it's 12:02 a.m., on 2001-07-07 - Oz with a growl and a smile.

~

I am happiest when: I think, either writing or driving. though driving is more a post-happy, since I yell at drivers a lot. And when it's sunny. --I'm so easily amused.

I feel lonely when: um, do I?

Favorite authors: John David Morley, John O'Hara, Kurt Vonnegut, Puca, Sheila (they count, they do, I want their style so much), um.

What makes you cry?: Uh, I think I answered 'buffy' last time. And allergies. And 'queer as folk'.

Introvert or extrovert?: Dunno. What am I?

Do you think too much?: Probably, but I'm happy most of the time, and unhappy in an outer way, not an inner way, so it doesn't matter.

Famous person you would like to meet: Micheael Stipe. Beck. Angelina Jolie-- ricky martin, if you can believe it. RuPaul. Um.

Do you believe in organized religion?: I think it does a lot of good for a lot of people. I've never met fundamentalist Christians-- I live in too liberal a place.

Pro-life or pro-choice?: I don't believe that either view is politically a wise thing to support. Both camps have ramafications that bother me. Plus, it's highly unlikely I'll get pregnant, so, apathy.

Are you a vegetarian?: No. I could be vegan -- no meat or animal products basically -- very easily, because I don't like milk or cheese or fish or seafood or dairy of any kind... but I like steak. So. ;)

Do you support the death penalty?: No. Human beings are too flawed to make that decision for someone else. I'm not against capital punishment, necessarily, but NOT the death penalty. That is an irreversable mistake, and that's something that no one is 'good' enough or 'right' enough to carry out. Who are we to call ourselves better than *anyone*? People are people, not good or bad. Deciding that we know more or have the moral high ground when, in our daily lives we can all be scum and we can all make mistakes (and I don't believe that people are better than each other just because they have better behavior patterns, either) is totally arrogant. I believe in humility and humbleness-- someone who's just, arrogant enough to think that they know better isn't right. To me.

--whoa. Did I actually put forth an opinion on something? Damn. I must be slipping. ;)

Do angels or demons exist?: Um. They're symbols; metaphors. What exists at all?

What would you most like to be doing right now?: Not sneezing. I hate allergies.

Do you have any regrets?: Um. I guess a few, but what's done is done (like Matt said) so there's no point in going 'oh, I regret this' because it won't undo what was done. I don't think any major ones; maybe I've just accepted what's what.

Sex or love?: Either. I tend to find the two mutually exclusive, more's the pity, but that's my fault and not the way it should be.

Favorite coffee: French Vanilla with honey. Really, I don't like coffee, I just drink it.

Brand of cigarettes: Nada.

Favorite scent: I can never smell ANYTHING. Smells don't vibe me.

What REALLY makes you mad?: Disrespect. I have a hidden temper-- I tried to kill a guy with a metal pipe one night when I was drunk. It was because he grabbed my breast. I *hate* it when people disrespect me. I don't care if you ignore me, but get the fuck gone if you're going to laugh. --well, this applies most if I don't think you're actually better than I am.

What is your best quality?: Um. Do I?

Are you currently in love/lust?: ...uh. I'm in lust with Angelina/Michael Stipe/I guess, uh, others. It's easy to be in lust. I've got a love affair with lots of people-- they make up my tribe. I'm in love with. Um. Well.

Any bad habits: Pro-cras-ti-na-tion, baby. And laziness.

Do you find it hard to trust people?: Um, do I? Maybe? This is one of those introspective questions that I can never decide an answer to. I'm also very indecisive.

I also like Sparkie's answer: 'I know I'm usually the one you gotta worry about trusting.' Which I think is also very true. So.

Do you ever doubt yourself?: Yeah, man, I guess so. Mostly I wonder what the hell I'm doing wasting my life getting an education when there's things to see and stories to tell.

Last book you read: Jesus. Uh... Plutarch's 'life of Pelopidas'?

Last thing you bought yourself: A dress for dexcon. That, like, covers nothing. And latin textbooks.

Bath or shower: shower.

Favorite season: Fall, I think. Those cold sunny days.

Porn or erotica: Erotica, unless I'm into a laugh... visual or written, either. But, high quality please. ;)

What is your favorite flavor?: Um? I love food... anything.

What is your favorite time of day?: Depends. I like the morning, early morning, except I hate getting up. I like mid-day because it's productive; I like the evening for winding down, night for relaxing; the middle of the night for work. I dunno.

Life is just all good.

Gold or silver: Silver. Or white gold. Damn, I like white-gold.

Any secret crushes?: Um. I don't think so. Y'all know my love affairs, my long-running crush on al/riv/angelina. like, I hide nothing. I suck at it.

--well, no, I do. This person may or may not start with an 'L' and have five letters in his name, one of them being a c, an a, an n, and an e. But. We won't go there.

*sigh*

Do you ever feel you are insane?: Sometimes.

Favorite style of music: Right now, hip-hop or folk/acoustic rock. It varies. ;)

What do you desire most in life?: Drivin', baby. Writing. Independence from society, and relative calm.

Do you believe in destiny?: Not really, though it's an interesting philosophy.

Is world peace attainable?: I'm cynical. I can't see it.

City or country?: Normally I'm 100% urban -- I love sitting on the pavement and feeling the gummy taste of the city, the dirt, the hot sidewalks and the grime between the cracks -- but ever since qB showed me her love of the south... I've been craving a farm-house out in the country, by a small city. Fields, flowers. A creek. And highways as far as the eye can see.

I'm in love with highways, baby. That's the only constant.

~*~

I like the 'to write' list that other people are doing... going to do one m'self.

These are in no particular order right now, except I think that 'gypsies' is on top.

1. The Jubie/Betsy back story

2. jubie/betsy warren? Don't know. This looks like a series, but I'm unclear as to what I'm going to do with it right now, so it's just a vague set of something. ;)

3. Kitty/Bobby/Remy -- I might abandon this as just too weird.

4. the Nelly shadowlands story.

5. I want to finish the story about tomatoes that I posted a few days ago.

6. I had a crazy idea for a story about a girl that talked to people she made up all the time, and was rational about it, the other day. It was kind of fun, and for some reason the narrator was named right away ('Sly') and that never happens... and he doesn't exist, he's just in her head, so I kind of like it. I want to make it a piece heavily based in Vancouver, too. Always wanted to do that like John David Morely.

7. gypsies, of course.

8. The buffy snippets post-Gift, but these aren't a real fic so they're easy to write and nothing that counts.

And that's about it, and most of those are half-formed ideas, nothing more. The only thing that's in progress that I have to finish is the 'gypsies'. And the buffy snippets, but then, those are coming when they want to and aren't a real fic. So they don't count.

Right on, me.

Dunno if that's good or bad. Probably good.

~*~

Kate just called Oz androgeny personified.

I want to write that; not sure how. Perhaps in the post-gift, Oz getting in touch with all sides of himself, with the intense ambivilence (is that it?) of the human soul. tara would understand. Anya would ask until he explained it, and then she'd say, "I don't think I'd like doing that" and he'd answer, "I don't think I like being American right now. We do what we can" and she'd grin.

They'd drink absinthe. I'm stuck on the absinthe. I really want to try it.

~*~

Okay, so I started being online at quarter past nine, maybe nine thirty. It's now quarter to eleven. I've pretty much been reading journal entries all day.

You people need to be less exciting.

Kate was talking about why people write slash, and mentioned that it's slightly like a woman cross-dresser.

I write slash because I can't not see queer. I don't have the eyes to see things in another way.

REM is playing. My head is all stuffed up. Rae's got strep throat. That can't be a good sign...

Um. A lot of people are on AIM but I probably won't talk to any of them. I feel like writing an email to river or something, but I don't know what to say. I feel like writing a happiness, but I'm not sure what kind. Or who. I'm scattered. I feel like a meal of baked potato, fried chicken, and cole slaw. I feel like barbequed ribs and corn. I feel like bean salad. I really like bean salad. I feel like lemonade. I feel like peaches and cherries and grapes. I feel like peanut butter cookies, and cold chicken in buns with mustard and cheddar. I feel like singing.

Why can I only say 'feel' when it comes to food?

Ari and I went to check out dress patterns today, and fabric, but we didn't find anything that I really liked. I want a red silk chinese cut dress. We found a pattern, but it was hella-expensive, and like, no way. We didn't find any nice fabric.

I feel like steak and broccoli; potato salad. Lettuce. Tomatoes.

God, tomatoes.

~*~

Those tomatoes are her pride and joy. She works on them every morning and every evening, before going to work, and as soon as she comes home. I swear, she talks to them. They are her children, adopted into the family as surely as the baby was.

The baby isn't hers, but she cares for it like it might as well be. A younger sister, less focused, more reckless. She's always been too giving, and the darling loves her. I think she loves it back.

I find myself akward with babies, but she knows it, and doesn't ask me to do much. I wish I could, but I can't.

~*~

I don't know. I'm not feeling this one right now. I'm not really feeling any kind of writing, which is sad, because I want to be productive. Maybe I should go downstairs and eat something. The way I'm going on about food, I think I'm hungry.

Oh, one more thing. I've started watching Roswell. Seen two episodes, early first season ones, and it reminds me of a conspiracy-theory Dawson's Creek, but without Dawson. Which is good, because Dawson sucked. Only, instead of the blond being the weird stupid one and the brunette being cool and snarky, it's the other way around. And Pacey had better lines than Michael does, if I remember dawson's creek better.

I want to write Isabel/Liz, post-Max or something. I can see that one... I don't know. I don't really like Liz. She's the anti-character. Too perfect. Whatever. I'm waiting for Tess to show up. I get the feeling that I'll like her better, because we don't have a snarky girl on the show yet. We don't have any snarky ones yet, just crazy and practical and bitchy and perfect.

Actually, Michelle Williams' character and Isabel are kind of the same...

Hmm. What was Michelle Williams' name in Dawson's Creek? I could see her and Isabel. That's quite a nice pairing, actually. And isn't there a Roswell femslash archive? Doesn't Kate run it?

Heyyyyy, now. if Kate runs it, it has to rock.

*checks*

Right *on*. Kate, I love you, you know it. Now if only I knew who the hell Tess was...

~*~

--I think I have a crush on Isabel. And, Livia who wrote a hot poem about Maria/Isabel that I wish I'd written. And, and. I'm in love with this story by Elizabeth.

Just, read it. Isabel/Maria.

And. 'And, just like Michael, Isabel ignores me.' From this. I have this urge to see Maria and Isabel together.

I have these femslash urges. Sheila's telling me to write Oz. I'm considering Buffy snippets, like Anya and Oz doing absinthe in Prague. But I don't have that urge. I have that urge to write about someone like Alex or Maria in love with someone like Isabel. Is it Isabelle? I'm going to consider it Isabel from now on.

I don't think I have this inspiration right now, though. I'm getting cooking impulses, not writing impulses.

But Sheila just gave me a fab idea-- Oz right after he gets out of the Initiative, what would he do.

~*~

Night time in California-- the sweat rolling down his back isn't from the heat. It's cold.

Past midnight, and the adrenalin's working overtime still. Oz is jumpy, nervy. Oz is crossing the street to avoid the older couple walking home. Oz is, Oz is -- thinking to himself about a D-chord, and maybe an A-seventh. He's trying for strictly shallow thoughts to get into a proper Sunnydale mood.

Banging in the alley, and he jumps again, hand in his pocket fingering long and slender wood. On a more strictly philosophical day his mind would start wandering, thinking about the symbolism of wooden stakes and phallic symbols and feminism and the Slayer as a positive role model for young girls who want to be strong in life.

Now, it's pretty much, 'wood, vampire, soldier-- shit'. Looping, with intense pain and some shock thrown in.

He walks a little faster, down a street with no lamps, and turns the corner to face-- warehouses, and more not-empty alley ways, and the Bronze.

His sweatshirt is soaking wet. Oz gulps. His hand finds its own way into the pocket of his hoodie, grip wood.

On a more comic day, he'd snicker at that. Now, senses alert, nose sniffing overtime.

No one with that particularly recognisable brand of lab-rat odor. No soldiers. Which is good. From an escaped specimin perspective.

Oz gulps again. The shock is only half set in, which means the rest of him is quaking in these too-big sneakers. Riley's so much bigger than him.

That should mean a lot, but not for a shallow Sunnydale night.

The door to the Bronze is the same, still squeaky. Same bad lighting, same sticky floor. Same candy-pop happy meals, same vacant smiles. Same dancers. Someone from his remedial algebra class bounces up and greets him; he returns a vacant smile.

Oz ignores the jumping, heart-stopping terror as all these *people* close in around him. Dance floor's just about deserted, it being post-two am, and still, claustophobia.

It's better than the bright white of a naked cell. Too much space is worse. Too much anything is worse.

Oz takes a table by the bar. Oz orders a beer, and drinks it warm. Ignores the cockroaches that signal the need for a new fumigation party.

Remember the good old days, there?

No, not really, he thinks. A guy with a dirty apron on -- yeah, he was in that algebra class, senior year -- steps on a cockroach, and speeds away. The good old days, with a guitar and a van. With fear of the unknown.

Yeah, man.

Oz mumbles, 'yeah, um.'

No one really hears him over the piped-in music. There should be more of a feeling of closure, he thinks, but his head is ringing from drugs and he's sweaty and there's no band, there should be a band. There should be something.

That girl, Tessa or Laura or something, waves as Oz as she leaves. He waves, absently, and sees her big black boot step on a cockroach.

There should be more of an explosion. Goodbye, Sunnydale? --he's no longer a guitarist. A dingo, a boyfriend.

Adrenalin's wearing off now, and there are too many people here. Nothing smells right in this town.

Oz growls.

He gets up and leaves, jumps as the door bangs shut.

~*~

That really went absolutely *nowhere*.

But I spent a long time on it (almost half an hour, even) so I might as well keep it, and write it here, and maybe make it post-gift with some editing.

Sorry I couldn't do better, Sheila. *g* I just can't write Buffy. I'm too invested. I like it too much. That's why I can write comics. I'm only semi-invested.

This was a long and dull post, so I'm going to stop now and go to bed. I'll be all writer-y some other time. Maybe when I don't have to learn how to write third declension nouns and adjectives.

esse posso reginam. te reginam me deberes vocare.

~

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moving truck dilemma - October 28, 2015
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