't hurt that the sun was out and shining gloriously today, & it was warm enough that I didn't wear my coat to school; or that dance class this morning was full of slightly tentative and awkward joy at discovering improv and our own movements in space; or that my shoes are wearing down to the point where I could feel the ground, whether concrete or dirt, beneath my feet when I walked; or that I had to squint when I walked home because of the brightness of the spring light.
Shauna's posts made me want to continue past my apartment and wander through Pike Place and gather food and create something--or to build something with my hands, or to ride a ferry in the sunshine or craft a poem, or pick up my guitar or recorder or to sing; or go back to dancing again.

Instead I'm afraid what I have to craft is this application essay, which is proving harder than it should be. I'm mired between cliches and pretentious language and inability to express what I want--which is Oh, please, I want so much to study at your school & learn things I never knew & to explore your town & your city & your country--in language that will make me look desirable as a student, rather than desperate. Ah well...Shauna would tell me to just sit down and write it, & make myself write a crappy first draft, & then return to it with gusto and fix everything again and again and again. So. Here we go.

(The blog, in case you're interested, is this: Gluten-Free Girl. Go take a look.)
pipistrellafelix: (classroom)
I'm writing something again...something real, creative, something that's not a lame journal post and not a harried academic paper.

...this is bizarre. Please don't go away again, Muse. I can't stand not writing for this long.

(It's that story I keep coming back to, so I hope that means I'll finish it soon. I was scribbling during acting today & I think I just found the ending. Esther, that means you might actually have a contribution from me.)

ETA: I'm nearly at the point where I'm going to crave an editor for this. It's been my baby for a while, & I need someone to rip it to pieces. Anyone interested? It's eighteen pages & not finished yet, but it should be done soon...


Sep. 16th, 2005 07:19 pm
pipistrellafelix: (tenniel (me))
The consequence of sitting at the front desk during a play here is that everyone assumes I'm the box office manager, which means I've gotten very used to pointing and saying, "the box office is that way." A group of people came in, one of whom knew I was not the ticket person, and pulled his friend back just as he was approching me with a joking, "don't talk to her! Tickets are over there," to which his friend replied, "I was going to ask her on a date. (To me) What are you doing later this evening?"

Ahahaha...I love this job. (I do wish I didn't have it tonight though...I wanted to stay at Anneka's! *wail*)

And some writing: the opening bit and the first scene to something I began in senior year, and just added to now. I'm fond of it; I wish I could figure out what was going on, so I could write more. Although I think maybe I just have--Henry has marched in and taken over, apparently.

It had become so that thinking “where am I?” as I woke up had passed beyond cliché into a priori assumption. )
pipistrellafelix: (anya/dimitri)
the sonnet:

Once dreaming in my sleep I thought I saw
A glimpse of somewhere else, of different lands
A world where magic lives and nature’s law
Is called to serve great mages’ mighty hands;
Where ‘here be dragons’ on a map is true,
And stories of the unicorns no lie;
Where pirate ships roam tossing seas of blue,
And stranger things than airplanes seek the sky.
I knew ‘twas all a dream when I awoke
To plain white walls, to homework and to school:
No dragons here, no magic-wielding folk—
And none are spoke of, lest I seem a fool.
But I have a pen, and I can write:
And in my stories, magic’s still in sight.

(From, perhaps appropriately, last Valentine's day.)

the icon:

For [livejournal.com profile] countcomfect for "history." I'm rather fond of this one. Happy back-to-Harvard, Philip...

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

Anyone else want icons? They make me happy to make, so. The crazier the better, too. (Claire, I got the picture, yours is on the way.)

And I have a chocolate chip cookie. And it is good. (Mmm. Breaking news.)
pipistrellafelix: (saving universes)
Mmm...more stuff I wrote a while ago and am now fiddling with again. She hasn't got a name; also she sucks the life out of people occasionally, but that comes up later, in a probably stupid and badly done clever plot device, haha.

'Do I look like an angel to you?' )

Also: Icon Meme...
Comment and I'll pick one of your LJ interests and make you an icon. You have no say in what I make an icon of! Put this in your journal so I can do the same. (Only if you want to.) (Um...and if you comment for the story or something else, tell me if you want the icon too. Otherwise I'll be a confused monkey. And that state of affairs is only useful for plot propulsion, and even then only for a paragraph or two.)

And thirdly: Hot damn, I love this job. Haha...oh man. I'm going to really have to force myself to do homework during the school year, instead of sitting here reading novels...
pipistrellafelix: (saving universes)
I wrote something quickly the other night--expanding on that bit about 'Raise the Roof'--because the image of a field of stars wouldn't leave my head. I miss the country, just for that reason. (Don't know who "he" or "I" are; they're just to give context to the stars. This is otherwise contextless scene though, which I apparently am becoming the queen of.)

as if i were trying to catch a star )

And then I found something on a disk that I wrote AGES ago. I like the first line better than anything else, though, so I'm making it into a writing challenge:
Write me something in the comments, beginning with It began with the biscuits. If you want the full sentence, take It began with the biscuits, ordinary tea biscuits in a rather small tin.
It can be anything, a scene, a poem, a memory, as long or short as you want, but write something.
Since i'm asking you too, I'll put what I wrote here as well; but my preference is, don't look at anyone else's bit before you write yours. Skip mine, don't read the comments--just post one.

Biscuits. Read after you've written something... )


Aug. 29th, 2005 08:01 pm
pipistrellafelix: (tenniel (me))
I spent the day sitting on the floor of my room with a tea tray and a pile of papers to go through, listening to Carbon Leaf, alternately being moody and annoyed and thinking I should just go to bed to fix myself (although food did help, since I haven't slept; I don't think I ate dinner last night), and then feeling supremely silly looking through my old writing folders. Gawd, I wrote some truly terrible things, none of which should ever see the light of day, and all of which are hilarious--to me, anyway.

Then I came across a bunch of handouts from Shauna in 11th grade Humanities, during her poetry stint; and I found a xeroxed copy of Allen Ginsberg's Howl Parts I & II. I started reading Part I out loud, muttering to myself, because poetry is better read out loud, and then I just could not stop. I read the whole thing, and it was fucking amazing. I'd forgotten how compelling that poem is. I'm still not sure if I like it, actually; but I know that anything that has that persistent but broken rhythm that catches your voice and won't let you go is pretty damn awesome.

Go: Read the poem. In fact, print it out on paper, because the computer screen can't do it justice. Print it out and read it out loud. Listen to it. It's fucking brilliant.

on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain, / who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup...
pipistrellafelix: (saving universes)
I am on a random high point of my tiredness, meaning I don't really want to go to bed yet, and I mean really, it's only ten, why should I? Even though I really ought to, considering that I was nearly falling asleep calling cues today. (My own fault for staying up until I finished my book. Connie Willis is a really fabulous writer--go read Doomsday Book and To Say Nothing of the Dog--I like the second better because it's more lighthearted, but they're both amazing.)

And now, a riff on Sonnet 130 because I feel like writing random poetry. Not iambic pentameter though, I am so not mentally organized enough. And no, this isn't about anybody, although the first lines are like ones I wrote years ago for a crush long gone. (And, incidentally, it's terrible, but I'm posting anyhow, cause...probably because my tiredness is preventing normal self esteem issues.)

some witty title here. i hate titles. )

This song makes me want to build a tall, tall treehouse in the middle of the forest, so that I climb into and beyond the trees and see the stars spread across the entire sky, with the nearest human lights so far on the horizon they could be stars themselves...
pipistrellafelix: (spoiler-free!)
The peach is so sinfully ripe that my thumb slips and slides the skin open as my teeth take the first bite. The skin's fur tickles my lower lip, teasing it, so I have to worry my lip with my teeth to make it feel normal again. The inside is slippery cool, sweet silk with a hint of sour that whispers on the back of my thorat. It makes my tongue's tip taste sweet all the more. Large mouthfuls of perfect texture--threads of taste, catching in my teeth, sliding down my tongue to settle in my stomach; I can feel them there, the tang is more pronounced through the muscles of my middle. Juice drips between my fingers, leaving sticky traces to follow with licking--none of this fruit escapes--and it seeps through the skin, dampening the fuzz and leaving a sweet, dribbling mess between my fingers and in my mouth. Nothing is left now but a stone, hung about with drips and banners of peach silk, threads that won't loosen and juice that won't drop.
pipistrellafelix: (spoiler-free!)
Hooray for prompts that get me typing.

Write about something that happened on the roof )

Write about the first time you saw the ocean or the forest )
pipistrellafelix: (tenniel (me))
So I finally wrote more to the random bit of writing about Aislinn that I posted ages ago. I think this occurs a couple weeks after the previous bit. (Also, damn me for writing with lots of italics. Html-ing is a bitch.)

in which the plot thickens...or begins to exist, at any rate )

Secondly, I stole borrowed the Halo 2 Soundtrack from Lex...most of the songs are heavy on the electric guitar and not very good, but this one rocketh my world. I don't know why I like it so much, but I really so. So, check it out via Yousendit (which maketh me happy).

Thirdly, and rather importantly: I am throwing myself on thy mercy! I really, really need a place to stay next weekend (not this coming one, but next), from 8am on Thursday July 28th to Sunday July 31st. My parents are going to Stanwood, but I utterly refuse to leave Seattle (I'd miss Desi, for one thing). Our floors are being finished and we aren't allowed to be in the house ever.
I won't be a lot of trouble, I'll sleep on a floor or whatever; I'll help with sweeping the floor or cooking dinner or anything (I love cooking). I'll be out of your hair for most of Saturday, and the afternoons of Thursday and Friday; I basically just need somewhere to crash at night, take showers, and store my bag o' clothes etc. Any takers? Ta...
pipistrellafelix: (tenniel (me))
Me dad got new thumb drives today! Which means I get one of my very own to put files on, which means I can work on writing at Hugo House without trying to find blank CD-RWs. I am so pleased at this turn of events that I shall share something. Hee.
(This was actually written senior year of NWS, and I am finally dragging it out again to finish and rewrite. This is the first three scenes, more or less.)

the new girl wreaks havoc )

...wow. The Knight uses far too many italics and exclaimation points. He's apparently an excitable child.

Today I really enjoyed sleeping in but actually did rather miss going to the Bathhouse. Ah well. It's not like I don't have things to do at home; the house is still a mess. But I cooked breakfast today! Properly! On a stove, and not a hotplate! And there were utensils and real plates in their proper places! ...I probably ought'nt to get so excited over something like that but it's so fabulous, I don't care. Heh.
pipistrellafelix: (Default)
...in case you didn't already know. Charlotte and I spent the day wandering and taking notes re: the Department of Transcendental Ascendancy (which, if I'm going to work there, I really ought to learn how to spell). Also I wielded a digital camera (which I stole borrowed from Danica), so...pictures!

lead on, my lusty hearts! )

...and now I'm off to see Jet City Improv! Hurrah!
pipistrellafelix: (Default)
Have been reading Dante today; Inferno is wonderful. The scholarly notes are exceedingly helpful I have to admit, but my aesthetic side is wanting a copy of the poem bound in old covers and smelling of dust and glue. I'm such a book-romantic. It's horrible. (Am very unrepentant, though. Hee.)

I have been doing homework, really; but I did spend a lot of my time finishing up the first three Eyre Affair books, which are some of the most incredibly inventive books I have ever read. I really want to visit the Jurisfiction HQ and the Library and even the Well of Lost Plots (though with a guide, please, and preferably not pregnant; I kept wondering what on earth all that action was doing to the baby, although I suppose she's only a month along or so). And I hope that I write things, someday, as insanely creatively workable as all that.

And I've been dreaming. Oh, have I ever.

I want to write about a dream... )
pipistrellafelix: (Default)
The trees outside our window have leafed out in abundance, and now there are long green fingers sweeping in the wind. It blocks the view, but I like it very much.
I am about to go eat dinner at C-Street (ah, good old college food!) and then possibly do my homework. Maybe. It's not due till Wendesday. *grin* But really honestly...my goal for this quarter--which I am writing here so a) you can all mock the unlikelihood of it and b) yell at my when I don't follow up--is to begin my long-term projects early. Especially if I get into Greenstage; those 6-10 rehearsals would cut hell into my life. In the best possible way, of course.

And now I go, and leave you with random writing number...four, is it?

You had my dream. )

Extra special points for people who can tell me why her name is what it is. *grin*
pipistrellafelix: (Default)
Points of Order:

Firstly--anyone who possibly can, GO SEE "The Shape of Things" by ReAct, at Hugo House. Runs through the 26th. Really, really good and whooooboy I was in shock for about an hour afterwards. GO. NOW.

Secondly, Happy Birthday Rose m'dearah! I will try to call you later today.

Thirdly, this is really fun:
hand that took mine, and I want to write. Writers want to write. Writers want to write. Writers want to have to finish the questions, lest I screw my study group over--which I refuse to do, since I'm relying on them for the whole truth, and that is not seemly or necessary for a girl of my state to be intelligent, and so I can't take it anymore. Because I want to write. Writers want to work on my Mark paper. Gawd. Cannot wait until spring break, even though I am not stupid, nor am I not worried. Haha... (99 words from http://apps.hewgill.com/cgi-bin/ljmarkov.pl )
more of those...cause it's addictively funny )

Fourthly, ....it's time for breakfast. Haha, today will be fab. I am going shopping (what? I hear you cry; you, shopping? --But yes, I am) and then we are going salsa dancing tonight. Hopefully that will turn out well. Heee...


pipistrellafelix: (Default)

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