Claire's Journal Thing

Death in the Family

Wed, 10 May 2006 16:40:26 GMT

Here's to Sunnie, a damn good dog.

Things I'm Gonna Do

Mon, 17 Apr 2006 03:22:13 GMT

I have these goals that have been solidifying in my head; things that I want to do over the summer to make myself a better person. I will list them here, and perhaps add more so that I don't forget.

1. Learn to cook
I can already cook sort of, but I want to learn to REALLY cook. Like, things from scratch. Meals. Fancy things, with important-sounding ingredients.

2. Learn to sew
More than just a button. I want to learn how to use the damn sewing machine. I want to go the fabric store, buy a few yards of fabric, and make myself a shirt. Thank you, project runway, for making me feel inadequate.

3. Learn about opera
I'm not entirely sure why, but today I had this really weird and sudden desire to know about opera. I want to be like, "Oh, yeah, _____ was pretty good as _____ in ______, but ______ was far superior when she was _______ in _______," and replace all the _______s with things like "Puccini" and "La Boheme."

More as they come up.

Mon, 20 Feb 2006 04:29:16 GMT

Dear internet babies,

If you happen to find yourselves staring at a computer at 1:00 pm EST tomorrow, it would be totally nifty if you went here and made a comment or two (intelligent, not so intelligent, whatever) about "Can It Be Beautiful? Should We Care? A Cybernetic Discussion of the New Technology", or "how the internet is awesome."

You can call me on the cell, too, if you want to say something out loud. I will even give you the number if you don't have it, provided you promise not to cellphone stalk me in the future. :DD

The Way that Snow Clarifies Sound

Wed, 07 Dec 2005 05:12:45 GMT

Death clarifies shunyata.
That chair is empty that was yesterday filled, and nearby there is a wide-open door screaming because it doesn't want the onlookers to know. Everyone cries because they can't face their own hollowness, reflected in the hollowness of the carved-block-world. Man must transcend his own perception to realize, with nothing in between, the fallacies of duality and the emptiness that is the reality behind reality; but after that? A clever man will transcend beyond even shunyata and come to reside once again within the confines of the subjective: this is the mobius strip of illumination: the infinite evasion of the divine. After all, five transmigratory skandhas are as good as any immortal soul, and the masses weep because they can hardly stand to see the truth in any sharper relief than it already is.

You know?

Fri, 30 Sep 2005 21:34:39 GMT

God. DAMMIT. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I was so happy in this stupid apartment. This stupid apartment was like home, moreso than Douglass ever was. I was comfortable here. It's selfish as fuck to be as upset over this as I am, but ... dammit. Why are they making us leave? I know why, but it's ridiculous. I don't care. I don't want to live with some stranger in Babcock. God. I was so happy. I was so fucking happy. I wasn't going to go drink this weekend. I was going to give myself a break. But now I have to go get drunk off of my sobbing little ass somewhere because otherwise I'm not going to be able to deal with it.
Why does housing hate me? I've been so fucked over by these people. I thought they'd fixed it. I was happy.

Wed, 29 Jun 2005 22:52:53 GMT

Well, bitches, I succumbed to peer pressure and went out and bought Guild Wars today. Better be the best damn game ever. ;)

The day ... OF THE FUTURE!

Wed, 29 Jun 2005 17:57:54 GMT

Where did I go last weekend? The Wired Nextfest on Navy Pier. What did I see there? Robots, of course! (And other things, but also robots.) So for your viewing pleasure, I present a whole bunch of pictures I took with my new camera. :)

	But first, a picture of the cake I decorated for my brother's sixteenth birthday, since it was in the same batch of photos. Chocolate cake, chocolate pudding in the middle, chocolate frosting, encrusted with mini m&m's.
	Another angle. Doesn't it make you want to throw up with desire?
	And here starts Chicago. Minute we step inside Navy Pier, Mom sees someone she knows! What a surprise! I guess this oddly-dressed woman played Mama Rose in Gypsy a few months ago (the production in which my mother was ... a light-up stripper), and she has a job pretending to be a psychic at the Pier. CLAIRE VOYANT. Bitch stole my name.
	So we get to the convention hall -- the same one in which Mom and I attended the Antiques Roadshow last summer -- and are immediately surrounded by strange and miraculous technological marvels. Know that ridiculously long car that runs on a couple of thousand batteries that those students from OU made? The one at that commercial? Oh, that was there. I got to chat with one of the kids that made it. And then there's this: a solar sail thingy much like the one the Russians lost the other day. The material it's made out of is crazy light.
	This? An extra-maneuverable, extra-fast submersible in which, were I to climb in side, I would die of claustrophobia.
	Here's my mother playing Mind Ball. As in, moving a ball. With her mind. The more relaxed she was, the better the ball moved. Weird shiz.
	Eric with some stuff on his face. He looks much like one of the cyclopes out of The City of Lost Children.
	But what was he doing? He was playing virtual Pacman, in which the elements of Pacman were superimposed upon the world around him and he walked through a little maze picking up Pacman dots.
	What am I doing? Playing a retarded game that involves blowing on a flower to make a parachute on a screen move.
	A mannequin with high-tech sports gear on. :0
	Here's a robot! The Hubo one, that walks like a person.
	And ... again.
	Here's Hubo relaxing with some hardcore Tai Chi action.
	And here's the car of the future. Unfortunately, despite its being called a "Sky Car," it doesn't fly. I'd run out of batteries by the time we came to the flying car, but it's okay because it sucked anyway. :)
	This is a teeny-tiny little anime-eyed robot that walks like a man.
	Not a very good picture, but this shows the veins inside my mom's arm. Somehow it like ... reflects light off of the area where there are no veins, and then projects the result in green on the same area. I wish the image was better; it was really cool.
	A cat in a glass box. The end. Oh, no, never mind. This cat, Baba Ganoush, is a CLONED CAT. It's original version, Tahini, was on the other side. Apparently it costs about $30,000 to clone your pet right now. Luckily, Tahini belongs to the CEO of the company (thus, by extension, so does the clone), so I guess money was no issue. ;)
	Someone decided it would be funny to make a robot of Phillip K. Dick and program it with information from its namesake's books. When I went in, he wasn't very intelligent-sounding, but they said it was due to the noise outside interfering with his hearing and messing up what we were asking him. He's just like one of those chat programs, only with disturbingly realistic skin and a highly expressive face. And don't get me started on how creepy it was that he kept like ... staring at me.
	These robots, that look like reject car-making automatons are mixing music. 'nuff said.
	And ... so the day ended. My camera had recharged a bit, so I took a few pictures on the train home. Here, the Randolph St. station.
	Umm ... some building near one of our stops.
	Some steeple thing near another stop.
	My hand's stamped! I could go in and out of the convention aaaaalll day ...
	Some train tracks ...
	And, finally, some water tower!

Update on Life

Thu, 02 Jun 2005 18:14:39 GMT

Hello, world. I have two jobs and no hours to show for either of them. Jamie at the Center, despite my large amount of seniority and the whole 'friend of the family' thing has seemingly decided that it is not important for me to actually work there (at least until the new show opens in ... July) although I am on the payroll and still technically working there. Knowing this would happen, I secured a job at the Munster Pool concession stand (food service, EW, but still a job). I can walk there, and it will be easy! I thought. But as it turns out, the manager there is an idiot and an asshole, and hired about forty kids to do what would be better for probably about twenty-five. The result: I am working three hours on Friday. Period. Three fucking hours in four days. So I called Missy today, to tell her I wasn't working on Sunday and can thus go with her to Sarah Anne's graduation party ... asked her if Oberweiss is hiring, will fill out an application there, but it'll probably not come to anything. Last resort: have Stacey get me a job at Showplace. I really don't want to work there though. The people are, for the most part, trash. :( Last last resort: figure out a way to get to the Waterpark, as Dad could get me a job no problem, but transportation is a problem.

So, here is obligatory Give me Money button, lol. You know, in case some mind-bogglingly rich stranger stumbles upon this journal by accident and feels bad for me. :D

Lolololol ... I lack people skills. When I have a choice, anyway. ;)

Wed, 11 May 2005 02:07:03 GMT

Your brain: 20% interpersonal, 100% visual, 220% verbal, and 60% mathematical!

Congratulations on being 400% smart! Actually, on my test, everyone is. The above score breaks down what kind of thinking you most enjoy doing. A score above 100% means you use that kind of thinking more than average, and a score below 100% means you use it less. It says nothing about how good you are at any one, just how interested you are in each, relatively. A substantial difference in scores between two people means, conclusively, that they are different kinds of thinkers.

Matching Summary: Each of us has different tastes. Still, I offer the following advice, which I think is obvious:

Don't date someone if your interpersonal percentages differ by more than 80%.
Don't be friends with someone if your verbal percentages differ by more than 100%.
Don't have sex with someone if their math percentage is over 200%.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 22% on interpersonal

You scored higher than 72% on visual

You scored higher than 99% on verbal

You scored higher than 55% on mathematical

Link: The 4-Variable IQ Test written by chriscoyne on OkCupid Free Online Dating

This = a fun quiz. And, as far as I can tell, pretty true. :D

Narnia. :D

Tue, 10 May 2005 18:01:52 GMT

Well, I'm a -teensy- bit worried about the fact that the Narnia people seem to want to spend a lot of time and effort on their big battle scene. True, there is a battle. I don't mind a battle. The battle is important. But I wish they wouldn't make it the focal point of the entire movie -- battle scenes have gotten so blah lately, and there's so much more to the book. Battle scenes aside, I'm ridiculously looking forward to this movie. The website's gorgeous, the teaser trailer's gorgeous. Tilda Swinton's gorgeous. Aslan looks ... maybe a little fake. But it was a teaser trailer, so hopefully I'm wrong and he's completely believable. I loved those books as a kid, though I haven't read them in a while. I'm afraid being able to understand the religious implications would make them not as entertaining. Still, I'll read at least the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe again before the movie comes out. Oh, Narnia ...

Sat, 07 May 2005 03:54:15 GMT

Why did my stupid body wait until today to fall ill, eh? Last weekend of my freshman year. Maybe it's a twenty-four hour thing. I don't know. What I do know is that it's not a nice, wholesome, coughing and sneezing cold I've got here. At least, it hasn't become one yet. This is more of an intermittent chills, periodic 'wait, what am I doing again' moment, standing up too long and feeling faint, weirdly sleepy thing going on. :( Plus I have this irritating swollen gland at the base of my neck that's sort of bothering me. *____*
I had two different opportunities to go drink tonight, too, and I find myself now wasting my night in my room, not really wanting to feel drunk because ... I feel drunk enough already. Or being drunk would not make me happy at the moment. Nor would communication with the outside world in general. I like to feel sick alone. Life is like ... hating me lately. Rar. There is some comfort, though, in the fact that only one more week remains. Then home for some three and half months. :)

Sat, 23 Apr 2005 20:45:26 GMT

it's f-ing snowing outside.

Quick Update of Random

Fri, 22 Apr 2005 14:24:30 GMT

Is it impossible to make a movie about the Spanish Civil War with a happy open ending, instead of a depressing one? Is it??

Also, apparently what happened to Mors Syphilitica is that ... they became The Venture Bros. (not the people, the entire show). I'm not kidding. I had no idea, but maybe that's why I love the show so much. It's Mors Syphilitica!

Finally, the best political statement ever.

Three Words: WHAT THE FUCK

Wed, 20 Apr 2005 15:39:03 GMT

Okay, so after having to waste no small amount of energy fighting with the stupid housing whore and explaining that, although I had APPLIED TO live with the Science and Humanities Program, I was never even told that my application had been accepted, much less had I ever confirmed anywhere that I was going to live there, I got my right back to live with whomever I chose. Great, right? Though there should never have been any question to begin with, and Sci-Hume should really adopt a more professional attitude towards their stuff. As it is, thank you, Science and Humanities, for committing me without mentioning that fact and thereby screwing up several days of my life. But I thought the problem was solved. Yay! Then I opened my e-mail this morning, and what do I find but:

Good morning,

According to our records, you are scheduled to attend Room Draw sometime this evening. In anticipation of where you will likely fall in room draw I want to give you some advance information. As you probably know, Luce hall will not be available for student space for next year, so campus housing will be very tight. This is a situation that we have been planning for and the Residence Life staff will do everything to help you navigate the housing process. We expect that we will be able to house all of the upperclass students, but we must wait until we experience the summer "melt" process. Students leave the College throughout the end of the semester and Summer break, freeing up spaces that we will use to house you. This is not an unusual occurrence on a campus of our size and residential nature. It is very likely that we will not have spaces left by the time you arrive at Room Draw.

Even though we will be placing you in housing after Room Draw, it is necessary for all students to still attend Room Draw at their designated times. There is housing paperwork that we need all students to complete so we can best serve your needs. This paperwork includes an interest form where students will indicate their roommate and building preferences. We will use this information as we continue to house students through the semester and summer. We will make every effort to house roommate pairings together, but many of the spaces that will become available will be single spaces in double rooms. When spaces do become available, we will contact students in order. If a student chooses not to live in the space that is available, they must be moved to the end of the order and we must continue with placements.

There are spaces in some of the buildings that are programmatic in nature (Bissman Hall, program houses, etc.) If you are interested in any of these spaces, please visit the Residence Life website at www.wooster.edu/reslife for more information. There will be a link from this page that will include building and room information, program descriptions, and potential roommates. If you choose one of these spaces, we will be able to house you immediately.

Please be assured that the Residence Life staff is available to help you navigate the remainder of the housing process. You can contact us at (330) 263-2498 or reslife@wooster.edu with questions. Thank you for your patience as we complete the house process for the 05-06 academic year.

Sincerely,

(Danni the Housing Whore)

...

FUCK YOU HOUSING. FUCK YOU AND YOUR BAD PLANNING. If I find myself stuck in some tiny room with a total stranger next year, I am going to un-enroll and you will have ONE MORE EMPTY SPACE TO FILL. But not before I FUCKING BURN DOWN LUCE. FUCK.

Thank you,
Claire.

P.S. FUCK YOU

Wed, 13 Apr 2005 22:01:21 GMT

Okay, ravenimage, if you ever get this G50 armor, you will be the single hottest thing in all of KalOnline. Poor QiaoRong gets three hundred pounds of gaudy silver, and SockNar'll come out looking like some kind of goddess of purity ... hmph.

Music ... thingy

Wed, 13 Apr 2005 00:10:04 GMT

01). Total volume of music files on my computer: WMP puts it at a respectable 2092 files/9.05 gigabytes, though I suspect there are a few files hiding out in the far corners of my computer that I haven't moved to my My Music folder yet.
02). The last CD I bought was: Bought? With ... money? Voltaire's newest CD, Then and Again. In like ... November.
03). The last song I listened to before writing this was: Ummm ... looks like Within Temptation's "Memories." That was a while ago. Huh.
03b). Song playing right now: Absolutely nothing.
04). Songs [artists] you've been listening to lately:
(Just artists here)
The Decemberists
L'ame Immortelle
Within Temptation
Rasputina
05). Which 5 people are you passing this baton to?
strolfey, prowidow, _canine, aragornispretty, and duranstrife

Sun, 03 Apr 2005 20:40:49 GMT

Okay, folks. This week only, feel free to hop over to Yousendit.com and get the Decemberists' new CD, Picaresque, a la me.
In fact, you're not just free to -- I highly suggest you do it. And then go buy the thing, of course, and support the band because you're in love with them. But I figured since it's up there, complete and downloadable after I sent it to Pahu the other day, I'd give others the opportunity to give it a listen, right?

A brief examples of lyrics: (i.e. Why you should listen to the Decemberists and worship them)

"And above all this falderal on a bed made of chaparral she is laid, a coronal placed on her brow. And the babe, all in slumbered dreams of a place filled with quiet screams and the lake where her cradle was pulled from the water."	"and while the seagulls are crying, we fall but our souls are flying "
"There are angels in your your angles. There's a low moon caught in your tangles. "	"Find him, bind him Tie him to a pole and break His fingers to splinters Drag him to a hole until he Wakes up naked Clawing at the ceiling Of his grave sigh"

Now you're convinced, right? And impressed with my awesome table skills? So go, go to them.

Sat, 12 Mar 2005 22:46:13 GMT

Spring break ... -1 day.
I'm not sure what to do with myself.

Sat, 12 Feb 2005 22:59:51 GMT

It was strange, how much reading about Arthur Miller's death affected me. I didn't know him. I wasn't a huge fan of his work. I mean, I liked what he wrote, but not to the point of fanaticism or anything. He wasn't my favorite playwright. Yet I was on the verge of tears when I read that article ...
Maybe it was because the passing away of the man who wrote Death of a Salesman and All my Sons just reminds me of my own mortality. He was like this symbol. He was alive. And now he's not. I don't know. :(

RIP, Arthur Miller.

Wed, 09 Feb 2005 19:42:52 GMT

It's no small wonder that Cocytus is frozen. God, let me never betray ... :0

Mon, 31 Jan 2005 21:35:28 GMT

The heavy winds that always ravished the open moorlands of Uvidismya between the fifth season and the sixth were slow in coming this year, and seemed to blow with more indignant vehemence than usual as an excuse for their lateness, which no one had much minded to begin with. Quite the opposite, rather: a certain group of intellectual theologian-philosophers had actually begun to advertise the theory that the great bull of Avstohk had finally been ousted from his position of power in the third heavenly tier ascending, and that there was no longer any reason for the righteous sea-birds that nested there to beat their wings in fury when, on his annual tour of the realm, he crushed their young with his uncouth hooves. The belated but unmistakeable appearance of the winds had shut them all up, and in fact had sent them running indoors to the safety of their fur-covered couches and the comfort of their lace-festooned wives' arms.
When the first of the gales showed up, deceptive in their gentleness, Agnessa was reading in her yard. By the time she noticed the change in the weather, the dancing zephyrs had already become a steady breeze, and the steady breeze was beginning to churn. She rose slowly, eyes trained on the distant central tower of Uvidismya Proper, which sprouted like an over-enthusiastic plant from the cluster of lesser buildings that surrounded it. She'd known the winds would come eventually. They always did. The now-rushing air, which her upright figure parted like a rock parts the current of a river, screamed rapids around her, billowed her skirt and tangled her hair in its formless passion. Only when it seemed she might be blown away forever, over roofs and towers and the thin, convulsing clouds, did she run inside, barring the door behind her.
"Close the shutters!" she shouted to whomever was within earshot: Bohdanko, probably, in the sitting room, and maybe a servant or two. Fadeyushka was most likely in the attic somewhere, and so of little use. A few muffled shouts of acknowledgement came in reply, even as Agnessa was following her own instructions with the three windows in the back entryway. During the windy season (which usually lasted all of ten days), glass panes were known to inexplicably shatter.
Sure in the knowledge that at least one corner of the house was secured, she replaced her tougher outdoor shoes with the soft, embroidered slippers she kept next to the door, and made her way through an unlit hallway to the more welcoming sitting room. Bohdanko was indeed there, seated before a flickering fire and, with a ridiculous purple quill pen, scratching something into a piece of paper held flat on top of a large, closed book. Agnessa clucked her tongue and shook her head. He had to have heard her calling, but he obviously hadn't budged. She crossed the width of the room and began to close the shutters herself.
"I wish you'd be more careful with those," she said as she neared his chair, indicating the volume on his knees. "I know you're not as fond of my books as I am, but some of them are older than this house."
Bohdankno looked up, as if seeing her there for the first time. "Oh, I'm sorry, Agnyi," he said, glancing down sheepishly at his makeshift writing desk. "You know how I am when I get inspired."
She crossed in front of the fireplace and continued pulling the wooden shutters closed. Bit by bit, the spacious room was darkening, and the lively shadows created by furniture between the flames and the back wall were growing bolder. "Light some candles, won't you? When you're done I mean. I hate to interrupt you when you're feeling creative." She said this half-teasingly. "If you'd just work in the green study, you wouldn't have to deal with me wandering in and bothering you."
"You, Agnyi?" he replied, only after quickly scribbling down a few more characters and setting aside his work so that it balanced precariously on the plush arm of the chair. "You never bother. Don't you think I'd say something if you did? But that study is stuffy, and practically rank with old. Here is much more agreeable, don't you think?"
"Yes and yes," Agnessa conceded, drawing shut the final panels of rose-hued wood. "But if you are going to sit here, the least you could do is help close up when the winds come."
"Did they?" He sounded distracted, but she said nothing.
"They did. What are you writing?" At times like these, Agnessa found, it was generally best just to let Bohdenko have his way, and not harp on his what some might call insufferable habit of closing himself off to the world when he was at work.
"Do you know that necklace you have? The one with the beads that dangle down, of opal and agate and all that gold wire?"
She nodded, slowly. What he was doing fixating on her jewelry was beyond her. But so much of what he said was beyond her, so much of the time. She might read the depths of the sacred, invisible spheres, but the train of thought of the scrivener/hymn composer/oft-mystic poet that was her helpmeet usually escaped her entirely. She didn't mind.
"It struck me, just as I was sitting down to consider how I was going to meet my quota for the season, that it very much -- the necklace, I mean -- it resembles what I see whenver I think of the Dynastic String: the perfection of the circles; those exquisite yellow tendrils, almost wild but still, obviously, manipulated by some higher touch. The touch of God, 'nessa. And I just had to write it down. When I'm finished with the music, you'll play it, won't you?"
Again she nodded, amused by his enthusiasm but wondering if there wasn't anything a tiny bit heretical about comparing to a string of beads what was essentially the blessed playground of each incarnation of the highest Gods' eternally youthful virgin daughter. She decided it was best to avoid the topic of blasphemy, however, instead merely replying in the affirmative, with a but: he knew she was always more than happy to play whatever songs of devotion he could pen, but before she did she'd best make sure the rest of the shutters were closed, and set some servants to lighting the various large candleabras set about the house specifically for those times when the outside light needed to be blocked out. She didn't wait for his response, instead heading out, but making a point to run her hand through his muss of hair as she brushed past him.
There was no one down the hall, in the kitchen, but someone had closed the shutters and lit the wooden chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Good. While she was there, Agnessa checked the pantry to make sure that their supply of tall, pale candles was sufficient for the maybe-dozen days they'd have to be relied on for light. There seemed to be plenty, so, after taking and lighting one to carry, she headed up the bleak staircase to safeguard the windows of her own personal study, the red study, where no servants were allowed, but where the single large window could easily spell disaster for the delicate things she kept there.
On her way, she passed the door to Fadeyushka's nursery. A voice leaked out of the only partly-closed door and met her ears, "And for three and a half years, there was no light at all, for the great hero, Damiana Fidorset, in his zest to quell the pagan scourge, had by mistake burned the temple most dear to Keitim, whose father ..." The voice that spoke was thick with the accent of the Southeast, umistakeably the boy's elderly nanny. So he wasn't in the attic, and that was good. He spent too much time up there, when he wasn't in school.
The howling winds seemed to howl louder in the study, amplified perhaps by the atmosphere of pious quiet that was more often present, and that Agnessa was used to. The tall bookcases, covered with texts both devotional and scientific, seemed to shiver with each succesive gust of air. Reaching over the paper-strewn desk, she fastened the shutters (these a rich red, to match the rest of the room) tight with the hand not holding the candle, and collapsed into her favorite upholstered horn-chair. The candle, about to drip hot wax on her hand, she placed securely into a little iconic holder (a pleasant, if primitive interpretation of the stag-maiden), and by its soft glow she surveyed the maps on her desk: the emerald-blue soul of a lady from the north; the green-and-orange soul of the lady's husband; a section of the high-peaked Parallel Clime, where end the hearts of martyrs who died for lost causes and knew that they were so. And between the cold but splendid pinnacles of mountains without peer, a pair of eyes stood out, and a nose, and thin lips. The face that would not let her be. The face that haunted her landscapes, that both marred them irreparably and made them somehow wonderful. There in the half-light Agnessa stared at the unblinking face, traced its outline with the tip of her little finger, and listened to the winds scream rancor across the countryside.
For a moment -- a split second, no more -- Agnessa could have sworn she heard the bawling of a baby, a cruel whine that set above the raging winds but submerged again as soon as it surfaced. It surprised her. Fadeyushka was too old to cry; at least like that. There were no other children in the house. No, she thought. It was a trick of her ears, or the squeak of a branch in one of the trees near the window, forced from its position of repose. Anything, but not a cry. She kept her eyes fixed on the mountains. The face. The face so like her mother's.
Her attention didn't falter until it spoke to her. Did it normally speak? Sometimes, Agnessa acknowledged, but never so that she could understand. And here it beckoned her outside, to winds that would gladly strip her skin from her bone as soon as she presented herself to them. She was going mad. No other explanation made sense. Had the face said anything else at all, she might have called it a sign from the heavens. A vision. But people didn't just step casually outside when the winds came, and the gods didn't tell them to do it. No, those unfortunate enough to be caught outdoors without shelter were quite often killed -- run through with debris sometimes, sometimes just of exposure.
Frightened by the prospect of some long-buried suicidal urge rising up and taking the form of the now-familiar woman in her maps, she tore her eyes away from the desk and turned to the shelves. The books were too shadow-drenched to make out individual titles, but there, acting as a makeshift book end, was her fiehaerp -- a beautifully enameled box just longer than it was tall. Into that box went all her stress and fear, those feelings that the world wasn't allowed to see, and out came the dulcet notes that calmed her like nothing else could. She played for few people other than herself. Sometimes her husband, when he wanted to hear a hymn he'd been working on. When Fadeyushka had been younger, she'd played for him, lulling him to sleep as he lay in his cradle. It was this she reached for, and instead of heeding the face's coaxing words, she felt about the cold with her fingers.
A satisfying "click" resonated through the haerp's hollows as her finger located and depressed the slightly raised red flower that functioned as an on/off switch. From within, a thin buzzing began, hardly noticeable. She withdrew the long silver antenna, which collapsed well-hidden stub when not in use, and the buzz became a hum, a steady drone of a deep red base note. Agnessa closed her eyes, losing herself in it like the drowning lose themselves in the sea. Still, she could not shake from her mind the words, "step outside into the wind," so confident and luring that she realized she DID want to obey them, no matter how insane they were. A slight motion of her hand near the antenna made the base note tremble then rise, higher and higher, clear and pure. But she found no comfort in the sound, as she usually did: the urge to run outside was too strong, too distracting.
Abruptly she stood, knowing she couldn't refuse. That deep-down wish that the face was indeed that of her mother fueled her. She snatched up a deep but relatively small cloth bag that had been slung across the long, low couch in a moment of laxness and had never been put back where it belonged. Carefully, she placed the fiehaerp at the bottom. If she was walking willingly to her death, there were certain things she wanted with her in the afterlife. That was one of them. If she had indeed been true to her faith, she might be allowed the things she carried. So next to the haerp went a few of her smaller mapping tools, on the off chance that there would still be some use for them in the spheres to come. At the very least she could show them to her mother, who would certainly be proud that her daughter had accomplished what she had.
A feeling of intense stoicism (as oxymoronic as it might sound) had drifted over her that she could only assume touched all people when faced with the immenent possibility of their own death. She pulled the drawstring of the bag tight and wrapped the ends snugly around her wrist, securing them with a double knot. As a last sort of statement, opened the shutters of the window. The scattered trees were straining against the force of the wind. It was, she thought, a fitting act for a madwoman. She watched for a minute, wondering if she was really going into that fury of nature before her, but even as she stared at the window a severed branch flew towards her and slammed against the glass with a sound like bone breaking. She jumped back with a quick intake of breath. She swallowed once. Time to go.
She trod down the stairs as quietly as she could, but as she passed the sitting room and turned towards the front door, Bohdenko's good-humored voice reached her. "Agnyi? Going somewhere?"
"No, Bohdye," she returned. "I'm only getting my coat from the front. No real reason to leave it there if I won't be wearing it ..." It felt strange to lie to him. But she really -was- going to get her coat. She slipped it on even as she spoke the words. But she was going to wear it outside, where a face she'd drawn had urged her to go. He couldn't know that. Out of some sense of propriety, she put on the black and gold bird-beaked half-mask that she often wore outside, smoothing her black hair down around it as if it was going to matter one way or the other. The door came open easily: she merely touched the handle and the air itself did the rest, flinging it open with an accompanying torrent of leaves. She thought she heard Bohdenko call her name, but rather than responding, she bowed her head and walked forward almost painfully, buffeted by the wind.

Stolen shamelessly from strolfey

Fri, 28 Jan 2005 21:44:46 GMT

I. Reply to this post and I will say a couple words about you.

II. I will also tell you what song reminds me of you when I hear it.

III. I will also tell you what celebrity/public person you remind me of, either personality-wise or looks-wise.

IV. I will also give one word that I associate with you when I think of you.

V. We all could use a boost now and then, so steal this for your journal and make someone else's day as well.

(TO EDIT: by "celebrity/public person" I also mean ... possibly fictional character. Of course. That is all.)

XDDD

Sun, 26 Dec 2004 01:28:49 GMT

Also

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SITRAKANKY DARLING

or ... shakirafuego. Whichever you prefer. <3333333333333333

(What's it like sharing a birthday with JESUS? :P)

Sun, 26 Dec 2004 01:26:30 GMT

It may not seem likely to a lot of the people that know me, but I am the most full-of-Christmas-spirit person around holiday times. :DDD Blasting the Christmas music, baking cookies and cakes and whatnot, sucking on candy cane after candy cane, watching White Christmas and the Grinch and Rudolph and It's a Wonderful Life and forty different versions of A Christmas Carol, reading A Christmas Carol forty times, buying thousands of gifts for everyone, decorating the tree, and just generally being happy and loving everyone.
Opened presents this morning, which was fun. I got things that made me go "yay!" Such as ... Eats, Shoots and Leaves, GORMENGHAST (I own my pretty Johnny Rhys-Meyers as Steerpike now), THE ENTIRE FIRST SEASON OF FARSCAPE OMGGGGGGGGGGGG, a David Sedaris Holiday stories book, a couple of calendars, CHRISTMAS-SHAPED PEEPS, bunches of candy, Itty Bitty Buddha ... just lovely stuff all around. Ate strada (be still my heart), and went to see The Phantom of the Opera with Mom. That was like ... a visual orgasm, that was. I'm still just horrified by the idea of turning down Gerard Butler's love. He is like ... sex. Masks are like ... sex. He + mask = sex + sex. Christine's such a stupid bitch. :(((( sigh. My life lacks romance. WHY DOES NO ONE EVER BURST INTO SONG?

Also,

EVERYONE TO WHOM I PROMISED CHRISTMAS CARDS: obviously, I did not send them out, because you did not receive them. Forgive me. I was too busy taking finals or something, even though I actually went to the bookstore and bought cards specifically to send to you. :/ So now I have Christmas cards sitting uselessly in my room. :|||| I DO, however, have EVERY intention of sending out like ... New Years cards. I will cross out the Christmas references. Yes.

I swear I had more to say, but now I can't remember. Later, lovelies, later. Unless I forget.

In case you hadn't noticed ...

Tue, 14 Dec 2004 18:01:53 GMT

... It's still snowing. :D