it's 6:06 a.m., on 2001-06-11 - a very confused camel.
~
It's two thirty in the morning.
I'm being as much of a voyeur at Puca as I can; I'm checking out her 'inspiration' and her in-progress works. She's working on something that I have a love affair with. I don't care what the story is, THIS is the part of Sunnydale that fascinates me. This is why Moonlight and Van Helsing is probably my favorite Buffy fic, even though there are better written ones and there are more in-character ones. Not to say that Hth isn't damned good, but-- but.
See.
"Many leave Sunnydale.....Riley, Oz, Cordy, Dru, Harmony.....but does Sunnydale ever leave them?"
Puca's hit on my secret love affair with all things on that show. I like the end of 'goodbye, yellow brick road' ten times more than any other buffy story I've ever written. It's not very good.
It's just got that vibe.
~*~
I'm listening to Mad Season, and I think I'm going to keep listening to Matchbox 20. Maybe I'll even pull out my CD so it's not all melancholy. Ye-aww.
In a creative vein. I'm thinking. I'm thinking-- oh, my, yes, I know what I need to write. Ryan and Seamus and Lara.
~*~
I just wrote some gypsies, and then I read something about Giles and dreaming. Puca rec'ed it, and it frightened me as much as 'Our House' did.
I want that Jean story to be this bad.
...later again, and I'm still feeling scattered. I want a baked potato with sour cream and butter, maybe, thick and sticky and serene. I want, some of the concise language that people use so *easily* and yet, I can't seem to grasp.
Tell the story, don't gloat over words.
It's my failing. I spent my time in love with words, so much that I forget it's the telling that's important.
I was getting melancholy. I wrote Cass an email about Rae, and I told her it was still a little-- strange-feeling, to feel 'out', even a little, because I never really considered myself in. And I feel shame, a bit, over realizing that I've been farther in than I wanted to admit.
I am farther in than I want to admit.
But anyway. And then I checked journals, and I realized, yeah, people actually read this that aren't people I know. Which reminded me about pilar's beautiful imagery about lifting skirts and showing twats off for the world to see.
It's really fucking gorgeous, that imagery.
I mean, we all know that an exhibitionist mind really masturbates and hopes other people are watching, right? Right. So now, do we write ourselves out and secretly hope that everyone else is watching as we lick our sticky fingers?
I have no shame.
I have great shame.
It all depends on your point of view.
~*~
Mike, the ex, msged me on ICQ the other day. He got high, and proceeded to tell me boring things. I almost left on him, but there are ways that you feel sorry for people who have a lot of mindless nothing to say. People that are caught up in the words and aren't even saying them in a pretty way.
Y'all know what I mean.
Anyway, it's six in the morning. I should already be asleep but I was writing, and then I was reading, and then I was chatting, and you know how fast the night slips away.
Now I'm hoping that River will show before I leave so that I can show her what I've done on the horror story we're working on. I think it's good. I did at least one scene I'm proud of, and I want her to see it.
Hey, Riv. If I get sunburned. --you know the rest.
I can't, I don't know. I really don't know what to do about the idea of meeting her. I told Kael, I won't want to go home. But that's a given. She said we were going to see the desert-- god help me, I believe her.
This is why Izzy, that fuckhead, frightens me. I don't know if I can make y'all understand.
~*~
It's still six in the morning. It's overcast, and there are crows. But if I chose to, I could choose to enjoy overcast, with crows. I could have a Counting Crows moment, and get damp and possibly rained on, and see the loveliness in a mud puddle and the-- there's life, everywhere, even if it's not all good. Things don't have to be good to *be*.
Especially sublime? The image I have of the desert at sunset. Real sand dunes, a fire in the sand, a camel beside us and a jeep. I dont' know why. Maybe just an overnight trip, with those blankets that people lay on and a canvas tent above.
The camel spitting at the fire.
And then, the sun would go down, and it would be chilly and there'd be NOTHING around for a thousand miles. But. Sand.
It might be an anti-climax, in fact, it probably would be, but it would be one overwhelming anti-climax. Because things like you and me don't turn out the way stories go; we're us, you're me and I'm you.
Hah. There's one of those inside jokes.
The camel could wear the 'cow sex' teeshirt.
I'm going to bed.
~
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