27.3.03

Here is a Present for Bex and for Ann, who were apparently born on the same day. Happy Birthday, girls!

World’s End

Dreams are liquid things, flowing through the mind like a river. They sweep through the subconscious, brushing aside all the petty dross of the everyday and mundane, and dig into the roots of the soul, dredging up long-forgotten fears and desires and connections. Things we never knew and things we never knew we knew are tumbled and swirled together in that silver flood, lies and truth both, bringing delirium and vision. Dreams are the offshoots of the Lethe, wild children of peaceful oblivion. Dreams control us, whether we know it or not.

She sighed as she crested the final ridge, the aching pull in her calves sweet and familiar. This high up, the air was thin and clear, cold in the back of her throat and misting just a little when she exhaled. The world spread out below her like a velvet counterpane, soft blurred tones of green and brown and grey in rumpled folds all the way to the horizon. The sun was going down, washing the landscape in a flood of gold and crimson that seemed to seep into the very rocks, sending flares of fiery colour across the deepening sky. It was beautiful, she thought, making her way over to the cairn that marked the summit, a simple pile of loose greyish rocks.
She had the momentary feeling that perhaps she should get out her penknife, carve her name into the topmost stone, mark her presence here in a way that could not be glossed over or erased. But then again, one of the things she had always loved about the open spaces, when there had still been more than a handful of them left, had been that they were so solid, so enduring, so indifferent to the fleeting joys and sorrows of humanity.
If she looked back the way she had come, to the east, she could see the dark muddy smudge of the city on the horizon, the blurriness and shadow of the chemicals poured into the air. To the north and south, the grey and green and brown of the protected range, mountains and meadows and even a few straggling patches of forest. To the west, the cleansing fire of the sunset, beginning to dip now behind the ragged line of the far mountains.
Moving back to the western edge, she eased herself to the ground, trying to ignore the persistent ache that was beginning to seep through her joints, the small bones of her feet and hands and back. Closing her eyes, she could feel the last light like caressing fingers across her skin, pooling in her eyelids and throat. It was warm, a warmth utterly unlike the smoggy citified heat or the dry dessication of the central-heating in her apartment. A living warmth, like skin and smiles and touch. She breathed out slowly, opening her eyes despite the glare.
Above her, the blue tones shimmering in the arch of the sky were deepening towards night. She thought she could make out the shimmering pinpricks of stars beginning to fade into view as the heavens darkened, and felt the soft warmth of tears on her cheeks. This had been part of the dream – the stars, the indigo-blue of the evening sky, the fading fire of the sunset.
It was the dream that had brought her here. Through all the long days and nights of hospital and tests and diagnosis, she had not dreamed at all. She had come to expect that she would climb into her narrow bed at night, and pull the synthetic-mix sheets up to her chin, and sleep without dreaming until dawn. At first, she had been unable to sleep at all, but as the days turned into weeks turned into months, and the illness dragged at her, she began to tire easily, began to fall into sleep as a refuge against the painful demands of the day.
But then, one night, a completely indistinguishable night really, she had awakened in the darkness with tears trailing into her thin hair and the memory of starfire like a blanket across her mind. She had been able to think of nothing else, remembered images from her long-ago childhood surfacing constantly until she finally sat down at her terminal and called up the educational pictures that were all modern children would ever see.
That second night, she had dreamed again, and the tears had continued past waking into the dim smoky light of dawn. She had gone to her window, craned her neck painfully for a glimpse of sky, but seen only dull orange-tinted smog clouds. That next day, riding the shuttle bus in to the hospital for her latest futile counselling appointment, she had looked up again at the grey-brown clouds overhead, and made up her mind.
Looking up at the stars, here, she was conscious of a sense of calm settling over her. They were showing more brightly now, their diamond fire lancing through her, sparkling across the mica-dusted rock she sat upon. She breathed deeply of the pure, fresh air, knowing that it was the last time. It had been almost twenty years since the outside air in the cities had been clean enough to breathe, another forty since she could remember being able to actually spend time outside. She had missed it terribly, she realised now, patting at the tears on her face with wrinkled fingers.
The stars overhead were forming a net of shimmering fire across the free skies. On the western horizon, only a muted glow showed the point at which the sun had vanished to its rest; to the south, a thin sickle of a moon hung lucent and calm, a handful of stars cupped in her crescent.
She felt peace stealing over her like a soft fleecy blanket, wrapping her, washing away pain and sorrow and the cares of the world. Silent and still, she sat and watched the stars spin overhead in their slow, stately dance. Yes, she thought, remembering, this is beautiful.

25.3.03

Yay! Am finally online at laaaaast and shall now post assorted rantings written while uni was refusing to let me on.

Today, I have been mostly writing. Lol. I kind of did about a page or so for Choices4, which is better than nothing, and then I realised that it was Bex’s birthday on Thursday, and I have no money to get her a present. So I kind of wrote a short piece for her. It’s pretty much descriptive, with a focus on dreams and mountains and stuff, because she’s Mountain Girl, and it has a lot of implied stuff. I only realised after I wrote it that it is in fact SF. I wrote SF. My life is over. It’s only a page and a half, though, but it’s fairly sparse, and it has a whole lot of future-speculation. I’ll post it on here after Thursday, I think. I still don’t have a title for it.

Then, later when the university dial-up service was being a pain as usual and NOT LETTING ME ONLINE, I picked up one of the ideas I had today and basically ran with it. I now have 1000 words of a Ron perspective on Harry/Draco. Joy. And then when I still couldn’t get online, I started on another little thing that occurred to me today – a lot of tiny little vignette-y pieces (practically drabbles, really) on touch and love and dreaming. And I don’t want to write any more, I want to go to bed, because I’m tiiiiiirrrrrreeeeed! But the damn service won’t let me online, it keeps saying the line is busy despite the fact that it is 20 to 1 in the morning, and I am getting pissed off here.

I want to go online, damn it! ::kicks stupid university dialup:: This service is completely pants, it needs at least twice as many modems as it actually has, and I just want to go online and read my email and check for new stuff! Grrrrrr!!!!

Weirdly, yesterday while reading an Ivy ficlet, I found myself going ‘aaargh aaaargh no that is just WRONG!’ at a passing mention of Draco/Ginny. And I was actually believing this; I had to go away and bang on the wall for a while. And I really wonder whether it was the idea of Draco/Ginny or the fact that Harry was in love with Draco at the time? Do I really think Draco/Ginny is just plain wrong? Have I been completely corrupted by Aja? I shall have to go find a D/G fic on FA now to see whether I really am totally squicked by the pairing.

23.3.03

Oh yeah, Choices is up. Go Look At It And Review It. also have submitted chapter 1 and added stuff to website. ::still wantint DV12 here::
Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai!

aaaaa aaaaa aaaaaa aaaaahhhh ahhhhahhhha haaahahhhhh aaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!

::wants DV12::
::wants DV12 NOW!::
::frets and shakes and squeaks and wibbles::

[/ t00by fangirl moment]

20.3.03

Whoooooooo!!!! Glue is up already! Go Here And See! and I sent the link to Sarah, and she liketh it so all is well. Also, DV12 is out ON SUNDAY and I am counting hours.... ::wibbles::

However, despite feeling more than slightly inspired today I did not write any of Choices. Am very bad. Did write 2 SoM posts though, one of which is for 'now' and so has been posted already. the other was my first Skytha post. first chronologically, anyway. Oooh, people are going to love being introduced to him. First post, he plans to destroy the world, second post... well, carries an NC-17 warning for Graphic Violence, shall we say. ::happy happy joy joy::

19.3.03

Well. I suck so royally. I wrote some stuff, about 2 pages actually, but it was pants when I wrote it and is still pants upon reading now. I shall delete it and start chapter 4 over again at some point. Not now however. Have not slept in 24 hours and am knackered out. Sleeeeeeeep......

Yeah. Full story: was knackered. Was also wanting to do something. was either going to write or sleep. M block had loud party all afternoon. could not sleep. attempted to write. Loud music sapped out my meagre skills and left me typing great piles of turgid crappiness. Gah. Attempted to drown out their sucky loud music with my own cool loud music. Was still too distracting to write properly. I so suck right now. I want to have a normal sleep cycle, but I cannot write when it is daytime because of noise and surfeit of light.

I hate light. It is only March and already I am getting back into the whole squinty thing. It should not be this sunny already. I thought I was safe leaving the glasses home until easter, but now must endure 2 weeks of bright sun and squinty eyes and headaches. Photosensitivity makes it very difficult to cross roads safely. Perhaps I really shall become semi-nocturnal. I hates the light, I works best at night... meh meh meh meh meh. <-- how I feel really.

18.3.03

I'vre really got to do some actual writing at some point. Although I did write that Myrnen thing... still. Choices Four must be written. ::chivvies self:: Come on, woman. Confused Harry. Snarky Draco. Angst. Sulking. Nightmares.
Muahaha! Website done! Took many many hours, though, and many many re-logging-ins. ::sigh::
Here It Is!
Falling and Space are up there, plus a guestbook for review-type comments. And happy happy joy joy, I have Choices 0 (the prologue) back from Sarah and so it will be posted soon!! I can't be bothered to do another great big website overhaul, so I'll just submit it to Schnoogle tomorrow or something. Today now, isn't it?
Also, heehee, wrote book-a-minute type thing for entirety of Choices. Mildly amusing there. Perhaps shall send to Sarah, who knows most of the plot anyway.
Gah. Geocities sucks. ::kicks Geocities:: I am trying to sort my fanfic site out. I managed to get one chapter of Falling uploaded (and deleted all the extraneous pages, go me) but now it is being all slooooowwwwww and everything I try and type becomes strange letters with diacritical marks and umlauts and crap. Shall put asterisks in where there is italicisation in Word and re-log in to try again. Perhaps shall ctrl-v the whole thing to save from weird stuff getting me again. ::sigh::
Secret Project complete, muahaha. Now must wait for results...

17.3.03

I hate my life! ::wails::

My sleep cycle is practically non-existent. It is nearly 8 fucking am here, and I am not so much up early as up late. I hate my life. I could have gone to sleep at midnight-ish, but I was cutting and sticking for my scrapbook project. Which is quite pretty if I do say so. I could have gone to bed at 3am-ish, I suppose, but I got stuck in the toilet.

Don’t you dare laugh at me, it was not funny. I went to the upstairs toilet, and the crappy bolt/lock thing got fucking stuck and I couldn’t get it undone. Visions of having to wait there all night until someone came to use the bathroom in the morning were dancing through my head. Eventually I managed to jimmy the thing open with a lot of effort, but I was stuck in there panicking for 10 minutes. I was not a happy bunny. So I decided I would write a bit before I went to bed. I wanted to get this damn ficlet idea that has been whirring around my brain down onto paper so that I can concentrate on Choices, which I do not want to get into a habit of neglecting. I thought, naively I’m sure, that it would be a short ficlet, maybe 2 pages max, just a PoV vignette.

Hah. Yeah, right. 7 pages. Seven fucking pages, 4,000 words, and FOUR HOURS later, I have a vague kind of ending that I’m still not entirely happy with. I just sat here and wrote the damn thing straight. I only went back and erased stuff once, and that was only a couple of sentences near the end when I remembered what I’d wanted to say. I am sitting here scrubbing at my eyes, and I know that I am going to be sleeping most of today too despite the fact that there is stuff I want to do.

I love writing. It’s the best thing in the world to read over something you wrote and realise it’s actually quite good and even maybe profound, but I wish wish wish I could bloody do it within a normal kind of sleep pattern instead of sleeping all day and then getting my skull knocked on by stories in the middle of the night.

I fucking. Hate. My. Life.